Mafioso [Part 1]

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Mafioso [Part 1] Page 18

by Nisa Santiago


  He sat at the kitchen table drinking his coffee and observing the Dow Jones. His stock was up by 5%. So far, life was good.

  His beautiful wife entered the kitchen dressed in a purple nightgown, and they kissed each other good morning. The kids were still sleeping. It gave the couple a moment of intimacy before the start of his workday and an awakened family.

  Jones cupped his wife’s ample ass, and their lips locked.“You trying to have me take the day off?”

  She winked. “It depends on how loaded your gun is.”

  He chuckled. “Sharp rounds . . . accurate, able to penetrate anything.”

  “I think I might need some quick penetrating then,” she replied.

  “You do, huh?”

  “Uh-huh.” She was wrapped in his strong arms, feeling his erection growing. She loved him, and he may have been a corrupt, dirty, murderous cop, but he was a loving husband and father.

  She pulled herself away from her husband’s loving grasp and continued to smile at him. “Come upstairs into the bedroom, and I’ll give you a real good-morning kiss.” She disappeared from his view and exited the kitchen.

  Jones figured he had enough time for a quickie. He made his way to the bedroom, already unbuckling his pants.

  The door was ajar. However, walking into the bedroom, he received the shock of his life. Luna had his wife in his arms with a Glock 17 to her temple. If she moved wrong, her brains would paint the bedroom.

  Detective Jones reached for his holstered weapon, but he was abruptly taken down by several armed goons, including Meyer. His face was forcibly pushed against the floor. His gun was removed from the holster and the barrel thrust to the back of his head.

  “Chill, muthafucka! We here to talk—unless you make it something else,” Meyer warned him. “I got goons in each of your children’s rooms, and unless you want them to wake up with a bang, I suggest you fully cooperate.”

  “Fuck you!” Jones growled.

  “Really? Fuck us when we got a gun to your wife’s head and one to yours too? You sure you wanna play this tough-guy role?”

  Jones squirmed against the men holding him down, but he wasn’t strong enough to free himself. How did they get into his house? How did they know where he lived?

  “I thought we had a deal,” Jones cried out.

  “We still do. I just want you to tell us where to find Deuce and his family,” Meyer said.

  “I don’t know anything!”

  “You’re a cop—you know everything. You think we’re stupid?” Meyer glanced at Luna, giving him a thin signal.

  Luna cocked back the hammer to the pistol against the wife’s head. They weren’t bluffing.

  “No! No!” Jones screamed.

  “Talk, or we’ll start decorating this place with your family’s blood,” Meyer said.

  “Okay,” Jones uttered. “He has a younger sister in Baltimore; it’s his only family.”

  “See, now we’re getting somewhere,” Meyer mocked.

  It took less than ten minutes of interrogation for Detective Jones to tell them everything he knew about Deuce’s peoples, mostly about the few living family members he had. He knew little, but it was enough information for Meyer and Luna to act on.

  Jones fumed that Meyer and his goons had the audacity to break into his home, endanger his children, and hold his wife hostage. They’d gone too far. It took him hours to calm down his wife.

  ***

  Mica’s breathing was ragged. She couldn’t take any more. Her body ached and her eyes watered with pain and fear, but there was much more to come. Her apartment was torn apart by the sudden intruders. Too many niggas to count surrounded her and tortured her like it was their right.

  Mica was a lovely young woman, or used to be—until they went to work on her. She resided in luxury in a three-bedroom condo by the Baltimore harbor. There were perks to being Deuce’s little sister.

  But now came the disadvantages. Her face beaten and her body bruised, the goons were drooling like hound dogs, excited for revenge.

  “Please . . . I don’t know anything,” she pleaded with her attackers. She was cemented to the floor on all fours, her dark flesh barely covered and her tears plentiful.

  “Bitch, we don’t expect you to know anything,” Luna said. “We’re just gettin’ started.” He walked toward her with a sharp knife in his hand.

  This was his expertise—pain and more pain. He grabbed her by her long dreads and dragged her across the floor like a rag doll. When she kicked and screamed, he punched her in the face with his black latex gloves, and blood gushed from her nose.

  Then his goons held her down and left her face exposed.

  Luna took the knife to her skin, becoming a barbaric surgeon. It was extreme, excruciating pain. He literally ripped her face apart. Flaps of skin hung from her cheeks and forehead. There was lots of blood, and Mica squirmed violently in her captors’ grip, but the torture continued until there were pieces of her face scattered everywhere. Luna had cut parts of her almost down to the bone. The grisly scene even made a few of his men squeamish.

  When Luna was done with her, she was barely alive and looked horrendous. There was nothing lovely about her anymore. Her torture was to be a message to Deuce. But there were more horrible things to come.

  Luna stood over the suffering girl and smiled. The way she looked, she might as well be dead.

  “We need to finish this up, Luna. Meyer wants everyone dead,” one of the men said.

  Luna nodded. Since he’d started with a knife, he would end her life with the same knife that had grossly disfigured her. He crouched toward the victim, took her head into his hand, looked her in the eyes deeply, and gradually plunged the knife into her throat, like it was sinking into quicksand.

  There was a sudden jerking movement from Mica, as the sharp blade pierced through her neck and drained her life. Luna felt her soul depart as her body slowly went limp in his arms.

  They left the macabre scene for somebody to find.

  Their hunt for DMC was to continue. Mica was only the beginning.

  ***

  Moe, one of DMC’s ranking soldiers, sat in the barbershop chair in West Baltimore laughing it up with the barbers and clientele, discussing big-booty video girls. The flat-screen television perched in the corner of the shop showed the latest Miami rap video with beautiful, bikini-dressed girls twerking on the beach and lounging on exotic cars.

  Moe stated, “I been there and done that.”

  “Yeah, right, nigga. You been where? To the local strip clubs and done them cheap hoes wit’ bullet and stab wounds?” a customer named Bird countered.

  The barbershop roared with laughter.

  Moe threw up his middle finger. “You wish you were me, nigga.”

  “No, nigga, your girl wishes you were me.”

  “Yo, Bird, fuck you! You wide-nose, yellow-teeth, gumbo-lookin’ muthafucka!”

  There was more laughter from the men inside the barbershop.

  “Damn, Moe, your feelings are hurt? I’m just sayin’, your girl about to take you out the game and bench your ass for missing them dunks. But I’m Jordan on the courts. I stay layin’ it in.”

  Moe reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash, mostly hundreds and fifties. “Nigga, when you get money like me, you can have any bitch you want. Matter of fact, I’ll pay for your haircut too, nigga! Yo, your hair looks like it’s really hurtin’ right now, screaming, ‘Help me, help me!’ You over there lookin’ like The Jungle Book.”

  Moe tossed a hundred-dollar bill on the floor. “Oh, and tell your moms I can’t pay her rent anymore, so you might be evicted too.”

  The two men wisecracked on each other back and forth. It was routine. There wasn’t a day at the barbershop without jokes, talking sports, womanizing, and having some good old-fashioned fun.

 
It was a regular Saturday morning. The barbershop was busy with patrons waiting on the four barbers. They entertained themselves by watching TV, messing their phones, reading, or indulging in the shop talk.

  Moe felt at home at the barbershop. Everyone there knew he was a gun nigga with DMC and very dangerous, but at the barbershop, he was sociable. He joked around with the barbers and the other patrons. And he was a generous tipper.

  Moe sat comfortable in the chair while his barber shaped up the back of his head. He was armed but felt secure. West Baltimore was his stomping grounds. It had been his home, and he had been getting his weekly haircut at Nappy Cuts on N. Howard Street for years. A father of three kids with two baby mamas, Moe took pride in his appearance, from his clothing to his vehicle. His black Mercedes S-Class was parked outside the barbershop.

  “How’s life?” his barber asked.

  “Crazy, Flip. We got soldiers goin’ MIA. Niggas don’t know where the fuck they went. Three of our peoples just gone, just like that. We don’t know if they dead, locked up, or what,” Moe said. “Deuce is goin’ crazy over this shit.”

  “Just be careful out there.”

  “Twenty-four seven, my nigga, I stay wit’ mine,” Moe said, referring to his gun.

  Flip was finishing Moe up. They laughed and talked. Everything was normal until it wasn’t normal.

  Two masked men burst into the shop, pistols drawn. The barbershop quickly spun into a panic, as patrons frantically hit the floor and chaos ensued.

  Moe desperately tried to reach for his 9mm tucked into his waistband, but he was too late.

  The gunmen aimed their .45s at Moe and opened fire. Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!

  Several bullets pierced his chest and stomach, and Moe promptly slumped dead in the barber chair.

  Just as quickly as they had come, the gunmen left, leaving behind a dead DMC soldier.

  ***

  Luna and Meyer drove north on the New Jersey Turnpike. It was an hour after midnight, and the traffic was flowing freely on a calm, full-moon night. Meyer was in a foul mood because earlier they had just laid Bonnie and Clyde to rest in the same mausoleum as Gotti. Once again it was a grand affair. Both children had lacquer white caskets trimmed in 24 karat gold. Doves were released, harps played, and everyone sobbed. Lucky was still in the hospital fucked up and might be there through October.

  Luna was smoking a Newport and listening to Meyer curse out one female caller after the next until he found one that piqued his interest.

  He soon ended the call with a smile. “I really like this one.”

  Luna remained nonchalant. “You like ’em all.”

  “Nah, this one is different.”

  “Different until you fuck ’em.”

  Meyer laughed. “Shit, pussy keeps the sanity flowing. I gotta keep busy, my nigga. I got a lot on my mind. Lucky’s taking Bonnie and Clyde personally, and Pops is still dissin’ me.”

  “Well, hopefully, tonight will help with that.”

  “I think it will.”

  Luna nodded as he navigated the Lexus off the Turnpike and traveled to Pine Barrens, a wooded area stretching across southern New Jersey. In Pine Barrens, people and things could easily get lost.

  It was a long drive to the secluded location. They traveled into darker, more isolated territory with narrow, rocky trails and more woods. Satisfied with the surroundings, Luna stopped the car and killed the ignition.

  Both men climbed out the Lexus, and Luna opened the trunk. He shined a light on the incapacitated Jo-Jo, who was tied up. He was one of Deuce’s feared enforcers, but now he was in their grasp.

  “Look at you, nigga. What y’all did to my brothers and sisters, I could kill you twice,” Meyer growled.

  “Fuck you!” Jo-Jo shouted back.

  Meyer smashed the butt of his gun into his face, churning out more blood.

  Jo-Jo was immobile with a black-and-blue face. He frowned at his attackers. As a man who’d killed so many people for Deuce, he knew fate had caught up to him. He lived by the gun, and now he would die by the gun. “We never touched your fuckin’ family, nigga. Ya brothers could eat a dick, and ya sisters could suck one, nigga,” he said.

  “You lie to live, nigga.” Meyer pointed the Smith & Wesson 457 at Jo-Jo’s head, and with images of his murdered siblings and beaten sister, he released his rage into their captive.

  Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

  All five shots were fired into Jo-Jo’s face. His blood pooled inside the trunk, which was lined with a thick plastic tarp, making it easier to remove the body and not leave behind any blood evidence.

  Meyer had fucked him up. It was a sight to see—a man with his face shot to shit, his brains and flesh exposed. They were immune to the horrible sight. Murder was a commonplace thing for them. It wasn’t a job, it was a necessity.

  They removed the body from the trunk, wrapped it in the tarp, and carried it deep into the woods. They came across a small ravine and tossed Jo-Jo’s body into it. It was miles and miles away from any public road and any civilization. They left him there for the animals to feast on.

  Before walking away, Meyer spat at the dead body and frowned. “Bitch-ass nigga!”

  “We need to go,” Luna said.

  They turned and traveled back as they came, their flashlights dancing in the dark, guiding them through the thick and wide woods where one false move could lead them astray. They made it back to the Lexus, their mission completed.

  Jo-Jo was one of the several goons from DMC they’d made disappear. They were burying bodies from Delaware to Baltimore, where they would never be found.

  The Pine Barrens trip was their second trip. A day earlier, they had discarded two of DMC’s men in the wooded area. Others, like Moe, were executed in public to make a statement.

  31

  Rock’s head hung low and wobbly. His body was secured to the chair with several long chains wrapped around his torso. His arms were tied behind him, and his legs felt numb and rubbery. His mouth was full of blood, and his eyes were so swollen, he could hardly see from them. Everything was blurry. The pain was unbearable.

  A giant fist smashed into the side of his face, and more than a few teeth flew out of his mouth. He was hit again, and again, and again until the man striking him felt satisfied.

  “You betray me, muthafucka!” the attacker shouted. “Tell me something, Rock.”

  “I don’t know nothin’. Please . . . I’m a victim too, Deuce.” Rock felt the urge to collapse to the ground, but his restraints were keeping him up.

  Deuce struck him again. The blow damn near took Rock’s head off. His head thrashed around violently, and he whimpered from the pain.

  “You think I’m a fool, Rock? What’s going on in Delaware? My money’s low—real fuckin’ low—and I got soldiers disappearing. Who’s making a move on me?”

  “Deuce, I promise . . . I don’t know. I’m just as in the dark as you.”

  “Really, Rock? But word on the streets is you’re moving new product, nice quality for an excellent price. How’s that?”

  Rock was stuck on stupid. The organization with superior product to move wasn’t there to protect him from Deuce.

  “I don’t know names, Deuce . . . these people . . . they’re smart,” Rock said.

  “Smart, huh? You dick-riding? Huh? Who are they? I want a name.”

  There was no name for Rock to give. He worked with one person, who he only knew as X. He was Rock’s supplier. They met twice a month to re-up. There was no conversation and no information to give, besides to let Deuce know that their product sold faster than pancakes at IHOP.

  “They came into my home and threatened me, Deuce. I swear to you, this ain’t me!”

  Deuce struck him again with mighty blow that could have broken his neck. Instead, it mutilated his face more and almost made his eyes protru
de from his skull. His blood drizzled onto the floor, his body ravaged with destruction.

  “Tell me something, muthafucka!” Deuce yelled.

  In the room with Deuce watching the coercive interrogation was Jimmy, Deuce’s right-hand man. He stood six two with an athletic physique and looked intimidating with chiseled features and cold eyes. He stood silently behind Deuce, dressed in a black-and-white Nike tracksuit and wearing an intense scowl aimed at Rock. He wanted a piece of Rock too, but it was Deuce’s show. Jimmy had ways of making people talk.

  “You’re toying with him, Deuce,” Jimmy said.

  Deuce spun around, frowning. “I got this, nigga. When I need you to bite, then I’ll take off your leash.”

  Jimmy simply shrugged, not offended by the statement.

  Deuce turned his attention back to Rock. “I can do this all night with you, Rock.”

  Deuce’s tattooed arms were massive, the space between his biceps and his triceps looked a mile apart, and he had a broad chest. He used to be a boxer and had once competed in the Golden Gloves. At a bulky six three, he could easily be mistaken for the Hulk if he was green.

  Ten minutes later, Rock had a broken jaw and a fractured skull from the repeated punches to his face. There was no more use for Rock. It was time to end the pain. The man had no useful information to give to them.

  Deuce situated himself behind Rock’s seated and severely beaten frame and wrapped his powerful arms around Rock’s neck in an aggressive chokehold. He applied pressure and squeezed tight, making Rock feel like a python had wrapped around him. He crushed Rock’s windpipe and snapped his neck with no trouble. Rock lay slumped in the chair. He was dead, and Deuce had barely broken a sweat.

  Deuce looked at Jimmy. “Muthafuckas are trying to shut us down, Jimmy.”

  “We need to shut them down,” Jimmy said.

  “First we need to know who the fuck they are.”

  “I can find out.”

 

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