Cartier
Cartel 3
South Beach Slaughter
Nisa Santiago
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cartier Cartel 3: South Beach Slaughter. Copyright © 2013 by Melodrama Publishing. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address Melodrama Publishing, P.O. Box 522, Bellport, NY 11713.
www.melodramapublishing.com
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013946111
eISBN: 9781620780305
First Edition: November 2013
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Interior Design: Candace K. Cottrell
Cover Design: Marion Designs
Cover Model: Latecia Black
Books By Nisa Santiago
Cartier Cartel: Part 1
Return of the Cartier Cartel: Part 2
Cartier Cartel: Part 3
Bad Apple: The Baddest Chick Part 1
Coca Kola: The Baddest Chick Part 2
Checkmate: The Baddest Chick Part 3
Face Off: The Baddest Chick Part 4
South Beach Cartel
Guard the Throne
Dirty Money Honey
Chapter 1
Miami, Florida, with its sandy beaches, year-round warm weather, and alluring club life was a direct contrast to the cold, changeable weather of Philadelphia. Cartier had nothing against Philly, but Miami was a better town for her. Not only was she tired of the cold and snow, but Philly was also too close to New York. Wanting the best for her family, she needed to be somewhere far from New York and away from the turbulent lifestyle she’d once lived. That meant staying out of the game and keeping a low profile. The violence and the killings had taken a toll on her and her family, so she wanted to put as much distance as possible between herself and her beloved Brooklyn.
She’d only lasted a few months in Philly, until one day she came upon Shorty Dip, a familiar face from Brooklyn who recognized her. There was no telling who was still holding grudges. That spooked her. Cartier had made a lot of enemies up North, and to constantly have to look over her shoulder wasn’t something she wanted for her family. Especially with young kids to care for. After Jason got himself murdered and Cartier got herself and Christian shot up, Cartier had never felt so vulnerable. Losing Monya, Shanine, Bam and finally Jason made her will to live that much stronger.
Cartier packed up her things and, along with her mother, Trina, her daughter, Christian, and her sisters Fendi and Prada, headed down I-95 until there wasn’t any more highway left to travel. Janet, Trina’s best friend and Monya’s mother, said she couldn’t bear to be so far away from her grandson, Jason Jr., so, reluctantly, Cartier agreed to have her step son in Miami six weeks out of each summer.
It was only a matter of weeks before Cartier and Trina clashed. You see, Miami is a party town and the weather is always hot and tropical. The problem was that there were two mothers: Cartier and Trina—and neither one wanted to parent.
“Now you done gone out every night this week, Cartier. Ain’t nobody your live-in nanny!” Trina barked. She was heated because she wanted to hit the clubs so she could meet some of these Puerto Rican or Cuban men that were floating around the city. Trina was more than ready to get her fuck on. “You got a daughter to look after.”
“And you don’t? Last I checked, Fendi and Prada call you ‘Mommy’!”
“Cartier, you better watch your mouth . . .”
“Look who’s talking!”
“That’s right, I’m talking!” Trina exploded. “I take care of mines!”
Cartier rolled her eyes. “No, I take care of you and yours, and mines! So if I want to go out every now and then to shake my ass, you should be a little more understanding.”
“What the fuck you just said, bitch?”
“Which part didn’t you hear?”
Cartier was being belligerent, which drove Trina bananas. “Keep it up, Cartier, and I’ma put my foot in ya ass!”
“You in here screaming and acting all dumb ’cuz I wanna go out? Why you hatin’?” Cartier took one last look in the mirror at her silhouette. “You too old to be hitting the club anyways. Ain’t no niggas gonna be checking for you.”
Trina’s feelings were a little hurt. When she looked in the mirror, she saw a good-looking female staring back at her. She didn’t think she looked like a fortysomething grandmother and mother of three. The word old stung. She marched into her bedroom, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, and called her best friend.
Cartier could hear her mother get on the phone with Janet. Trina began to tell her how she was moving back to Brooklyn and how ungrateful Cartier was after all she’d done for her.
“That li’l ugly bitch think she cute,” Trina could be heard saying. “I’ma leave her bad-luck ass right in this city! She think these new Puerto Rican muthafuckers like her stink-ass Brooklyn attitude? She gonna get a rude awakening!”
***
The gleaming black Range Rover made its way across the MacArthur Causeway, headed toward South Beach. The eighty-five-thousand-dollar truck was a gift to herself. Cartier always moved around in style, and she had enough cash to splurge on herself and her family. She was living large off the money she’d found in the safe-deposit box that belonged to her dead husband, Jason. It was enough money to keep her afloat and to continue living the diva lifestyle for a long while. She had her peoples staying in a high-rise condo on Brickell Avenue, a thirty-five-story building that offered an unobstructed view of the ever-changing Miami skyline.
Cartier was proud of her accomplishments. She was one of a select few to leave the game alive and still live a life of luxury with her family. She had paid her dues in the streets, doing her dirt, busting her gun, surviving an assassination attempt, and even serving seven years in prison. Now it was time to live happily ever after. But Cartier knew life wasn’t a fairy tale, and even though Miami was miles away from Brooklyn, she had sense enough to know that danger was everywhere, so she kept her gun close at all times.
She felt like a queen in her black chariot with “Started From the Bottom” by Drake blasting in the truck. The weather was warm and balmy, and she was ready to show off the shape she got from her momma. Clad in a form-fitting dress that hugged her luscious curves, her red-bottoms pressed against the accelerator, taking the Range Rover to 75 mph.
The sun had set long ago, creating a temperate evening over the city of Miami, which had lit up in a colorful hue that could be seen from miles away. The closer Cartier drove toward South Beach, the thicker the traffic became. South Beach was a major destination for both American and international tourists, with hundreds of nightclubs, restaurants, boutiques, and hotels.
A brown-skinned cutie in her late twenties, Cartier knew she could never get tired of the club scene. She’d done the wife thing—which didn’t work out. She’d tried the “hold your man down while he’s locked down” thing—which didn’t work out. Now, she was doing her—which seemed to be working out great. She looked good and felt terrific. Cartier knew that Trina was getting fed up, but it wasn’t anything a shopping spree and some quality family time couldn’t fix.
She came to a stop in front of Buck 15, a small underground bar and lounge with artistic furnishing and a loft feel. Her pricey Range Rover blended in smoothly with the Rolls-Royce Phantom, cocaine-colored Bentley, S550 Benz, Corvettes, Porsches, and Audi Q7s parked on the busy street. She stepped out of her truck feeling like
a celebrity. The second her pricey red-bottoms touched the pavement, all eyes were on her. She strutted toward the front entrance with a smirk. She was so Brooklyn.
Cartier was cool with one of the security guards and eased inside. She was extra happy tonight. She was excited about her good friend, Li’l Mama, flying in tomorrow evening from New York into Miami International. It had been a long while since the two founding members from the Cartier Cartel had seen each other, so they had a lot of catching up to do.
Buck 15 was blaring with Flo Rida, and the patrons were jumping up and down, bouncing around the place, looking electrified. Cartier’s eyes scanned the club, searching for Quinn, who had to be nowhere else but in the VIP section, where she lived and breathed, popping bottles with her peoples. Cartier strutted toward the VIP area, moving through the thick crowd. Bitches were hating—giving hard stares—and niggas were craving to push up. Cartier had edge that didn’t go unnoticed. It was a mix of sex appeal and grit. As the strobe lights bounced off her, the crowd parted to allow her through.
She spotted her girl Quinn seated in the VIP, surrounded by the Ghost Ridas, her brother’s Miami gang. Since Cartier’s arrival in Miami, Quinn had become a really good friend to her. The two had met in Club 01 a few months earlier. That night Quinn had complimented Cartier on her shoes, and they started talking, and had become inseparable.
Quinn, Mexican-born and Miami-raised, was a female with a body to die for. She had raven-black hair, tanned skin, and dark, hypnotic eyes that could cut through a brick wall. At five eight, she was definitely eye candy in the club in her deep purple low-cut dress with the ultra-plunging neckline. Her strong, defined legs stretched out in a pair of Fendi pumps.
Quinn had a strong predilection for the brothers. In fact, she loved to have a big, black dick inside of her. There was something about the brothers that made her weak, which sometimes caused unrest with her blood brother and his gang. But Quinn didn’t give a fuck. She had earned their respect, because she was a bad bitch who was down for whatever. She downed her umpteenth drink, laughing with the Ghost Ridas, over a dozen deep and sporting their gang colors, purple and black.
As Cartier stepped inside the area, Quinn shouted out, “Is that my fuckin’ bitch right there?” She stood up to greet Cartier with a hug and kisses to both cheeks.
“Hey, Quinn,” Cartier greeted with a smile.
“Have a seat, bitch,” Quinn said jokingly. “What you drinking?”
Having grown up around killers all her life, Cartier took her seat among the wolves. Any friend of Quinn’s was a friend of hers.
Quinn removed the Moët bottle from its icy chill and poured Cartier a glass, while the tattooed gangsters of the Ghost Ridas, clad in leather vests, purple Ts, jeans and heavy jewelry were laughing it up and drinking heavily.
Cartier leaned back against the soft-cushioned banquette that ran along the VIP room and crossed her legs. Her eyes scanned the room, looking for any dude with potential. There was so much money inside the club; so many niggas who were boss of their empires, just as Cartier was boss of hers. She took a sip of Moët, as the club came alive to Rihanna’s “Diamonds.”
“So, your friend from New York is comin’ tomorrow, right?” Quinn asked.
Cartier nodded. “Yup.”
“You need me to roll wit’ you?”
“If you want.”
“Bitch, you know I’m down.”
Cartier was happy to hear that. She was hoping that the two didn’t bump heads and would get along with each other, knowing that Li’l Mama could be rough around the edges and that Quinn was a hardcore bitch. The last thing she needed was some beef between her longtime friend and her newfound friend.
“Hey, Quinn, who’s the chola?” one of the Ghost Ridas asked, eyeing Cartier like she was his property. “She down to get wit’ the homies?”
Cartier looked up at the man unperturbed.
Quinn erupted with, “Yo, Tumble, chill ay, you my vato, but don’t play my homegirl. You drunk, yo. Fall back.” She stood up to make her point clear.
Tumble stood over six feet tall, and he was muscular, with two dark teardrops under his right eye. He was clutching a bottle of Henny Black in his hand. It was evident he was a little tipsy.
Tumble glanced at Cartier. “Chido. No disrespect, Quinn.” He took a few steps back. “Maybe another time.”
Cartier already knew his type. He was a killer. It showed in his eyes, and was literally written on his face. Though Quinn had the leash around him tight, Cartier knew he was the type of dude that didn’t ask for permission to get what he wanted.
“Don’t mind him, Cartier,” Quinn said, moving her hands around wildly. “He a fool. Nigga knows better than to disrespect any of my peoples.”
“I’m cool, Quinn.” Cartier shrugged her shoulders, dismissively. “It ain’t even that serious.”
“I feel you, mama.” A now more relaxed Quinn took a swig from the Moët bottle.
Cartier was on her third drink and feeling nice. When she felt her iPhone vibrate and ring in her clutch, she quickly reached into it to answer the call. There was no number on her caller ID, but she answered anyway, plugging one finger into her left ear and leaning over with the phone against her right.
“Hello,” she said, trying to hear over the earsplitting music. “Hello,” she repeated, but there was nothing but silence on the other end. She looked down to see the screen pop up on her phone. The caller had hung up.
Cartier tossed her phone back into her clutch, looking somewhat worried. It was the third such phone call she’d received this evening.
“You okay?” Quinn asked.
She nodded.
Cartier sat for a moment, her high spirits changing somewhat. She began to think about her family. She tapped Quinn on her shoulder. “I gotta make a phone call. I’ll be in the bathroom.”
“You sure everything’s okay?” Quinn repeated with concern.
“Yeah. I just gotta call home.”
Cartier stood up and hurried from the VIP area and walked toward the ladies’ bathroom. She pushed the door open and went into her clutch again and pulled out her cell phone. She leaned against the sink and dialed home.
The phone rang three times then Trina picked up. “What, Cartier?”
“Ma, everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s okay. Why you asking?”
“I dunno. Where’s Christian?”
“I just put her ass to bed. She’s fast asleep. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing . . .”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Ya ass feeling guilty, right? ’Cuz you keep leaving me in here to babysit these kids.”
“Nah, it ain’t even like that. I just had a strange feeling.”
“Don’t worry about us, Cartier,” Trina said coolly. “This ain’t New York. Nobody knows us down here. Everything’s fine. Go and have a good time. I’m here watchin’ a movie and the house is quiet.”
“Okay, Ma. Thanks. I’ll see you later.”
Cartier hung up, feeling somewhat relieved, but that strange feeling still swirled around in her stomach. She turned to look at her image in the large mirror, sighing heavily. She was alone in the bathroom and could hear the muffled music from the club. She checked herself quickly and applied more lip gloss to her full lips. “I need some fuckin’ dick. I’m turning into an uptight, paranoid bitch,” she chuckled to herself as she walked out.
As the party continued, Cartier had a nice chat with Ranger, a well-respected O.G. in Ghost Ridas. In his mid-thirties, he was Miami-born with Mexican and Dominican blood. Swathed with gang tattoos and nice jewelry, he stood six-four.
Cartier was enjoying their talk, but then she noticed she was being watched by a dark stranger from across the bar. His gaze was intense. When she returned his stare, he never broke eye contact. At first she expected his eyes to soften; perhaps he would walk over and push up or, as a flirty gesture, send her a bottle of champagne. So it
came, at first, as a blow to her ego. And then the hair on the back of her neck began to stand up. If he wanted her to be intimidated, she wasn’t going to show it. He glared and she glared back.
Ranger noticed she was distracted, and then he noticed the distraction. “You know dude?”
Cartier shook her head.
Ranger took off with Cartier on his heels. She was drunk and was ready to set it off. Club or no club, she wanted it to go down.
The dark stranger, who was nursing a beer at the edge of the bar, didn’t flinch. As the couple approached he stood his ground.
“Yo, homes, you got a problem wit’ my lady?”
The man slowly turned to see that he was surrounded by Ranger, Cartier, and now a few Ghost Ridas. He removed himself from the barstool but kept a cool demeanor. “No,” he said. “No problem with her at all. My bad if I offended anyone.”
“Leave, muthafucka, before I let loose some of my goons and you won’t leave at all.”
The man smirked and held up his hands in surrender. “Not a problem.”
Cartier wasn’t going to allow it to end so easily. She picked up a random drink and tossed it into his face.
“Do we have a problem now?”
The man wiped the dripping liquid off his dark-chocolate skin and gritted his teeth.
“Nah, we still don’t have a problem.”
Had this been a New York nightclub, he would have had his guts stomped out. Cartier was wondering what she had to do for the Ghost Ridas to teach this lame-ass dude a lesson. She could see something in his eyes that she didn’t like. Had the Cartel been at her side, he would have been shot or stabbed the fuck up by now. From her peripheral vision she could see security trying to make their way through the crowd.
Amped up on liquid courage, Cartier wanted to fan the fire. She lunged toward him but was held back by Ranger. He grabbed both her wrists as she tried to swing, wildly. Cartier looked, and Quinn wasn’t anywhere to be found, which left a salty taste in her mouth. There was an unspoken code between girlfriends—have my back at all times!
Cartier Cartel, Part 3 Page 1