Guard the Throne

by Nisa Santiago

  She squirmed, feeling his powerful tongue digging inside of her. “Ooooh shit!” she moaned.

  Citi was ready for some dick. “I want it doggie-style,” she cried out.

  Maino had no problem obliging. The curves on Citi were amazing. Her skin was smooth like cocoa butter. Her sexily trimmed pussy hair and her Hershey chocolate nipples made his mouth water.

  He flipped her around in the backseat, having Citi grip the headrest and push her hand against the glass, her knees pressed down into the soft leather of the seat. Then he mounted her from behind and rammed himself into her cream, pounding in and out of her.

  Citi cried out, but took pleasure in how he took it aggressively. She loved how he fucked her. It was a quick and pleasing fuck for the both of them. Citi got her nut a few times, and when Maino came, he grunted behind Citi, clutching her waist tightly.

  The first time Citi stepped foot into Maino’s Brooklyn place, she saw extravagant wealth. He lived in Dyker Heights, a high-class residential neighborhood sandwiched between Bay Ridge, Bensonhurst, and Gravesend Bay, a place far away from Jamaica, Queens. It was the first time she had ever been in the area.

  She walked into the two-level brick home with freshly cut grass, and the apple cinnamon fragrance immediately welcomed her. There were two big mirrors on each wall, and the golden living room set sat on soft tan carpet. Down the hallway to her right was an office with everything in polished cherry wood. Upstairs, there were three bedrooms, and the master bedroom with walk-in closet and double-sink bathroom, a large oval tub, and three showerheads. The basement was mainly one large playroom with a home theater, complete with projector and large screen, a pool table, and a pinball machine.

  Citi was in awe the first time she saw how Maino lived. He had done very well for himself since he’d taken over the streets after Curtis’ demise.

  Maino made Citi get comfortable. He would turn on the large TV or his state-of-the-art stereo system with surround sound, and during sessions at his crib, they would watch movies, listen to music, drink, get high, and fuck their brains out. Citi would suck his dick on the couch while Maino looked at music videos and smoked a joint.

  Maino’s place became her escape from the hood. She was going to ride or die with him, so she could step her game up and get hers.

  22

  Chris sat in his truck under the corner streetlight deep in thought about the game he was in. The block was quiet, but the drug game wasn’t. It was hard in the streets. Problem after problem kept arising for the young hustler. With his father’s murder still lingering in his mind, he couldn’t help but feel angry at times, reminding himself that someone in the streets—a friend, a business associate, or a worker—was probably untruthful to him and his family. Everyone was a suspect in his father’s death. He fought with himself every day to keep his sanity and the business growing.

  He sat listening to rap music, the pistol close by his side. He stared out into the darkness of the early hours in the morning. The digital numbers embedded into the dashboard said it was three a.m. The cold outside was unbearable.

  Chris felt he had not other choice but to go hard in the streets or go home. He continually had to prove he was built to last without his father being around to hold his hand in the streets. He refused to become a failure and be embarrassed. Some people had chosen to come at him, knowing Curtis or Maino wasn’t out there to protect him and his business. The wolves were at his front door, and they were vicious and hungry. Chris had to bite back much harder and more maliciously. He had to be ready for anything that came at him.

  He sat in the truck watching the dilapidated row house on the run-down block. He waited patiently, staring at the porch. He smoked his cigarette and remained cool. The row house was a known drug spot with a steady traffic of fiends and hustlers in and out on a daily basis. The stickup kids frequented the area, and the police and undercover officers always did drive-bys at the location.

  Chris kept an eye out for Tiko. The man had stolen from him and violated him. He’d snatched the drugs from one of Chris’ workers easily and acted like there wasn’t going to be retaliation against him. Three ounces of cocaine stolen from his stash house was nothing for Chris to take lightly. Some folks in the streets thought Chris was soft— that he wasn’t built like Curtis or Cane.

  Tiko should have known better, but his daily drug habit made his thinking become irrational. Now Chris had to come at the thirty-nine-year-old veteran in the streets with vengeance or give up his hustling card.

  Chris didn’t tell Cane what Tiko had done. Cane wouldn’t have hesitated to attack Tiko, beat him, or shoot him down. Ever since the robbery and attack a year earlier, Cane had become a completely different person. He refused to be caught slipping in the streets again. He stayed strapped, sometimes having one or more guns on his person. And everyone in the hood knew he wouldn’t hesitate to use either one.

  Chris understood he had to become more violent himself. He had been the brain, and Cane was the brawn, but he had to step up and get his hands dirty to prove to the doubters in the game that he was built for the hustle on both ends.

  Tiko staggered out of the well-known drug spot with a high smile. He stood over six-three and weighed 225 pounds. He was wearing a torn winter coat and no hat, exposing his nappy Afro to the cold. He concealed a 9mm in his waistband. His age showed significantly in his face. The gray hair on his head, the sunken pupils, and the wrinkles around his eyes made him look older than he was.

  Tiko had lived a hard life. The drug use, violence, being in and out of prison since he was twelve years old, and seeing everything from murder, kidnapping, to rape made him a hardened soul. A young punk like Chris was too easy to get over on. The ounces of cocaine he stolen had either been sold or used to feed his addiction.

  Chris watched Tiko leave the shady premises alone. He picked up the Glock 17 from the passenger seat and cocked it back.

  When Tiko stepped onto the street, Chris swung open the driver’s door and made his move, clad in a dark hoodie and winter hat. His boots hit the pavement with a sense of urgency. He gripped the gun tightly behind his back and out of view from his victim. He just wanted his respect, and his drugs or the money back.

  Guys like Tiko, the veterans in his hood, looked at Chris as an underling, a young’un who still couldn’t pee straight. Tiko felt it was easy to take from juniors like Chris. While Chris was still sucking on his mother’s tits, he was running blocks. When Chris was playing in the sandbox, he had a stable of bitches and was taking frequent trips to Vegas. But the game done changed, and the young hustlers were taking over in swarms. It angered Tiko that the young heads were changing the rules of the game.

  Tiko continued to stagger toward his car, a dark blue Chevy Impala, a small remnant from his glory days. As he walked, he reached into his coat and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He hesitated to get into the Impala. The cold didn’t seem to bother him. He lit up.

  “Yo, Tiko.”

  Tiko turned to see who was calling him. The cold streets were barren and still. To his right, he saw no one, but when he turned to his left, he saw the hooded stranger approaching. It didn’t occur to him that he was in immediate danger.

  He narrowed his eyes at the young kid approaching quickly. “What the fuck you want, young’un’?” he hissed. He suddenly noticed the outstretched hand and then the barrel of a large gun pointed at him. His narrowed eyes popped open in shock, and the cigarette fell from his lips.

  Bam!

  The straight shot ripped through Tiko’s upper thigh and crippled him at once. He howled and stumbled against his car.

  The second shot went through his other leg and dropped him to the pavement in pain.

  He stared up at his attacker approaching silently. He was defenseless. The gun in his waistband had fallen underneath the car.

  “What the fuck!” Tiko cried
out.

  “You took something from me, muthafucka! And I want it back. You owe me,” Chris screamed at him.

  “I ain’t take shit from you, nigga!”

  Chris towered over him. He removed his hood to reveal his identity.

  “Chris, what the fuck!” Tiko shouted.

  “You steal from me, muthafucka!” Chris screamed madly. The palm of his hand pressed against the butt of the gun, he started to pistol-whip Tiko savagely, splitting his head open with the butt of the gun, and knocking out a tooth. Hit after hit with the butt of the gun brought Tiko closer to unconsciousness.

  “Stop! Fuckin’ stop!” he shouted, barely able to move.

  “I want what’s mine, nigga.”

  “Okay, okay,” Tiko uttered faintly.

  Chris went rummaging through his pockets and removed three hundred dollars. He was furious. “This is fuckin’ it!” A swift kick into Tiko’s side crushed his ribs and made him wail out in pain.

  “You think I’m weak, Tiko? That’s why you steal from me?” Chris screamed.

  Tiko lay rooted to the cold concrete, helpless, blood oozing from his wounds and saturating his jeans and his hands coated in it.

  Chris glared at him and aimed the gun at his head. He was tempted to shoot and put Tiko out of his misery. He had never killed a man.

  Tiko gazed up at Chris, his eyes pleading to live. “Don’t do this! I’ll get you back what I stole,” he pleaded weakly.

  “Fuck you!” Chris screamed.

  Chris had his finger on the trigger. It was too easy. But he thought, Dead men can’t pay their debts, and Chris needed his money.

  “I’m giving you a fuckin’ week to give back what you stole from me, nigga, and if I don’t get it back, then we gonna continue this conversation, and it’s gonna be the last one you’ll ever have on this fuckin’ earth. I’ll personally make sure I’ll be the last face you’ll fuckin’ see.”

  Chris pivoted on his heels and hurried back to his truck, leaving Tiko squirming near his car, bleeding heavily. He climbed into his ride and sped away from the crime scene to the sound of sirens blaring in the distance. Chris had to make a point. The wolves were heavy at his door, and he had to show his foes that his bite was much louder than his bark.

  ****

  The streets were talking about Tiko’s assault. Chris had beaten him down badly and crippled him with the gunshots. In the drug game—a world filled with killers, stickup kids, and hustlers—there was only one way to get any full respect from everyone: violence and bloodshed. You had to be a vicious muthafucka for the darkest soul not to fuck with you. Chris understood it. He knew what respect looked like from being under his father’s wing for so long. He saw how men of all ages, killers and hustlers alike, respected his father, and how many feared him. With the status his father had in the hood, the wicked thought twice about doing something stupid and crazy to him, his family, and his organization. Curtis and Maino were a strong team; a powerhouse in two boroughs.

  Chris sat reclined in his car, his mind spinning with problem after problem. His drug connect was on the lam, and he needed a new supplier. Then, he had to worry about Tiko. He wondered if his foe had the balls to retaliate. Tiko was an aging, washed-up veteran in the game, but he was still a danger. Something Chris had learned from his father was to never underestimate the slightest threat. No matter how big or small the threat came, when it came, Chris was taught to take care of it right away. Curtis had warned him to never sleep on any man. From a friend to a fiend, it was dangerous to trust anyone when you were in the game.

  Chris became skilled at carrying and concealing guns on him at all times. His vehicle was equipped with stash boxes. In his mind, it was best to be tried by twelve than be carried by six.

  He took a pull from the cigarette between his lips and exhaled. He kept his gun close. He sat parked outside his building like his father used to do and analyzed his situation. There was a lot going on. The streets were watching, and the game was listening. Cane would sometimes go MIA, making him undependable at times, and Citi had found a new love he was unaware about. Chris just hoped that his little sister wasn’t out there whoring herself and leaving a stigma on the family’s name.

  The tapping at the driver’s side window caused Chris to reach for the Glock in his lap. He twisted quickly with the gun ready for action and saw it was Donny at the window, one of Maino’s goons.

  “Easy, playboy. I just came to talk to you,” Donny said. “Ain’t no need for you to become trigger-happy.”

  Chris lowered the gun and rolled the window down halfway, his grip still around the gun, his nerves edgy. “What you want, Donny?”

  “Maino wants to see you. Looked for you upstairs, but find you down here.”

  “What he want?”

  “Hell if I know. He just sent me out to come find you, and I come find you,” Donny replied in a chilling tone.

  Chris sighed. “A’ight. I’ll come through.”

  “He wants to see you now, Chris. Says it’s important. You can ride wit’ me,” Donny suggested. “You got another cigarette?”

  Chris handed him a Newport and a light. As Donny lit up, Chris thought about meeting with Maino. Donny didn’t budge from the window. He took a few drags and waited for Chris’ reply. Chris wasn’t in the position to say no. Maino was the man in charge on the streets. If he asked for you, then you didn’t ask questions. You just went to see him.

  “Give me a few minutes.”

  “How about one minute?”

  “This better be important,” Chris said, removing himself from the vehicle.

  Chris followed Donny to his Lexus and climbed into the passenger seat. Donny started the ignition and sped off into the traffic.

  They arrived at Maino’s warehouse-turned-underground strip club in East New York, Brooklyn. The cars lining the street were an indication of the heavy activity inside.

  Chris and Donny bypassed the security at the front entrance and moved into the dim, crowded club, naked strippers scattered everywhere, weed and cigarette smoke circulating in the stale atmosphere. The makeshift stage was decorated with voluptuous nude females pussy-popping and booty-bouncing to Tyga’s “Rack City” blaring throughout the club.

  Donny led Chris toward the office located at the back of the club. It was isolated down the narrowed hallway, and under protection from a few goons. Chris stepped into the spacious office with cameras watching everyone everywhere. Two flat-screens hung on the wall, and two abstract oil paintings decorated the wall behind Maino’s desk. With concrete flooring, and leather sofas, everything was ultramodern in the windowless office.

  Chris walked into the office and saw Maino seated behind his desk, pulling from a cigar, a big-booty topless stripper on his lap.

  Maino spun his attention over to Chris and greeted him with a smile. “Chris, welcome to paradise.”

  Chris didn’t respond. He wasn’t in the mood to joke around.

  Maino slapped the bitch on the ass and then said to her, “Babe, give us a minute. I got some important business to take care of.”

  “Sure, daddy,” the topless stripper replied pleasantly. She jumped off Maino’s lap and strutted by Chris in her thong and six-inch stilettos.

  The other goons cleared the room, so Maino and Chris could have their privacy.

  Chris stood a good distance from where Maino was seated, and Donny was situated behind him.

  Maino wore a wifebeater and a long platinum chain with diamond-encrusted boxing gloves for a pendant. He was tatted up and his thick facial hair was shaped up. He took another drag from his cigar and gestured for Chris to have a seat near his desk.

  Chris took a seat in one of the two chairs by the desk.

  “You a natural-born hustler, Chris,” Maino spoke out.

  “What?”


  “I mean, I see you out there doin’ ya thang, making moves and shit. I like that. Shit, I look at you and see Curtis written all over you. You look and move just like your father. Y’all got that ambition, that unstoppable drive, and you’re smart too.”

  “I’m just tryin’ to survive, Maino. It ain’t been easy for us this past year.”

  “I know. It’s ugly out there. If muthafuckas can’t run wit’ the wolves, then they get devoured. And you still running wit’ the wolves, I see.” Maino chuckled, sizing Chris up. He then continued with, “I heard about that incident wit’ you and Tiko. You really beat that nigga down. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “It needed to be done. He stole from me,” Chris replied coolly.

  “Shit. Ain’t no judging on this end. You already know my reputation. Question though, why you let that fool live?”

  “A dead man can’t pay his debt.”

  Maino took a pull from the cigar, his eyes on Chris. “Damn, you ain’t lying about that. You did what you had to do to let these muthafuckas out here know you ain’t nothin’ nice to fuckin’ play wit’. But sometimes you gotta set a stronger example and you kill a muthafucka for fuckin’ wit’ ya ends. It gives the next nigga doubt about coming up short wit’ ya money or stealing from you . . . raise the ante. But what you did to Tiko, yeah, that was some thorough shit.”

  Chris didn’t care for Maino’s compliment. He’d watched for over a year as Maino continued to get rich right after his father’s death and barely came through to help out him and his siblings. Maino wasn’t as supportive to them as he’d promised, and it made Chris question things. He remained seated and listened to Maino talk about the game and how it should be played. Maino had been around for a long time. He was a concrete dude. Nobody fucked with him. If he didn’t kill you himself, then he got one of his soldiers to do it. But Maino wasn’t the type of dude to ask one of his goons to do something that he wasn’t willing to do himself.