Loving a Colombian Cartel Thug 3

by K'Aliyah Knight

  “Rockwell?” Santiago says.

  “Shut up for a second,” I cut him off, ears perked. “My fiancée is home.”

  Damn, this discussion has been so deep I didn’t hear the alarm chirp. Yvonda stands at the entrance in a Mui Mui suit that hits at every curve. Her dark skin is flawless with no make-up, and her hair is pressed down her back. I blink and I blink. This bitch ain’t my Rocky.

  Quickly thinking, I mouth, “I’m on the phone with Santiago Mendoza.”

  Her eyes widen. “Are you recording?”

  I nod the lie. She steps out of the room. I lean back in the leather chair and try to peer down the hall. Santiago keeps quiet; he knows the drill. On second thought, paranoia comes back like a vengeance, so I stand. I go into the master suite, close and lock the door. Then step into the bathroom and do the same.

  “You’re off because of Rockwell?”

  “Shit Santi.”

  “You still roll with Hernandez, Emerald?”

  “I don’t trust them,” I begin, then I add, “But after the team who helped me get out of Colombia with all my limbs, they vouched for me. Whenever another crew does a sweep in our own territory shit can get a bit dicey. Emerald vouched for me. Hernandez backed him. Right now, I’ve opted for a vacation. Making wedding plans.”

  “You’re really going to marry the bitch?”

  “Hell nah. Yet, this wedding stuff makes for a good ploy in the bureau, because they’re watching me for the moment.”

  We hang up. Soon as I step out of the bedroom, here goes my fucking father with his damn tactics. My cell phone buzzes and my eyes land on—

  “Hey baby, how are you?” Yvonda asks as I stare at a picture of Rocky. She’s pregnant. It’s not an old photo of her with the twins. Nah, so Santiago isn’t teasing me about a dead girl. He’s tempting me with a living, breathing Rockwell.

  “Caesar, I am very concerned about you, honey?” she continues, and then jiggles my FBI approved phone. The one that sensors and records all Colombian Cartel activity. The very phone I should be using when calling Santiago instead of the one that’s in my hand, showing me that my love is alive.

  Yvonda steps closer to me, eyebrows knitted with concern. “Baby, how deep are you?”

  Blu

  Since I’m no longer team Rocky after finding out that bitch was fucking Chuey, I am all alone now. Only God knows how Lorenzo agreed to allow Lakitha to venture back to the states for college.

  Rockwell is at the park with the elaborate jungle gym set that Lorenzo had made for Junior after he decided that his bitch was not to leave the premise. The park is right at the bottom of the cliff. I look down. The boys are playing football in the sand, while the twins are swinging on the jungle set. A few guards are dotted along the beach as far as the eye could see.

  Popeye comes from the pool house, wrapping his arms around me. “Why don’t you go down there and talk to your girl, Blu?”

  “Nah,” I push away from those tickly kisses.

  “We’ve been celebrating the fact that we’re AIDs free for days, Blu. That shit has been weighing on your heart so long.”

  “Popeye, you know what those lips are good for,” I say, removing his hands, and turning around. I wrap up close with him, but plant tender smooches to those greedy ass lips of his. “Those lips are good for two things. Kissing these lips and kisses down below.”

  “A’ight, Blu,” he sighs. At least my nigga isn’t harping on counseling as he had done when I came back from being kidnapped by the fucking yardies. Those muthafucking Jamaicans still haunt my dreams every once in a while. But Popeye wants me to have a friend. I’m anti-bitch. “Look, you would have a point if this was back in the day, Popeye. Seeing that Rocky was the only female not family that I used to talk to, now that we don’t, it’s whateva.”

  “Okay, Blu. You tell your mom we’re moving inland?”

  I roll my neck. I return the question, “You tell Lorenzo we’re moving inland?”

  “Man, that mouth.” Popeye pops my lips softly. “It’s too much. Lorenzo already knows that this wasn’t going to be a forever thing. We set, Blu; we can move anytime. I’m guessing you finna have that talk with Rocky first.”

  “I ain’t telling that bitch we’re moving.”

  “Phillip Junior is?” he says of our son with a nod, as if having a six year older tells my ex bestie that we’re moving is too much. “Were all leaving her…”

  “The fuck? You like Rocky or something?” That shit blurts out of my mouth before I can even clamp my gums.

  Popeye just shrugs me off as if that ain’t even a question. Back in the day they both tried to help me get with him. So I know this jealousy or whatever I’m feeling is just that. It’s whatever.

  I hustle down the long walkway to the private beach. I’ma tell this hoe right now that we’re moving in a few months. Popeye and I have already scouted a nice little house to settle down in. Junior’s new school will be good. One day Rockwell is going to be alone. My moms is putting the finishing touches on her wedding with Miguel. A slight smile claims my cheeks. This stuck up bitch will finally have to make her bed. There won’t be no familia to support her.

  “Lila,” Rockwell chides the almost two-year-old toddler as she grunts while trying to get down to her level.

  “Da da da… I wan’… dada…” Lila’s chubby cheeks are puffed out, dark eyes just as hard as my damn brother’s.

  Rocky’s voice is filled with sadness but the salty sea breeze carries her voice. The boys are running up to us; both shouting at the same time about their techniques. Dang, just looking at their happiness makes me realize that these little niggas have grown up almost like brothers for the past few years. Inseparable.

  Rockwell’s smile is bright as she chats them up. Once she notices me, she is shocked, guilty or whatever the bitch is while wondering why I actually came to her.

  “Hey Blu,” Rockwell says, hands in her pockets.

  “I need to tell you something,” I speak, glaring straight through her. She asks if we should take the kids to lunch somewhere nice, I add, “In private,” knowing now isn’t the time to bring the boys into our move.

  “Okay, you want to go grab a few drinks? It’s been a while since I’ve gone to a bar…” she tries.

  “Hell, nah; no lunch, no spa dates, nothing. I am not Lala.”

  “Blu, you haven’t said a word to me in almost five months. You don’t have to be a bitch about it. If you wanted to say something, just say it,” she snaps.

  “Oh Rocky, you wanna buck up on me?”

  “We don’t have no fucking problem, Blu!”

  “The fuck you mean we don’t have a problem? Lorenzo fucked you over way back when. I would have a big muthafucking problem with him, ma. Same treatment he woulda got. But your dirty trifling ass couldn’t keep your legs closed.”

  “You don’t even know the half of it.” Rockwell shakes her head. Her short ass seems ready to dig in on me, school me as if I give a damn about her version of how her legs flew open and Chuey ran up in that. I don’t give a fuck. Instead of taking flight, lil mama almost doubles over. Before I realize, I’m helping this hoe stand. She clutches her belly.

  Dang, even if the baby ain’t Lorenzo’s, there’s still blood, right? I tell myself I’m still being loyal by asking her, “Are you okay?”

  Her heart-wrenching cry travels all the way across the muthafucking sea…

  Rita

  Rockwell kept screaming all the way to the hospital. My grandson was trying to tear her to shreds. Miguel had just pulled up to the front of my son’s mansion. We were supposed to be on our way to cake-testing, but all of that is neither here nor there right now. I drop to my knees in the middle of the hospital lobby, praying for them both.

  “He’s not answering…” Miguel cuts into my plea to God, Jesus, Mary, and the rest of the disciples. This is important. I snatch my cell phone from my fiancé’s hand. Lorenzo has been dissing Rockwell since the day his people hog-tied and drag
ged Chuey away. I try to tell the story of Rockwell’s naivety and his grimy ass cousin’s manipulation. I believe her. Chuey never fucked her. The bitch named Janyca really fucked the situation up when Rocky had to go to him for help. You just have to understand a Colombian man. There’s no end to things once they want you. Unless they throw you away, you belong to them. I believe that in Santiago Junior’s mind, he felt so. Lorenzo thought so too, but by “normal” standards or even marriage standards, she didn’t cheat.

  The phone continues to ring.

  At times like these, the mind can do one of two things:

  One. Simper in hate… Meaning I can dwell on that seed of anger that I have for my brother, Santiago. I can use that as my motivation to survive this moment while glaring at the Operation room. There has been no word. It has been hours. But if I allow that anger to overwhelm me, there is no turning back.

  Two. I can look to my saving grace. I smile weakly at Miguel; he returns it while rubbing my back and offering to pray with me. Nah, Miguel isn’t my saving grace. God is. So we get down on our knees and pray together.

  When we arise, Popeye is nodding hello. “Sup, Miss Rita.”

  “Where’s Blu?” I ask, not trying to be inconsiderate. But usually it’s a female’s job to stay home and watch all the kids. Now that Lakitha is gone, Blu, Rockwell or I would be watching their kids. Yet, Blu should be here, Popeye should be watching the kids. Lorenzo does this bullshit where he will leave the kids with Rockwell to pull a stunt. Popeye doesn’t do that.

  His glance tells me that my crazy ass daughter refused to come for moral support. I ask, “You get ahold of Lorenzo?”

  “Nah,” he replies, rubbing the back of his neck. I’m betting all the Medina’s are getting under his skin today. “I even broke down and just texted that nigga. Can’t believe I’m fucking texting him about his own wife and son being in the hospital like this.”

  Well, all we can do is sit. Wait.

  ~~~

  The next morning, I’m seated across from Rockwell’s hospital bed. There are flowers that Popeye brought; he even signed Blu’s little funky ass name on there. Santiago tried to send red roses; those were sent right along to the patient in the next room. My own colorful daises do nothing to brighten the morning. A few contraptions are connected to her. Her heart rate is good and blood pressure back to normal. There’s a cramp at the side of my neck, my thumb works at the kink as I yawn. Reaching into my pocket, I grab my cell phone. No missed calls.

  Tears burn my eyes. Anger prickles the hair on my forearms. I am going to kill Lorenzo.

  I get up, brushing back my unruly curls, and then shaking out a few of the wrinkles in my crumpled yellow shirt. I reach over the rail to touch Rockwell’s arm. The door opens. She tenses and wakes up.

  I turn around. I can feel Rockwell continue to tense at the sound of the voice that is clearly not her husband’s.

  “Buenos Dias, mi amor,” Miguel says. He’s holding a duffel bag in one hand, and a cup of coffee in the other.

  “Hola, mi Corazon, dame un bezo,” I tell him, pointing to my cheek. He plants a kiss on my cheek, and I almost have to fight him not to kiss my mouth. I ask, “Whatcha got for me?”

  “Food, clothes, and something that will get me a kiss…” he says, handing me the coffee.

  “Mmmm, what is that, diamonds?”

  “Diamonds? After that wedding ring, I’ll be tapped out for life,” he jokes, “Try a toothbrush and toothpaste.”

  “Even better,” I tell him and then cock my head to the door.

  We step out of the room. I close the door behind us. I glare at the two guards on watch. This muthafucka has to know we are here. They tell him everything.

  “Still no sign of Lorenzo?” he tries to lighten the mood by saying, “Well they do call him the Phantom.”

  “This isn’t funny.”

  “I know, Margarita,” Miguel shrugs. “You can get angry, I’m just ensuring that you don’t get angry right now.”

  I smile. “Maybe I’m reserving that animosity until I see Lorenzo’s stupid face.”

  ~~~

  But the next day comes before I can even let out my frustration. Just my luck, I’m walking toward the restroom down the hall from Rockwell’s room when I see my son. Dressed in black khaki’s, a tee, and fresh Jay’s I assess that this nigga even went home instead of getting off the jet from God knows where to see about his wife.

  I slap the dog shit out of him. The smack reverberates off the whitewashed walls. Lorenzo doesn’t even flinch; he just looks down at me saying, “Moms, I ain’t seen you in a week. This how you do me? I just got in last night. Blu made your favorite. You missed dinner. Be easy, shit. I just had leftovers for breakfast.” He pats his belly.

  “You ain’t shit,” I shake my head. This muthafucka wants me to know that Rockwell was his last priority. “Your wife, your son was in here last night fighting for their lives, Lorenzo!”

  “My son,” he replies. “The fuck, we will see soon if that lil nigga is mine.”

  I take a deep breath, “I am going home, Lorenzo. It’s been almost 48 hours since I’ve had a hot shower or lay across a real bed. Can you submit to the vows you made before God until I return?”

  Lorenzo

  Not a few hours ago, I was breaking bread with the fucking feds. Who woulda ever thought it? I ain’t one to snitch or pull any bitch moves, but Hernandez and Emerald seemed to have their game down pack. Now here I am, tryna step into the hospital to check on Rocky …

  Fuck what my moms is going through. Rita just pissed me off again. I just glare at her ass. It ain’t my problem she was here that long. The doctor is paid to care for Rocky; Rita wasn’t on call.

  I’m here for Rockwell, not that little bastard she had. No matter how many times I wanna believe little dude is mine over the past six months, I can’t. I was worried tho. Lil nigga can’t be a day over seven months in her belly when I got the first string of voicemails that Rockwell was going into labor. My goons told me that she was in for a long time. I prayed for my wife. They texted me every thirty minutes, even when there weren’t even any updates. Then the muthafuckas went one minute past thirty. At first, they thought since I was on the plane ride from New York that it would stop me from wanting to know how my Rockwell was. Fuck that. It cost one of the thugs his life. After that, the calls came every thirty minutes. Then I got the call that Rockwell was in recovery, resting. Now here I am. To see her…

  I take a deep breath, stepping inside.

  “Rocky,” I sigh the name that I’ve been in love with since I was twelve. My face is emotionless, but lil’ mama still has a claim to my heart that is as untouchable as it was the day I laid eyes on her.

  Those champagne eyes open but they don’t hold the same love for a nigga like they did back in the day. At least, I have to tell myself that so I don’t fall for this bitch.

  “Lorenzo…” she says.

  “Where your little dude at?” I ask.

  “My little dude?” her voice breaks.

  “Yeah, ma. I need to know if that nigga is my son, Rockwell,” I tell her. This shit has been eating at me for too muthafucking long. I start to back away; Rockwell seems a little out of it anyway. “I’ma go ask one of the nurses to prepare a DNA test, I’ma be—g”

  “OUR SON IS DEAD, LORENZO!” she shouts.

  I turn back around. Dead. “Who the fuck? How? Nah, ma, I need to have that little nigga tested like I said.”

  Rockwell

  I am on pause. At first, I’m wondering if it’s me. If it’s my busted ass eardrums, because there’s an echo in my ear as Lorenzo asks where the boy is so he can still have him tested. Our baby, our dead child? He wants to have our son tested to see if our child is his. Then he’s asking me why the fuck I’m yelling. Why am I tripping? He says that the little nigga can’t be buried just yet. Either way, they can dig him up or unzip a body bag. He has to know.

  This nigga has lost his muthafucking mind.

  �
��I swear before God,” I say through gritted teeth. “Just so you know I’m real. As a Christian, I have never even sworn, but if you touch my son, I will fucking murder you, Lorenzo! Just like you did my dad, Thomas. Nigga, I will come straight for that ass.”

  I begin to undo the stupid thingamajigs that are connected to me. I gotta get up. I want to murder this nigga with my bare hands, but he busts out the door as nurses enter. There are three of them. Somewhere between fear of the fucking Phantom and worry for me, the ladies get to work trying to stabilize my heart rate.

  ~~~

  Having to mourn the death all by yourself when you actually should have a rock by your side may be just the worst thing in this world to bear. Lorenzo should be holding my hand. As Doctor Socorro begins to explain that our son didn’t make it, my hands had been clenched at my sides, my fingers ache. They stayed that way for almost two days.

  Now I don’t know what day it is, but the blinds are up, the sun is low. I guess it has to be evening or early morning. At the moment, nothing even matters. Whatever those nurses gave me, took me on a long trip, floating over clouds. The heartbreak stops. Damn, actually, my heart has been gone since I gave it to Lorenzo as a teen.

  The thought hits me again. I’m stuck in Colombia with no blood relations. I have a son, two beautiful twins to live for, but do I wanna live? My sobs break the silence…

  “Rocky, baby…” a familiar, comforting voice makes me turn around.

  Eyes wide, I gasp Chuey’s name as he sits on the same chair Rita had used for days. He has on a tailor-maid suit that contours to lean muscle, with his black hair in a sexy mess. He clutches a bouquet of flowers. If I blink… He. Is. Lorenzo.

  “You’re real?” I squeak as he starts to arise. Now, I’m tryna get up.

  “Wait, wait, baby,” his voice is full of laughter, yet tears are still brimming in his eyes. He wraps me in arms that are so muthafucking strong. Reality needs to stay away for now. Nah, not now. Chuey apologizes as I continue to cry. This shit feels so good that my heart can’t hate on dude.