Blood of a Boss: The Moreno Family

by Askari

  Damn, this mu'fucka bad, he said to himself as his dick grew rock hard.

  Riana was a dime to say the least. Aside from bearing a striking resemblance to WNBA star, Skylar Diggins, she had a perky pair of B cups with pinkish nipples, a toned stomach, thick thighs, and a nice little bubble butt that fit her body to perfection.

  “So, what’s up, daddy? You just gon’ stand there lookin’ cute, or are you gonna come inside and let me do somethin’ strange to you?” She spun around and bent over to give him a clear view of her fat pussy.

  He stepped inside of the house and locked the front door behind him. Riri stood up straight and turned around to face him. “I love you, boo.”

  “I love you too, ma.” He pulled her against his body and kissed her passionately. She led him over to the sofa, pulled down his shorts and boxers, and then pushed him on the sofa. She straddled him across his lap.

  While continuing to kiss one another, she reached for his throbbing dick and directed it slowly inside of her creamy tunnel. “Ummmmm!” she moaned from the pleasure and pain she was feeling. Increasing her pace, she rode him like a jockey on a thoroughbred. “Oh, my God! Umm, I love this dick!” She cried out.

  The feeling of his 9 inch dick was driving her insane. She grabbed the back of his head and guided his mouth to her right nipple.

  “Boo, I’m ‘bout to cum! I’m cummin', daddy! Ahhhhhnnnnn!” She whined as she released her juices all over his shaft.

  With his dick still inside of her, he picked her up and carried her over to the wall that separated the living room from the dining room. He slipped out of her, and then put her down.

  “Bend over and put ya head between ya ankles.” She did as he instructed. “Now, lean ya back against the wall.”

  When she got in this position, her pussy sprouted from in between her thighs, and it was so wet that Sonny could see her vaginal secretions dripping onto the carpet. He knelt down behind her and feasted on her asshole as if it were his last meal on earth. He then buried his tongue deep inside of her pussy, and professionally dipped it in and out and up and down her slit. Simultaneously, he reached his hand around her leg and used his middle finger to massage her clitoris.

  “Yeah, daddy! Eat this pussy! Umm!”

  After a couple minutes of getting her pussy sucked and licked, she craved the feeling of penetration. “Fuck me, daddy! I need to feel you so bad.”

  Obediently, he stood to his feet, crouched on top of her, and buried his shaft deep inside of her pussy. “Damn, I love this shit!” He groaned as he slammed his thighs against her ass like a jackhammer, his long hard strokes were making her cum instantly.

  “Ahhhhhnnnnn!” She cried out. “Sontino, why you doin’ this to me?”

  “This my pussy, right?”

  “Yeeeeeaaaaah!” She moaned. “Fuck yeah, this ya pussy!”

  ‘A’ight, then! I’m a hit it like I wanna hit it!” He replied. His words matching every stroke.

  After a hard ten minutes of fucking in that position, his body tensed up, and he squeezed off deep inside of her.

  *****

  An hour later, they were lying in her bed, smoking a Backwood and watching the movie, Love Jones. Her head was resting on his chest, and he was running his fingers through her hair. “Boo, is everything okay?” she asked.

  The question caught him off guard. “Yeah, everything’s good. Why?"

  “Because earlier you was beatin’ up my pussy like it stole somethin’ from you, and the only time you be gettin’ like that is when something’s bothering you. So, don’t be hittin’ me with that everything’s good shit. I know you, and I can tell when something’s wrong. So, what’s up?”

  He took a long pull on the Backwood, and then stubbed it out in the ashtray. After taking a deep breath, he began telling her about his confrontation with Easy.

  “I ran into my pops this mornin’ and we went through somethin’.”

  “Somethin’ like what?’

  “Somethin’ like that nigga tried to choke me out, and I had to put that mu'fuckin’ heat in his face.”

  “Ahn ahn, boo! Are you serious?”

  “Yo, I’m dead serious.”

  “Well, I’m not gon’ get in the middle of y’all beef ‘cause at the end of the day he’s still your dad.”

  “Man, fuck that nigga. I shoulda shot his crack headed ass.”

  She shook her head in disbelief, and then chose her next words carefully. “Alright, I can understand that you and him don’t see eye to eye, but at the same time, you gotta consider all the circumstances. From whatchu told me, back in the day, your dad was a major dude, and he gave you and Ms. Annie everything. Now, look at the way things turned out. That shit has to really fuck wit’ him, Sontino. It has to,” she continued while shaking her head. “Instead of wasting time hatin’ him, why don’t you do somethin’ to help him get back on his feet?”

  “Yo, fuck that nigga! Didn’t nobody tell his weak ass to start smokin’ on that glass dick and lose everything we had!”

  Riana couldn’t believe her ears. “Hold up, you mean to tell me that your ill feelings toward your dad are based on material shit?”

  “Naw, Ri, it’s deeper than that. The fact that we lost everything and had to move back to the hood was just the tip of the iceberg. When this nigga started gettin’ high, it got to the point that he would whip my mom’s ass if she didn’t give him her money. On top of that, this nut ass nigga used to steal the food out the refrigerator, and sell it to get high. It’s like, what type of mu’fucka would steal the food out the mouths of his own family?” He shook his head in contempt.

  “Damn, boo, I didn’t even know all of that.” She stated in a soft tone.

  “Well, now do you see why I feel the way I feel about him?”

  “I guess so, but at the end of the day that doesn’t change the fact that he’s still your father.

  Instead of responding to her last statement, he just lay back on the pillow and stared up at the ceiling.

  Chapter Three

  A Week Later

  Sonny, Sheed, and Tommy were chilling at Mook’s mansion in Dover, Delaware, watching their favorite movie, Paid in Full.

  “Yo, I love this fuckin’ movie, but that nigga ‘Po went out like a bitch!” Sheed said to nobody in particular. “I don’t even know why Killa Cam played the role of a rat ass nigga!"

  “Yeah,” Tommy agreed. “But at the same time, that nigga 'Po was on some straight up goon shit. You still gotta give the nigga some type of credit.”

  Sonny screwed up his face. “Yo, what the fuck is you talking ‘bout, Blood? That nigga’s a rat! Point. Blank. Period! Plus, he killed his mans, Rich, on some snake shit. That nigga ain’t gangsta. That nigga’s a fuckin’ clown.” Sonny snapped with pure disgust in his voice.

  He also made mental note to keep his eyes on Tommy. He figured if he could give props to a nigga like Alpo, then maybe he possessed some of the same qualities.

  Tommy smiled it off and changed the subject. “Anyway. Hey, yo, Sheed, whatchu got in this Backwood, Blood? This shit taste like dirt.” He stubbed out the cherry on the spliff, and then looked to Sheed for an answer.

  “Well, excuse me balla. Y’all niggas wanna be spendin’ all that bread on that loud, knowin’ damn well y’all were smokin’ that Reggie Bush like everybody else. Now that niggas is gettin' at a lil’ bit of money, y’all try’na front. Yo, y’all niggas fucks me up.” Sheed laughed, and then reached into the ashtray to retrieve the stubbed out Backwood.

  As they continued watching the movie, Mook appeared on the balcony that was positioned above the living room. He smiled down on his little homies in admiration. He loved the three of them to death. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for them. Sonny was like the son he never had, and ever since he was seven years old, he raised him to be a loyal soldier, grooming him to be the boss he was destined to become.

  He loved Sheed for his aggressiveness and for the loyalty he showed to the team. He loved Tommy beca
use he was a survivor. At the age of two, his father received a life sentence for murdering his mother and although the odds were stacked against him, he made it through the struggle and was now a certified ‘Block Boy’.

  “Soowoo!” Mook shouted, demanding their attention.

  “Bang! Bang!” They replied in unison.

  “I called y’all out here to bring y’all up to speed with the latest developments in the family,” he stated with a tone of authority. “First and foremost, y’all days of hustlin’ on the block are over. From this day forward, everybody in this room is his own boss and will conduct himself accordingly. As for myself, I’ll remain at the head of our roundtable, but only as the supplier. It’s a new day, my niggas. Operation Lock the City starts now. Are there any questions?”

  “Yeah,” said Sonny. “I’ve got a couple of questions. First, if we ain’t fuckin’ wit’ the block no more, then I’m assuming we gon' be pushin’ weight. Is that right? Secondly, what’s new? Why the sudden change of heart?”

  These were the exact same questions Mook was expecting him to ask. He walked toward the end of the balcony and descended the spiral staircase. “Yo, come wit’ me outside. I gotta show y’all something.”

  He led the trio out of the front door and over to his five car garage. He reached inside of his Prada slacks and retrieved a remote control. After pressing the open button, three of the garage doors slid open, revealing three snow white Mercedes Benz SL 550s. Mook smiled at his little homies, knowing his next words would change their lives forever.

  “For the past five years, y’all niggas stuck by me and believed in my dreams of locking down North Philly. Now, it’s time for me to believe in y’all. Together, we gon' lock down the entire city. I never told y’all this, but a couple of years ago I started fuckin’ wit’ this new connect. He’s a Columbian nigga from Miami. He recently made a move that put him in position to sell me bricks at $20,000 apiece. The only catch is that I grab 300 at a time.

  “It's 30 bricks inside the trunks of these Benzes. Right now, niggas in the city is sellin’ bricks of garbage for $42,000. I’ma front y’all 30 bricks of pure Columbian fish scale for $30,000 a whop, and I suggest that y’all corner the market, and sell 'em for $35,000 apiece. That way y’all can each make a $5,000 profit off of every brick. Once again, do y’all have any questions?"

  “Yeah, I got a question,” Sheed spoke up. “We ain’t never sold weight before, so obviously we ain’t got no clientele. How you expect us to move this shit?”

  “That’s a good question,” Mook shot back, then rubbed his hands together like Birdman. “This is how y’all gon’ move it. Right now, y’all got 30 bricks of pure cocaine, which means y’all got the best coke in the city. Now, when you add that to the fact that y’all gon' have the cheapest prices, niggas gon’ be breakin’ they necks to link up wit’ y’all. At $35,000, they' gon’ be savin’ every bit of seven racks, so trust me, the circumstances will dictate the flow of revenue. I can guarantee that y’all won’t have any problems movin’ the work. It’s marketing, baby boy. Straight up marketing.”

  “A’ight, Mook, I hear you, but did you consider the fact that certain mu’fuckas ain’t gon’ be feelin’ our movement? Especially, when they playas stop callin’ to re-up” Tommy pointed out to Mook.

  “Of course I considered that, and I came to the conclusion that niggas gon’ have to roll wit’ the Block Boys or get rolled the fuck over,” Mook replied. “Plus, the only nigga in the city that’s in a position to really feel the effects of our movement is that ol’ head, Grip. I already holla’d at him and made him an offer that he can’t refuse. If he accepts the offer, then that’s good money. If he doesn’t,” he shrugged his shoulders, “fuck it! We gon' make him wish that he did.”

  Sonny remained quiet and absorbed everything that was being discussed. He figured if he moved 30 keys at $35,000 a piece that would amount to $1,050,000, and after paying Mook, he would be left with $150,000. He realized if he ran through a shipment in a month’s time, in one year, he would be sitting on $1,800,000. He also recognized the only downside to the equation was Grip.

  At the age of seventy-two, Grip had become the cocaine king of Philly, and he ruled with an iron fist. He was the boss of The Black Mafia and his young buls, The Grip Boys, were ruthless. Their reputation alone was enough to make the average nigga fall in line, but in Sonny’s mind, he wasn’t the average nigga. For as long as he could remember, he was bred to go hard, and he’d be damned if he let another nigga stand in the way of him getting money.

  Mook looked at him and wondered what his favorite young bul was thinking. “What’s poppin’, Skoobie? You good?”

  “Yeah, I’m gucci,” Sonny responded. “What’s up wit’ them Benzes, though? Are they for us?” He asked with a Kool-Aid smile.

  “Yeah, they for y’all,” Mook answered. “Y’all earned ‘em. When you a boss, you gotta look like a boss, and there is no better way to do it than to come through the hood in somethin’ super husky. So, yeah,” he pulled out three sets of keys. “They a gift from me to y’all.”

  He handed them their keys, and then watched as they examined their new whips. Each car was sitting on 22" rims wrapped in Pirellis tires and were equipped with an AMG kit. The interiors were fully loaded with black leather and white piping, and the seats had the word Bishops stitched into the headrest. They climbed inside of their cars and started the engines.

  Vrrrrm!

  After adjusting his seat and mirrors, Sonny looked at Sheed with a devilish grin. “Yo, how you feelin’, Blood?”

  “Like a mu’fuckin’ Block Boy, nigga. Brrrrrat!”

  “Tommy, how you feelin’, Five?”

  “Soowoo!” he replied.

  At the sight of them all amped up, the only thing Mook could do was smile.

  “Hey, yo, y’all niggas be safe drivin’ up that highway. Remember, from here on out, we takin’ this shit to the next level. It’s either go hard or go hard, there is no going home. Make sure y’all hit me when y’all get back to the city. Soowoo!”

  “Bang! Bang!” They replied in unison.

  *****

  While driving up Interstate 95, Sonny had one thing on his mind, his future. All he had was his mom, Riana, and his team. He knew he was gambling with his life by accepting those thirty keys, but he had a fuck it mentality. If that was the only way he could get his family back to where they used to be, so be it.

  *****

  As soon as Tommy entered the city, he pulled into a gas station, and grabbed his cell phone from the passenger’s seat. He scrolled through his contact list and stopped on Detective Smith’s number. He pressed the call button, and then held the phone to his ear.

  Ring! Ring! Ring!

  “Hello,” Detective Smith answered.

  “Yo, it’s me, Tommy. I just left Mook, and he gave me somethin’ that’s gonna blow ya mind.”

  “Oh, yeah? Somethin’ like what?”

  “Somethin’ like that nigga just fronted me two keys,” Tommy lied. He figured he could turn in two of the keys and keep the remaining twenty-eight for himself.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m in South Philly.”

  Detective Smith glanced at his watch and saw that it was only 11:30 a.m. “Fuck it, meet me at our spot in an hour.”

  Click!

  *****

  When Tommy pulled into the parking lot of The Oak Lane Diner, all he could think about was betraying his team. He didn’t want to do it, but in his selfish mind, he had no other choice. About three months ago, Detective Smith pulled him over for a routine traffic stop. However, instead of Tommy enduring the normal procedures, he was removed from his car, handcuffed, and placed in the back seat of Detective Smith’s unmarked car.

  After two minutes of watching the detective illegally search his car, he rested his head against the back window, and closed his eyes.

  This dickhead ain’t doin’ nothin’ but wastin’ his time, he thought to himself. It ain’
t like he’s gonna find somethin’.

  A few minutes later, Detective Smith returned to his unmarked car with a black 9mm clutched in his right hand. “Hey, asshole! Look what I found under the driver’s seat.” The detective smiled.

  “Yo, that shit ain’t mines!” Tommy protested.

  “Sure it is,” the detective shot back. “And your black ass is under arrest.”

  After being transported to police headquarters at 8th and Race Street sitting in an interrogation room for well over twenty-four hours without anything to eat or drink, Tommy grew weaker mentally. Due to a prior felony conviction for possession of a controlled substance with the intent to deliver, he knew that a gun case would fall under the federal mandatory sentencing statute.

  Damn, I’m fucked, he thought to himself.

  An hour later, Detective Smith entered the interrogation room with a huge smile spread across his face. He held up the brown folder that was in his left hand, using it to fan himself.

  "Whew, it’s hot in here, huh Tommy? It seems as though you done hopped outta the frying pan and landed head first into the fire. According to this rap sheet, you were convicted a few years back for possession with the intent to deliver. Awwww, man, that’s a fucking felony,” he said sarcastically, then lowered his voice a few octaves. “And now you’re being charged with the possession of a firearm.” He was doing his best to antagonize Tommy and it seemed to be working. “Now, you know the feds done went and made a mandatory minimum of fifteen years in prison for situations like yours, right?”

  “Yo, this is some straight up bullshit! That fuckin’ gun ain’t mines!” Tommy yelled. “You planted that shit in my fuckin’ car!”

  “Awwww, come on, Tommy. You know that’s not gonna hold up in court. It’ll be your word against mines.” The detective laughed. “You won’t stand a chance,” he continued, and then took a seat at the interrogation table. “Look,” he said in a controlled voice. “I know all about you. I know about Sontino. I know about Rasheed, and I know about your big homie, Michael Brooks. You niggers call yourselves ‘The Block Boy Bishops’, and your gang is a faction of the New York Bloods. The sergeant from the Gang Task Force has been keeping tabs on you guys and trust me that’s another pile of shit you done stepped in.” He shook his head from side to side.