Blood of a Boss III

by Askari

  “Ay yi yi,” Chatchi blurted out, and then coughed for a couple of seconds. After wiping the coke from his nose, he said, “Talk to me, mijo. Does he know her?”

  “Yeah, he said that the chica was Roberto’s ex-girlfriend,” Jorge informed him. “Is she connected to what happened?”

  “I don’t know, mijo, that’s for you to find out. Chico told me that Roberto and this chica, Olivia, had a major falling out, and then after that her father called Roberto and threatened to kill him. And guess what else, her father is Poncho Nunez,”

  “Columbian Poncho?” Jorge questioned. “He’s a chairman of The Conglomerate, him and his brother Juan. Why would they make a move against us? If it wasn’t for us and our tunnels, they wouldn’t have a pipeline to smuggle their yahyo into the states. So, why would they kill Roberto and jeopardize our business relationship? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Chatchi acknowledged. “But I’ve been calling him and Juan for the last ten minutes, and neither one of them has yet to accept my calls. I need you to find them.”

  Click.

  Jorge looked up to tell Diablo what was going on, but the young Mexican was already gone. He looked on the table where he left his car keys, and they were missing as well. The devil was headed for the Nunez residence and the only thing that was strong enough to stop his wrath was the power of God.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A Half an Hour Later in Southwest Philadelphia

  On the corner of 54th and Kingsessing, the hawk was out and Jack Frost was showing his icy ass. The wind was blowing, making a cold night even colder, and the snowflakes that cascaded from the starless sky were clinging to everything they touched, quickly accumulating by the inch. The large intersection was essentially deserted. But for the sake of chasing money, a crew of young hustlers dressed in all black was posted beneath a dimly lit street light, selling everything from Percocet 30s to dimes of heroin.

  “Yo, where the fuck is the doe at?” Murda Mont complained as his hungry eyes scoured the area looking for any signs of a customer. He was frustrated to say the least, and because he was used to taking money instead of making money, the fact that he’d been standing in the cold for the last two hours just to make a hundred dollars had him mad as shit.

  “Oh, so now y’all ain’t got nothin’ to say?” He was looking back and forth between his homies, Doo Dirty and Killah Kye. Doo Dirty was sipping on the Cup of Noodles that he just got from his baby mother’s house, and Killah Kye was puffing on a Dutch Master. He snatched the Dutch from Killah Kye and took a deep pull. “I know one thing,” he said through a cloud of smoke, “I’m ‘bout to say fuck trappin’, I was makin’ more money when I was runnin’ around the city robbin’ niggas.”

  “You and me both,” Killah Kye conceded. Like Murda Mont, he was a stick-up kid by nature, and ever since they bailed out of jail a couple of weeks ago, he’d been following behind Doo Dirty, attempting to be a drug dealer.

  Murda Mont exhaled a cloud of smoke and then fixed his gaze on Doo Dirty. “Yo, how the fuck is you talkin’ all this money shit and ya so-called block only doin’ a couple hunnid a night? Now, when me and Kye was doin’ our thing before we got knocked, we was touchin’ about six hunnid a night. And we wasn’t standin’ outside in the cold.” He looked at Killah Kye and gave him some dap. “We was robbin’ the niggas that was standin’ outside in the cold.”

  Doo Dirty wolfed down the rest of his chicken flavored noodles, and then tossed the container in the trash can that was chained to the light post. “A’ight, but what if y’all tried to rob a nigga like me?” he asked, and then reached behind his back and whipped out a .45 semi-automatic. “He woulda put a Tootsie Roll in ya dumb ass.”

  Murda Mont looked at Killah Kye and they burst out laughing. “Nigga, ya pretty-boy ass ain’t doin’ nothin’.” They took turns grinding him up, but deep inside, they both knew he was worthy of the name ‘Doo Dirty.’

  “Yeah, a’ight,” Doo Dirty replied as he placed the .45 on his right hip. “Let a nigga try me.”

  As they went back and forth, arguing about who caught the most wreck, a smoke-gray Porsche with tinted windows and chromed-out rims cruised by at a slow pace.

  “Yo, who the fuck was that?” Murda Mont asked. He was looking at the red tail lights, and reaching for the .357 that was tucked in his belt. Being a stick-up kid, he was always paranoid, knowing that a mark from his past could be seeking revenge at any given time. “Who the fuck was drivin’ that Porsche?” he reiterated. “I couldn’t see through the tint.”

  Doo Dirty shrugged his shoulders and pulled the draw string on his hood, attempting to shield his face from the blistering wind. “I don’t know, but that Porsche was chunkier than a mutha’fucka. I think it was a 918,” he continued, and then sparked up the Newport that was dangling from his lips. “That’s a limited edition. They don’t even make ‘em like that. It probably set a nigga back a couple hunnid thousand.”

  Killah Kye looked at Murda Mont and shook his head slowly. “Yo, that’s some nut ass shit,” he lamented, regretting the fact that they missed out on a golden opportunity. “We shoulda robbed that nigga.”

  Murda Mont hit the Dutch Master one last time and then tossed it to the ground. He would have never told his two homies, but he was super concerned about the driver of the Porsche. “Yo, I’m done for the night, dawg. I’m takin’ it down.” After giving his niggas some dap, he started to walk away, but stopped in his tracks. “Yo, there he go again,” he overstated. “Look.” He pointed up 54th Street, directing their attention to the halogenic lights that illuminated the top of the block. Removing his Sig Sauer, he looked back and forth between Killah Kye and Doo Dirty. “This nigga’s up to somethin’, dawg. I’m tellin’ you.”

  “It don’t even matter,” Killah Kye replied. He reached under his Sean John coat and whipped out a nickel-plated 9mm. “I’m ready to jam this nigga.”

  “Hol’ up,” Doo Dirty waved him off. “Chill out for a minute. I think he’s lookin’ for my baby mom’s house. That’s probably why he’s drivin’ so slow.” Murda Mont looked at him skeptically. “Ya baby mom’s house?”

  “Yeah,” Doo Dirty nodded his head. “He’s probably lookin’ for her sister, Keyshia. You know she be fuckin’ wit’ one of them niggas that play for the Sixers.”

  “Umm mmm mmm,” Killah Kye sighed. “Ol’ freaky ass Keyshia. Every time I turn around she got a ballin’ ass nigga comin’ to see her. She need to stop playin’, and bust that thing open for a real nigga.”

  Murda Mont shot him a look that said, Nigga, shut the fuck up. He then returned his attention to Doo Dirty. “Naw, bro, look,” he pointed at the coupe, “he can’t be lookin’ for Keyshia. He just drove past the house for the second time. I’m tellin’ you, bro, this nigga on some other shit.”

  Killah Kye shrugged his shoulders and cocked back the top of his burner. “Well, fuck it then, if he try’na get froggy, I got a clip full of hollows that’ll make his ass leap.”

  “You and me, both,” Doo Dirty said. He snatched the hammer from his waist and cocked a bullet into the chamber.

  As they stood erect, guns cocked, and ready for action, the Porsche Spyder cruised down the block and stopped on the opposite corner. The base line of Tupac’s, My Ambitions Az A Ryda, was thumping from the trunk, and the halogenic headlights were so bright they had to look away until their eyes made the proper adjustments.

  Slowly, the smoke-gray coupe coasted through the intersection and pulled up beside them. The tinted driver’s side window retracted into the bullet-proof door and a calm silence replaced the music. The car’s interior was too dark for them to see Sonny’s face, and the only thing they saw was the bling of his earrings. The VS stones were shining bright, similar to the eyes of a black cat in the middle of a dark alley on the darkest night.

  Licking his chops, Murda Mont took a step closer. “Damn, homie, whatchu lost?” His .357 was clutched in his right hand and discreetly tucke
d behind his right leg.

  Sonny remained calm and took a pull on his Backwoods. As he exhaled the smoke, it seeped from the car and mingled with the cascading snowflakes. “Whatchu deaf, nigga?” Murda Mont fired off another question.

  “This nigga’s gotta be deaf,” Killah Kye backed him up. “Either that, or he’s the dumbest mutha’fucka walkin’ on two legs.”

  The dome light cut on and Sonny was sitting behind the steering wheel, puffing his Backwoods. They assumed he was staring at them, but actually he was looking at the man creeping up behind them.

  “Yo, y’all know this nigga?” Murda Mont asked.

  “Naw, we don’t know this nigga,” Doo Dirty and Killah Kye answered in unison.

  “But I’ma tell you what I do know,” Killah Kye continued. He took a step closer and aimed his ratchet at Sonny’s face. “I know them some big ass diamonds.”

  “Yeah, them jawns blingin’ like a mutha’fucka,” Doo Dirty interjected. “And if I was main man, I’d be takin’ them shits off ‘fore this pound get to barkin’.”

  “And if I was you,” a voice spoke up from behind them, “I’d be steppin’ the fuck off ‘fore this pump action knock a limb off ya mutha’fuckin’ ass.”

  They spun around just in time to see Rayon The Reaper cocking the lever on his sawed-off shotgun.

  Click. Clack.

  Shaking like a room full of fat bitches twerking for a pork chop, they lowered their weapons, and looked at him with pleading eyes. Not only was Rayon a Southwest legend, he was hands down the craziest mutha’fucka to ever walk the streets of Philly, and they wanted no parts of him.

  “D-D-Double R,” Murda Mont stuttered. “H-H-He witchu?”

  The Reaper wasn’t in the business of explaining himself, so he didn’t. Instead, he moved the shotgun from face to face, and gritted his teeth. “Get y’all lil’ asses outta here,” he demanded. “Now.”

  The three men quickly backed away from the corner. Doo Dirty cut his eye at Murda Mont, and shook his head slowly. “Yo, how the fuck is this nigga on the streets? Ain’t he ‘posed to be on death row?”

  The Reaper heard what he said, but he paid him no mind. He had bigger fish to fry. After climbing in the passenger’s side of the Porsche, he laid the shotty on the floor and looked at Sonny. The loyalty that he had for the young hustler was iron clad. Not only did Sonny give him the $50,000 for killing Tommy in the county jail, he looked out for his mother, and hired Savino to represent him at trial. The Reaper was fighting a triple homicide, and the district attorney was seeking the death penalty. But because Sonny got him Savino, he beat the case. Now, he was back on the streets, guns cocked, and ready to commit murder for the sake of a dollar.

  “Yo, why is you just now callin’?” The Reaper asked. “I seen you on the news, and I heard about the situation witcha pop.”

  Sonny flexed his jaw muscles and pulled off slowly. In many ways, he was embarrassed to tell The Reaper why he contacted him. But at the same time, his thirst for blood was stronger than his pride. He grabbed his iPhone and pulled up the video of Daphney and Egypt, and then passed it to The Reaper.

  Completely shocked, the dark skinned black man looked at Sonny, and then returned his attention to the video. Initially, when Sonny first called, he assumed that the target was either Grip or Carmine, but now he realized that the situation was much deeper.

  “For a nice check, I’ll chop a mutha’fucka up and feed him to his kids,” The Reaper promised. “But for you, my nigga, I’ll gut a mutha’fucka from his neck to his balls, and then bend him over and rip his lungs out his ass.”

  “I already know,” Sonny replied as he veered right and hopped on the expressway. “But it ain’t just him. That stankin’ ass bitch gotta get it, too.”

  The Reaper gave him a quizzical look, uncertain as to whether or not he heard him correctly. “Hold up, fam, just so we on the same page, is you sayin’ that you want me to body ya wife?”

  “Not at all,” Sonny clarified, and then looked at him with a sinister glare. “I don’t want you to kill her.” He returned his eyes to the road and mashed down on the gas pedal. “I’ma kill that bitch myself.”

  ***

  Back at La Casa Moreno

  Rahmello was lying in bed staring at the ceiling. Olivia was down the hall in another guest room, being attended to by Heldga, and Grip was in his office calling all around looking for Gangsta. Muhammad was sitting in his living quarters, fantasizing about choking the life out of Sonny, and Ahmed and Mustafa were outside patrolling the property.

  “These bitches ain’t shit,” Rahmello said to himself as he lay there thinking about Olivia and Mexican Bobby. “I gave this bitch my heart and she threw it back in my face. And now, all because I was try’na protect her stupid ass, Sonny’s gonna cut me off. I know it.”

  The bedroom door creaked open and Grip peeked inside. “Rahmello,” he addressed his grandson. “You okay?”

  Rahmello looked at him, and then returned his gaze to the ceiling. “Yeah, I’m a’ight.”

  “Do you mind if I come inside and talk to you for a minute?”

  “Nah,” he sighed, “you good.” His fingers were interlocked between his head and the pillow, and the gunshot wound to his leg was beginning to itch.

  Grip closed the door behind him and took a seat beside the bed. He could see that Rahmello was hurting and he knew why. “It’s that girl, isn’t it?”

  Rahmello gritted his teeth and cleared his throat. “Man, fuck that bitch.” He spoke a good game, but internally his ego was bruised and his heart was aching.

  “Well, you know the saying,” Grip smiled at him, “show me a man that’s down and out, and I’ll show you a sucker for love,”

  Irritated, Rahmello ice-grilled him and sat up to position his back against the padded headboard. “Ah,” he winced from the pain that shot up his left leg. “Goddamn.”

  “Whoa now, take it easy,” Grip said as he reached out to help him scoot back. He propped the pillow against the headboard, then settled back in his seat as Rahmello reclined on the silk fabric.

  “What’s up wit’ Sonny?” Rahmello asked. “Is he mad at me?”

  Grip chose his words carefully, knowing that this was the perfect time to test the waters and see if he could get Rahmello to turn against his brother. “Of course he’s mad at you, would you expect anything less? You know how hot-headed and stubborn your brother can be.”

  “I know,” Rahmello acknowledged as he lowered his head. “I shoulda told him about the Columbians, but I didn’t want him to hurt Oli. Now, he’s probably gonna kill us both.”

  “It’s possible,” Grip conceded. “But what if he only kills your woman, and then leaves you alive to deal with the heartache? You know, just to teach you a lesson?”

  Rahmello’s light skinned face became beet-red. A lone tear trickled from his left eye and he anxiously bit down on his bottom lip. “If he kills Oli, then he better kill me too. Because if anybody,” he looked at Grip with a menacing stare, “and I mean anybody, touches my girl, I’m goin’ dead at ‘em.”

  “As you should,” Grip replied with a sarcastic undertone, realizing that Rahmello’s threat was directed towards him as well. “But Sontino’s your blood. Isn’t blood thicker than water?”

  “That’s only in certain cases,” Rahmello propounded. “Your blood is your blood, but you still need water to live, and Olivia’s my life. Yeah, she did a nigga dirty, but that’s still my baby.”

  “So, what do you plan to do when Sontino extracts revenge?”

  Rahmello didn’t answer. There was nothing else to say. Digressing, he brought up the situation with the twins. “How do we address this situation wit’ the Mexicans? You know how Sonny is. He’d rather die than turn his back on one of the homies.”

  Grip took a deep breath and gently caressed the hair on his chin. “You know, I’m glad that you mentioned it. The Sinaloas are gonna come down hard if we don’t come up with a reasonable explanation. They already have
the video of those dirty ass twins kidnaping Roberto, and if we don’t turn them over, they’ll wage war on our entire family.”

  “But what about Oli?” Rahmello perked up. “Is there any way that we can keep her out of this?”

  “I’m not sure,” Grip said. “I mean, we’re still going to have to explain why the twins did what they did.”

  “I think we should blame the Italians,” Rahmello suggested. “We can say that they paid the twins to kill him, just to have the blame fall on our family. Plus, from what Sonny told me before we fell out, one of the shooters from my pops funeral was connected to Carmine. So, all we gotta do is play our cards right, and everything should go smooth.”

  Intrigued by his grandson’s wit, Grip smiled at him. “You know, Rahmello, that’s not a bad idea. But in order for this to happen, we need to track down and kill the twins, because without them, we won’t stand a chance.”

  “I know,” Rahmello acknowledged. “But, Sonny, I know my brother, he’s not gonna bend. Like I said before, he’d rather die than turn his back on the twins.”

  “Alright, but what if get Sontino out of the way?”

  Rahmello looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Whatchu mean get him out of the way?”

  “No, not like that,” the old man quickly replied. He cracked his knuckles and slowly shook his head, realizing that Rahmello would never go along with killing Sonny. “I was talking about the twins,” he lied. “If you tell me where I can find them, we can get Sonny out of the way, and handle the situation ourselves.”

  Rahmello took a deep breath and sighed. “I don’t know,” he expressed his uncertainty. “I already went behind his back with the Poncho and Juan situation, and if I cross him again, I know it’s gon’ be a problem.”

  “Alright, well if that’s the position you wanna take,” Grip said as he stood to his feet. “I guess we’ll just have to give up your girlfriend.” As he headed for the door, Rahmello stopped him.

  “Hey, yo, Grip, hol’ up.”