by Askari
The old man smiled, knowing that he pressed the right button to play with Rahmello’s emotions. He removed the smile on his face and turned around slowly. “What is it?”
“Marshal Street.”
“Come again.”
“The twins,” Rahmello said. “That’s where you can find them.”
“Marshal and what?”
“Marshal and Montgomery Avenue,” he replied in a low voice. “It’s the second house from the corner, on the left side of the street.”
“And this is where they live?”
“Nah,” Rahmello shook his head. “That’s the house they sell weight from. They live out of town, but on the weekends, they stay in the hood to be close to the money.”
Rubbing his hands together, Grip smiled at him and said, “Trust me, Rahmello, you did the right thing.”
“I’m saying, though, whatever you do, don’t tell my brother that I was the one who gave up the twins. Because if he finds out, he gon’ fuck around and kill me. It’s either that, or I’ma have to defend myself and kill him first.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Grip assured him. “It’ll never make it that far.”
Chapter Eighteen
Poncho’s New Jersey Estate
The Xanaxs that Marisol ingested prior to taking a shower were beginning to take toll as she emerged from the bathroom and plopped down at the foot of her bed. Her curly, salt-and-pepper hair was wrapped up in a white towel, and her damp body was snuggled under a soft-pink, terry cloth bathrobe. She took a deep breath, enjoying the aroma of her kiwi scented shampoo, and then released a long sigh of frustration. For the life of her, she couldn’t understand how Olivia could turn her back on their family, and throw Poncho and Estaban under the bus. She loved her daughter dearly, but disloyalty was a crime that she would never condone.
As she lay there thinking about Olivia, her cell phone vibrated on the nightstand. Sluggishly, she rolled over to grab it, and seeing that the caller was Poncho, she quickly accepted. “Papi,” she addressed him, her voice full of excitement. “How are ju callin’ me right now? Ju and Estaban are flyin’ back to Columbia, no?”
“No, mami, we didn’t leave,” Poncho told her. “De situation from earlier today wasn’t as bad as we first thought. De people on de news are blamin’ everything on de Italians, so we have no worries.”
“So, where are ju?” she pried. “Why didn’t ju come back home?”
“We’re not too far away. We’re at de Red Roof Inn, right off of Route 1,” Poncho informed her. “I got a call from Juan as we were drivin’ to de airport, and he tol’ us to lay low for a couple of days. You know, just in case.” He paused for a moment, and then asked about his daughter. “How’s Oli? Tell her I’m sorry for what I did and said to her.”
Marisol snapped, “Do not speak dat name to me ever again.”
Poncho was blown away by what she told him. She and Olivia were the best of friends, and up until now, she was Olivia’s number one supporter. “Mamacita, what happened? What did she do?”
“Dat ungrateful bitch is no longer a part of dis familia. She is dead to us all.”
“But, what did she do?”
“She betrayed us,” Marisol quickly replied. “She turned against ju and Estaban, and as far as I’m concerned, she too is an enemy.”
“I no understand,” Poncho said. “She betray us, how?”
“After ju and Estaban left for de airport, she beg me to take her to de hospital to see Rahmello. I tell her no, but den she threatened to drive herself. She was crying and very upset, and I did not want her to be driving in dat condition, so I take her myself.”
“Did she tell Rahmello about what happened to his poppa?”
“She did exactly dat.”
“And what happened after dat?”
“Me and her have a huge fight, and dat’s when she cursed ju, papi. Can ju believe it? After everything dat we do for her, she look into my eyes, and curse her own papi.”
Upon hearing this, Poncho was hurt, but he didn’t let it show. Instead, he focused on the information that Olivia revealed to Rahmello. “Listen mami, I need to know exactly what she say to Rahmello.”
“She tol’ him dat ju and Estaban kill his poppa at de bodega. I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen.”
“What did he say when Olivia tol’ him dat?”
“He didn’t say anything,” she said in a low voice, feeling the effects of the two Xanax pills. “He was knocked out cold, and layin’ on his hospital bed. But at de same time, he had bodyguards standin’ outside in de hallway, and she might’ve tol’ de story to dem. Either way, she betrayed us, and she must never be forgiven.”
“Damn it,” Poncho sighed. He never anticipated that things would go this far. Not only did he miss his opportunity to kill Sonny and Rahmello, he was now receiving incoming calls and text messages from Chatchi and Joaquin every fifteen minutes. The heat was turning up and he was beginning to feel it.
“Marisol, I want ju to listen to me closely. Stay in de house for de next couple of days, and don’t make a peep until I return. No phone calls, no text messages, no Facebook, and no Instagram, ju got dat? Just stay put until I get home, and don’t accept any phone calls unless dey come from me or Estaban.”
“I gotchu, papi.” She could tell from the sound of his voice that something was wrong, so she didn’t put up a fuss.
“What about Emilia?” Poncho asked, referring to their housekeeper. “Is she dere witchu?”
“Si, papi. She’s downstairs makin’ me a pot of tea. Should I tell her de same?”
“Si, mami. Tell her dat we will pay her extra, but until I return she is not to leave de house.”
She was just about to say something, but noticed that her battery was dying. “Papi, I have to go downstairs to get my charger. My phone is about to die.” No sooner than she said it, the screen went black and the call was disconnected. “Goddamnit,” she complained as she got up from the bed and tightened the belt around her bathrobe.
Stepping into the hallway, she noticed the entire second floor was pitch-black. All of the lights were turned off and she couldn’t understand why. The last she remembered, the lights in the hallway were left on. So why did Emilia turn them off? She reached out for the light panel on the wall in the hallway, but when she flipped the switch nothing happened. The hallway was so dark and the house was so quiet she began to feel frightened. A plethora of goosebumps covered her skin and she could hear the sound of her thumping heart.
Ba-Bump. Ba-Bump. Ba-Bump. Ba-Bump. Cautiously, she walked the length of the hallway and approached the spiral staircase. Her hands were tightly balled into fists, and her head was on a swivel, slowly moving from left to right looking for any signs of an intruder. Leaning over the balcony and looking down at the ground floor, she noticed that the kitchen was the only room in the house that still had lights.
“Emilia,” she called out, hoping to get a response. Unfortunately, the only thing she heard was the tune of her own heartbeat.
Ba-Bump. Ba-Bump. Ba-Bump. “Why isn’t she answering me?” She said to herself as she slowly descended the stairs. Her brown eyes were adjusting to the darkness and she could make out the silhouettes of the furniture that decorated the living room and the main hallway below. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, the piercing sound of a glass hitting the kitchen floor caused her to jump back and clutch her chest with both hands.
Ba-Bump. Ba-Bump. Ba-Bump. Ba-Bump. Taking a deep breath, she reached for the crucifix that hung from her neck and silently recited The Lord’s Prayer. The kitchen at the end of the hallway reminded her of a dark tunnel with a bright light gracefully waiting at the end, and strangely, amidst the darkness, within the light, she found a strong sense of hope.
Suddenly, she stopped walking. A huge smile spread across her brown skinned face and she kissed the front of her crucifix. Up ahead, she spotted Emilia moving back and forth from one side of the kitchen to the other. Her Beats by Dre headp
hones were draped across the top of her head and when she moved past the threshold, Marisol noticed the steaming teapot that was clutched in her left hand.
Moving with confidence and no longer afraid, Marisol approached the kitchen and stared at the young Columbian woman. She was standing in front with her back to the doorway. Her silky black hair flowed down the back of her forest-green bathrobe, and she was nodding her head to the music that thumped from her headphones. Marisol smiled at her, and then took a seat at the marble island in the middle of the kitchen. She started to speak, but a burgundy liquid seeping from the pantry caught her attention.
“Emilia, what’s dat?” she asked while looking at the back of her head and pointing down at the substance on the floor. When Emilia didn’t respond, Marisol got up from the island and cautiously approached the pantry. What lay before her was so horrendous that she couldn’t even scream. The housekeeper’s naked body was stretched out in a pool of her own blood. Her arms and legs were grotesquely snapped backwards, fixed into the shape of a swastika, and her once beautiful face was battered beyond recognition. The top of her bone-white skull protruded from the rim of her forehead, resembling the crowning of an infant that was seconds away from birth, and her puffy, zombie-like eyes were fixed on Marisol.
“Help me,” the young woman whispered. “Help me, please.”
Marisol yelped and hastily spun around, realizing they were not alone. If Emilia was stretched out in the pantry, then who in the hell was standing by the stove?
“Ay dios mio,” she cried out and grasped her crucifix with both hands. Her brain was telling her to run, but her trembling legs refused to accept the message. Completely terrified, she stood in front of the pantry looking at the person in the forest-green bathrobe.
Diablo chuckled. Emilia’s bathrobe fit him just right. After turning around to face his next victim, he snatched off the blood-soaked terry cloth and stood before Marisol completely naked. His chiseled frame was covered in tattoos, and from the waist up, his golden-brown skin was sprinkled with the coagulated specks of Emilia’s blood. His eyes locked on Marisol and he smiled at her, showing off the razor sharp, one inch incisors that hung from his bloody-red gums.
“Ay dios mio,” Marisol repeated. She was clutching her crucifix with both hands and slowly shaking her head from side to side.
Ba-Bump. Ba-Bump. Ba-Bump. Ba-Bump. Diablo closed his mouth and inhaled deeply, taking in the sweet smell of fear. He then reached up and casually snatched off the hair-covered scalp that clung to the top of his bald head.
Marisol couldn’t believe her eyes. The thing walking towards her appeared to be more monster than man. The devil horns that decorated the ends of his forehead were something out of a horror movie, and she was so afraid that she began to feel dizzy.
Ba-Bump. Ba-Bump. Ba-Bump. Ba-Bump. Diablo smiled once again. He was seconds away from claiming another soul. Ba-Bump. Ba-Bump. Ba-Bump. Ba-Bump. “No,” Marisol cried. He was a few steps away, looking at her with a twisted expression. “Don’t hurt me, please.”
She attempted to run and Diablo released a gut wrenching wail. He then slammed into the front of her face, fangs first.
***
Back at La Casa Moreno
“Alright, gentlemen, there’s been a change of plans,” Grip said to his men as he entered the dining room and took a seat at the head of the table. Muhammad was seated across from him at the other end of the table, Ahmed and Mustafa were seated to his left, and Shabazz and Aziz were seated to his right. A burning Cohiba was wedged in between his left thumb and index finger, and a serious expression donned his face.
“I had to postpone my trip to Cuba,” Grip continued as he looked around the table. He took a pull on his cigar and the cherry shined bright. “Apparently, my grandsons put us in a situation that needs to be rectified immediately.”
He released a cloud of smoke and then took another pull. “A couple of weeks ago, the Nunez Brothers, Poncho and Juan, paid them to do a hit on a young Mexican kid who just so happened to be the son on of Joaquin Alverez, the boss of The Sinaloa Cartel. The young man’s name was Roberto Alverez, and he was kidnapped in the parking lot of Carmine’s strip joint on Delaware Avenue. Initially, the Sinaloas assumed that Carmine and Little Angolo were behind the hit, but now the cartel is focusing on us.”
He exhaled a cloud of smoke and blew the foggy mist at the tip of his Cohiba, causing the cherry to flicker and smolder. “And just so you know, earlier this evening, Little Angolo and Carmine were both murdered by the cartel. But before they got to Carmine, his little punk ass sent them a video of the actual kidnapping. I spoke to Chatchi Alverez and he sent me a copy of the video. From what I could see, Sontino and Rahmello weren’t present during the incident, but we still have a problem.”
“A problem like what?” Brother Shabazz asked him. “If Sontino and Rahmello didn’t appear on the video, why are the Sinaloas suspecting us?”
“Those goddamned twins,” Grip sighed. “They’re the ones who Sontino sent to make the hit. Their faces were all over the video, and I’m assuming that Carmine told the Sinaloas they were connected to the family.”
Shabazz looked at Aziz, and then returned his attention to Grip. “So, what did Sontino have to say about this?”
“That grandson of mines,” Grip shook his head slowly, “he’s proving to be more trouble than I’d ever anticipated. I tried to tell him that the only way to fix this situation was to hand over the twins, but he wouldn’t budge. He’d rather go to war and jeopardize my empire than sacrifice those those dirty ass twin brothers. Obviously, this is unacceptable.”
“All right, Mr. Moreno, so whatchu want us to do?” Mustafa asked. He was slouched back in his seat with his thick arms folded across his chest.
Grip looked at Muhammad and gave him a head nod. He then got up from the dining room table and left the room without saying another word.
Muhammad cleared his throat and looked the gunman square in the eyes. “The first thing we need to do is get rid of those twins. Sontino wouldn’t hand them over. But for the sake of the family, Rahmello did. And as of right now, they’re holed up in a house on Marshal Street. So, tomorrow morning at six o’clock sharp, I want the four of you to go around there and take care of business. Do I make myself clear?”
The four men nodded their understanding and looked at the old man attentively. Satisfied with their response, Muhammad continued dishing out instructions. “You’ll have to make it clean, in and out, no mistakes. And to prove that the situation was handled, I want their heads, literally. Now, has any of you heard from Gangsta in the last hour?”
“No,” they replied in unison.
“All right, well y’all have about seven hours until it’s time to get busy, so I strongly suggest that somebody get a hold of him. Also, when you go to make the hit,” he looked at Mustafa and Ahmed, “be sure to have your credentials. So, that way if the city cops arrive on the scene, you can flash your FBI badges and tell them mutherfuckers to keep it moving.”
Aziz looked around the table, and then settled his eyes on Muhammad. “Where’s Sontino? He’s the new boss of the family, shouldn’t he be here?”
“Sontino’s running out of time,” Muhammad replied with a devilish grin. “And just so you know, the position that was designated for him is now being handed down to Rahmello.”
Confused, Aziz and Shabazz looked at one another. They worked directly under Gangsta, and for the past two years they’d been helping him keep tabs on Sonny. Everything about the young gangster was boss and they didn’t understand why Grip was turning his back on him.
“Is there a problem with something I said?” Muhammad challenged, looking back and forth between the two men.
“No, Muhammad, there’s not a problem,” Aziz replied.
“Good, now somebody get Gangsta on the phone and let him know what’s going on.”
Out in the hallway, Grip was pacing back forth, talking to Judge Johnson on his cell phone. His right hand w
as holding the phone against his ear and his left hand was stuffed down in his pants pocket.
“G.J.,” Grip spoke into the phone, “you were right about Sontino. We’re gonna have to put him down. I wanted so bad to make him the heir to my empire, but he’s too much of a loose cannon. I can’t control him.”
“Alright,” Judge Johnson quickly replied.
Grip could sense the vexation in the judge’s voice, and it left him with a raised brow. It was uncharacteristic for his old friend to respond with one or two word answers, especially when the topic of discussion had a serious nature. “G.J., is everything okay? You sound a little funny.”
“Everything’s fine,” the judge hastily responded, furthering Grip’s suspicions.
Grip started to pry, but he didn’t. “Alright, well like I was saying, the trip to Cuba has to be rescheduled. Chatchi Alverez is calling an emergency meeting with The Conglomerate. It’s tomorrow at midnight, in New York City. There’s a lot of shit going on between us and the Sinaloas and I need to fix it before it goes any further.”
When Judge Johnson didn’t reply, Grip pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it strangely. Something was wrong, he could feel it. “G.J., are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” Judge Johnson claimed. “But listen, I’m sort of in the middle of something. Let me call you back in a few.”
“Alright, my brother, you take it easy.”
Click.
Without wasting another second, Grip returned to the dining room and looked at Aziz. “You and Brother Shabazz,” he pointed at the two of them, “go check on G.J., and see if he’s all right. Matter of fact,” he pointed at Ahmed and Mustafa, “the two of you ride along with ‘em. Something’s not right and I need y’all to see what it is.”
Obediently, the four gunmen got up from the table and headed for the door. As they left the dining room, Muhammad stepped to Grip with a look of concern. “What’s the matter with G.J.? Is it the Sinaloas?”
Grip took a deep breath and sighed. “I’m not exactly sure, but something’s wrong. I can feel it.”
