by SLMN
Rome reluctantly agreed.
Joe continued.
“We will not be provoked into rash action. This is what men like Othello and his backer are expecting.”
“Backer?” Malik echoed, not hiding his confusion.
Joe looked over at him and smiled. “Isn’t it obvious? He is not working alone. Don’t you see what he’s doing?” He gave them a moment to catch up. “Rome, he killed some of your best men. Don, he wiped out arguably your best hitters. Malone, you lost more than Big L in that fire. Hell, no denying we all did. Each one of us had strong pieces of our team at that club. He’s taking out our armies, striking at our force. But how does he know where to strike? That's one question among many. Another is how does he know when to hit? I’ll tell you, if you haven’t worked it out for yourself already. It’s because one of us is backing him.”
Silence.
Pin drop.
Heads swiveled from face to face, studying, judging, disbelieving. They tried to wrap their minds around Joe’s words. It made zero sense to them on one level. Who could commit such betrayal? But on another level, it made far too much sense. It was all about splintering power.
“What are you saying, Joe?” Malone questioned.
“Fuck me, Malone. It’s not rocket science. Someone at this table, one of you, or maybe even two of you, has decided to weaken the clans. To guarantee an advantage when they make their move to take over The Commission.”
“You said, ‘maybe even two of you,’ as if you couldn’t be one of the guilty,” Malik spat.
Joe laughed at that. “No offense to your genius, Malik, but riddle me this: why would I want to take over The Commission? Look at me. Take a good look. Want me to tell you what you see? You see the Commissioner! I don’t need to take over what I already own.”
“But we’ve all taken losses, in that club fire. You said that yourself,” Don reminded him.
“Foot soldiers get sacrificed in every war,” Joe countered.
“So, you think this is all about you?” Malik asked, voice dripping with derision. “Are you that arrogant? Scratch that, of course you are.”
Joe rose from the table, the legs of his chair dragging back on the floor. Very slowly, and very deliberately, he buttoned his suit jacket and looked around the room. Judging them one and all.
“Othello is not the enemy. He never was. Never will be. The enemy… is one of our own… I already know who. Goodnight, gentlemen.” Joe inclined his head in a subtle nod, then walked out, leaving The Commission in shocked silence.
Does he really know?
That was the question in every man’s mind as Joe walked out.
Aphrodite got out of the steaming shower feeling refreshed.
Not that she’d had a particularly hard day. It was just more of the same: engagements, her luncheons and fundraisers. An outsider would have been forgiven for thinking she was the wife of a politician, not the biggest gangsta in the city.
“The Game is politics,” her husband Joe had told her so many times, she could hear it through the shower spray. Yes, it is a game, absofuckinlutely, and she played it well.
She walked into the bedroom, still wet from her shower. She liked to drip dry. There was nothing quite like the feel of the chill air against her skin as it prickled into goosebumps. She stopped in front of the mirror. She posed hand on her hip, turning to see her profile from both sides. Then, because she was proud of it, her shapely ass from the back. She smiled to herself. Despite having had two grown kids, Aphrodite Hamlet was still a beautiful woman, no matter whose eye was beholding. Her body was forged from pure Columbian gold, with long jet black hair that made her look like she could’ve been any ethnicity or all of them. Her beauty wasn’t merely timeless, it was universal. And she knew it.
“Damn, after all these years, coming home to a naked wife still makes my night,” Joe said as he came through the door.
Aphrodite giggled as she turned and stepped into his embrace. She wrapped her arms around his neck.
“Your reward for still being the finest man I ever seen,” she replied, tonguing him down with a wet sloppy hello.
“Even finer than Freddie Lucas?” He quipped.
“Who?” She smirked, turning away and heading over to her vanity table.
Joe slapped her hard on the ass, making her jump and laugh.
“You know exactly who Freddie is.”
“Was,” she emphasized, “Besides, you had your nose all up Rita Jackson’s ass, so what was a girl to do?”
“Rita?” He laughed. “Please, that ho’s pussy shoulda been a sneaker it was so ran through.”
“And you were the chief track star! Don’t you waste your breath lying to me. I know you better than you know yourself.”
They laughed together, reminiscing about simpler times.
Aphrodite could see the concern under his laughter though.
“How did it go?”
Joe shrugged as he took off his tie and began to unbutton his shirt. “As well as could be expected. Everybody’s calling for blood, but somebody is already wrist-deep in it.”
Aphrodite turned around on the stool and looked at him. Her nostrils flared as she breathed in. “You still think it’s someone in The Commission?”
“I know it is… I just haven’t figured out who yet. But it’s only a matter of time. They think I know, so whoever it is, they are going to slip… and I’ll be waiting for them when they do.”
“From what you tell me, this Othello seems to be a smart man.”
“More like a puppet for one. I just can’t get his name out of my mind. Othello Moore… Othello Moore. Doesn’t it sound familiar?’
Aphrodite shrugged. She crossed the room towards him. “If it is, it’ll come to you. You know what they say, stop thinking about it, and it’ll come.”
Joe grunted a half reply. His mind was a million miles away.
Aphrodite came over and climbed on his lap. “I must be losing my touch. Used to be, naked was all you needed.”
Joe licked her whole body with a lustful gaze rougher than any tongue, then began to kiss along the side of her neck. “Baby, you haven’t lost a thing, except your inhibitions.”
“So true,” she agreed, as she allowed his caresses to take her to that place she loved the most.
Joe laid Aphrodite down on the bed, and with hungry hands, eased her legs open for him. Her pussy was so hot and wet, as soon as he laid her down she was fingering her own clit.
“Ssssssssssshit, this pussy is on fire.”
Joe pulled out his long, fat dick, gripping it at the base. It was so hard it was throbbing in his fist. He pulled Aphrodite to the edge of the bed by her ankles, cocked them over his shoulders and began to rub his dick up against her lips, teasing her clit with slow steady strokes across it. She sucked in her breath, “Don’t tease me, Daddy.” Only tease might have lasted a full five seconds before the serpent hiss was done.
The penetration of his enlarged bell head always made her pussy milk with the anticipation of the long, thick shaft to follow.
Always.
Joe’s nails dug into her left ankle. He ran his tongue over her toes before sucking each one, lingering. He slid his dick in halfway. Waited, knowing she would press up against him, eager to take it all. Then began slow stroking her, working himself deeper and deeper into her tight pussy.
“Give me all this dick,” Aphrodite purred, gripping the sheets and arching her back to meet his every thrust.
Joe didn’t hesitate to oblige, even though his full length made her scream out in painful pleasure.
Her song was so sweet, Joe still had to fight the urge to cum on the spot, but he mastered the moment, savoring it as he long dicked her until he hit the creamy center and her candy rain coated his dick from head to balls. Bliss.
“Turn over,” he told her.
Aphrodite bit her bottom lip, giving him a sexy smirk as she rolled onto her belly, then rising onto her knees as she buried her face down in the
pillow.
“This how you want it, baby?” She asked, offering her ass up.
“Hell yeah,” he grunted, sliding in from the back, gripping and spreading her cheeks and watching himself fucking her pretty pink pussy raw.
Aphrodite groaned, moaned, and finally screamed, tossing her head wildly as Joe tormented her g-spot with long strokes that made her cum back to back.
But even in the midst of her sexual abandon, she was still in control, a fact she proved the moment she had had enough. She worked her inner muscles, pulling Joe’s dick and releasing it just long enough to re-grip it at the base. The move always fucked Joe, just like any of her other lovers, causing him to cum with hard, long spurts.
“Damn,” one word. It was all Joe could say.
Breathing hard, he collapsed onto the bed beside her.
Aphrodite rested her head on his chest.
She smiled softly, all butter-wouldn’t melt innocence. “Yep,” she snickered, “I still got it.”
Then they both laughed.
“Oh god, yes you do. Yes you fucking do.”
“Keep your left up Joe. Your left, damn it. Up!” Dusty yelled, pounding the edge of the boxing ring with his fist.
Joe danced on his toes, watching the young Cuban boxer cautiously. He may have been a heavyweight, but Joe moved with the grace of a young Ali. Not prime Ali, raw Cassius Clay. The Cuban launched a jab. It was the kind of punch that, if it landed, would have felt like walking into a door. Joe easily dipped, rolling with the momentum. Then, on the balls of his feet, countered with a hard right hook that smashed into the Cuban’s ribs.
He spat his mouthpiece out.
“Wait!” The ref barked, giving the Cuban a chance to kneel and retrieve it, then, shaking himself off, put the mouthpiece back in. He banged his gloves together, dancing around trying to sell the lie that it was nothing as he regrouped for another attack.
Joe had to give it to the man. No matter what he gave, the bastard just kept coming. He didn't know when he was beaten.
“The left, Joe! What the hell are you doing?” Dusty screamed his frustration loud enough that everyone in the arena could hear it.
Joe smiled to himself.
He switched to southpaw as the Cuban came in with a flurry, meeting it head on. The abrupt switch threw his opponent off balance. It was as simple as that. Joe slipped a right cross, but that was never the punch he intended to hurt him with. It was all about the combo. He sent an upper cut, crashing straight up the Cuban’s chimney and rang his bell like the carnival game.
The Cuban staggered, dropped his right, dazed and trying to shake it off.
Joe capitalized.
Another big punch.
This one went straight down the pipe. Joe’s glove crushed the Cuban’s nose, breaking it. It knocked the guy out cold, still on his feet. The ropes were the only thing that stopped the Cuban from falling. They propped him up like a dope fiend against an alley wall. Joe went in for the kill, but before he could do any serious (and probably irreparable) damage, the ref stepped in, hugging the Cuban with one arm and waving the fight finished with the other.
Dusty quickly split the ropes and was in on the canvas, embracing Joe.
“You did it, you son of a bitch, you did it!” Dusty yelled joyously in his ear.
Joe couldn’t do anything but smile.
He was young, fast, strong and pretty. He had a face for fame.
The next stop was Atlantic City and a shot at the belt. It was written in the stars.
Or so he thought.
Joe showered, lathering up. He was more than just the man of the hour. He was the man of life. Everything was fucking good.
He had just met the stone cold baddest bitch he’d ever laid eyes on. It was the start of something.
“My name is Aphrodite…” She’d told him, her beauty radiating like the moon at night, blinding like the shine on fool’s gold.
He lathered up, singing at the top of his lungs. His voice was more like the roar of a proud lion than the timbre of an alto.
He didn't give a shit.
He dressed and walked out of there, gator shoes gleaming, toward the front of the locker room.
His trainer, Dusty waited for him.
“Frank wants to see you.”
One look at Dusty’s expression was enough to know something was off.
He pressed, wanting the word from his man before he went in there, but Dusty couldn't look him in the eye when he said, “Nothing,” which said plenty. He was lying.
Joe exited the back of the arena. Not rushing, but walking with the swagger of someone who owned the place.
The concrete stairwell echoed with his soft shoe shuffle as he tapped his way down to the basement level. He opened the door, and walked through to the underground parking lot.
Frank Myers was waiting for him in his Lincoln Continental.
Frank was one of the founding fathers of the earliest national Commissions, working under the wing of the infamous Frank Lucas. He was a smooth Smokey Robinson dude, but it was a lethal mistake to confuse him with any pretty boy singer. The only thing pretty about Frank was his murder game when provoked. Death was poetry in motion.
Two of Frank’s bodyguards stood outside the car, waiting for Joe to approach.
They opened the door for him.
The nearest inclined his head. He didn’t need words to get their message across.
He got in the car.
The two bodyguards joined him in the backseat.
Frank started the engine and pulled off.
“Congratulations, youngblood. Goddamn, you’re a beast in that ring, boy,” Frank lauded, handing Joe a cigar.
He took it, but it didn’t make sense. Frank knew he didn’t smoke. “What’s this?”
Frank smirked, “It’s a Cuban, sonny. You smoke it the same way you smoked that Cuban in the ring.”
Three of the four men in the car laughed like it was the funniest thing a man had ever said.
Joe relaxed enough to take the edge off.
“Listen, I want to tell you I’m proud of you, youngblood. I gotta be straight, when Dusty asked me to invest in you, I didn’t think you had it in you. Sure, you had talent, but you were so angry, all the time filled with this rage. I didn’t think you could wrap your head around the rules. Figured you'd end up on your ass more times than not. But fuck me, you proved me wrong, kiddo. No denying it, you should be the champ,” Frank congratulated him, but Joe fixated on the should not will. There was something ominous about the compliment.
“I will be champ,” Joe corrected him.
Frank just smiled that sly smile and kept his eye on the road for a beat, then said, “Tell me something, Joe, if you weren’t fighting, what would you be doing? Think about it seriously for a second, then give me your honest answer.”
“Don’t need to think. Dead,” Joe replied. Frank looked at him. “When Dusty found me, man, I was fucked up on that shit. I was shooting in any part of me still alive enough to kill. That’s the truth. Cold. Bitter. But he saw something in me I didn’t see in myself. So, ain’t no doubt. Without fighting, without Dusty, I woulda been dead a long time ago.”
“Yeah, sure, but there’s more to life than just fighting.”
“Life is a fight,” Joe shot right back, like it was the only answer he knew.
They rode in silence for moment before Frank asked another question. “You ever heard of Fat Paulie Scarlucci?”
“Can’t say that I have,” Joe admitted.
“He’s a lot like me, you could say… He backs fighters just like I do. Got an eye for talent. Difference is, he’s backed by the Columbo crime family…. He’s got a fighter named Sonny Amato...”
Joe cut him off. “Pretty Boy Amato. The fuck? That’s who I’m fighting for the belt.”
Frank looked at Joe, and maybe just maybe there was sadness in his eyes when he said, “But you ain’t gonna win.”
Joe’s whole body tensed up with the threat of an
explosion.
“What the hell do you mean? Pretty Boy can’t beat me. I'm ten times the fighter that fuck is…”
“He don’t have to beat you, youngblood. This shit’s bigger than you. It’s bigger than me. The fix is in. You gotta throw the fight,” Frank said grimly.
Joe launched himself across the car and grabbed Frank by the collar, hauling him back in the seat, which caused the Lincoln to veer across the road and damn near slam into a parked car, before it came to a screeching halt in the middle of the street.
Both of Frank’s bodyguards had their guns to Joe’s head.
Joe had Frank pinned in the driver’s seat.
This wasn’t ending well.
“Hey! Hey! Put the guns down! Now!” Frank bellowed, looking Joe in the eyes. He knew the kid, knew him well enough to know there wasn’t any real danger here. There was zero anger in Joe’s eyes, just pain, fear and betrayal.
Reluctantly, the bodyguards re-tucked their guns and sat back on their haunches, ready to explode into murderous action if their boss gave the word.
Frank stared Joe down. “Gonna give you one piece of advice kid, do with it what you will. Either kill me or get your goddamn hands off me.”
Slowly, Joe uncollared Frank and sat back.
It was then he realized Frank had him the whole time. The older man had a small .32 automatic pointed at Joe’s stomach. It woulda packed enough punch to put an end to any championship dreams. And then some.
“Now listen, youngblood, you might not believe me, but I understand how you feel. But that only buys so much forgiveness. You ever put your hands on me, I’ll blow you and your mama’s brains out and that’s flat, got me?”
“Man, you can’t do this to me… That fight is my shot! My only shot! You take that away… fuck… you might as well blow my goddamn brains out,” Joe said, barely holding the tears in check.
“Don’t be a fuckin’ idiot, Joe. I’d rather cut your hands off, ‘cause your brain’s the best thing you got. Yeah, I’ll give it to you straight, you’re good, you really are, but you ain’t the best. Maybe you could be a champ for a while, wear the belt for a few fights, but when the lights go out and you’re old and can’t stop shaking because you took too many blows to the head, then what? Who will you be then? I seen the future, kid. I can tell you. You won’t wanna hear it, but it’s the God’s honest truth… A washed up has-been. Fame and glory is for bitches and birds and false gods insecure enough to crave worship. Now, let me school you, Joe. This is today’s lesson. Men chase power. Power ain’t in the fists. It’s in the words of the man who can stop them.”
