South Beach Cartel

by Nisa Santiago

  She screamed at everyone present like she was a mad woman. Scar and Cane glanced at each other and Cane mouthed, “Raped?”

  Citi now had a face to her enemies. It was what she feared the most.

  She continued, “Didn’t I fuckin’ tell y’all it was them bitches from the start? But, nooooooo, niggas wanted to label me a crazy bitch when I saw that bitch with my very own eyes! I can see, niggas!”

  “Calm down!” Scar barked. He hated that she was right. “Cane, spark up that blunt. Citi, tell me ’bout these bitches.”

  “They’re ghetto hoes,” she began, trying to find the right description. She didn’t know what Scar wanted her to say. “Cartier is from Brooklyn—a thug bitch. And Apple is from Harlem. That scar-face bitch thinks she so fuckin’ cute!”

  Cane took a hit from the blunt and passed it to Scar.

  Scar looked at Citi like she was stupid. “How’s that supposed to help us find them bitches? A thug bitch and a bitch who thinks she’s fuckin’ cute ain’t much for the grim reaper to go on.”

  Cane and Scar chuckled.

  “Look, y’all moron muthafuckas! These chicks went to war against the Gonzales cartel and are still breathing! They got fuckin’ heart to even be here in South Beach again! They done murdered plenty niggas—I seen it wit’ my own eyes! More niggas than you, Scar!”

  That last statement got his attention.

  “Fuck you mean, bitch!”

  “I mean that you’re a dead nigga if you don’t stop actin’ like you’re six.”

  “A’ight bet. I’m all ears. How can we find Cardi B and Apple?”

  “Cardi B,” she hollered. “She ain’t the rapper, you fuckin’ retard!”

  The weed had gotten to Scar and Cane. They both laughed hysterically at Citi’s face. She was completely livid.

  While Citi ranted and cursed, Scar and Cane poured themselves some Hennessy. Once again, Scar seemed too cool about the violent ordeal they had just gone through. He downed the liquor and poured himself another glass. It had been the third attempt on his life. He looked at Citi and said, “We got one, we’ll get the others.”

  Citi fumed. “You can’t underestimate these bitches, Scar. You already seen how lethal and sneaky they are.”

  “Bitch, I got nine lives, and they gonna get got,” Scar countered.

  Citi frowned. He wasn’t interested in talking payback or it seemed like he didn’t want to talk to Citi about it. Her life had been threatened like his, but Scar refrained from having any conversation about retribution. He was either stupid or insane. In fact, after pouring his second drink, he turned to Cane and asked about a new singer from Miami named Camila Cabello.

  Cane smiled and remarked, “Yo, she can call me papi any day.”

  “I wanna see her Havana,” Scar joked.

  What the fuck! Citi’s face became so tight that it looked like she was about to have a stroke. They both took notice that Citi was still in the room. She stormed out, but not before she grabbed the Henny bottle and smashed it against the wall.

  “You know,” Citi began. Her chest was heaving up and down as she was so irate. “Y’all are some ignorant negros. This shit ain’t funny! It will never be fuckin’ funny!”

  Citi knew that if you wanted something done, then you had to do it yourself. Killing Apple and Cartier wasn’t a priority for Cane or Scar. She didn’t understand why.

  But just as Citi masterminded stealing millions of dollars from Apple and Cartier, she would mastermind their deaths too, and they were going to stay dead. Starting today, her security would be extra tight. They weren’t going to get a third chance to kill her, and she was going to put the word out that there was a bounty on these bitches’ heads.

  ***

  The moment Citi left the living room, Scar turned toward Cane. All signs of being goofy were gone.

  “Yo, on my dead moms, I swear I’ma kill those bitches!” With blunt in hand, Scar paced back and forth. “I’ma cut their fuckin’ toes off and shove them in their mouths! I’ll take their eyes out with a muthafuckin’ spoon! You feel me, Cane? I’ma inflict real pain, nigga!”

  Cane nodded.

  “We got a blowtorch?”

  Cane smirked. “Nah, I don’t think so.”

  “Get one, nigga. I’ma burn their fuckin’ skin off down to the bone. I wanna see pain in those bitches’ eyes, hear them beggin’ me to stop. I need you on ya job, Cane. Find them bitches. They can’t hide out here. We own fuckin’ South Beach, nigga!”

  Cane nodded.

  Scar looked closely at Cane. “Yo, what the fuck is up wit’ you nigga?”

  Cane shrugged. “I’m high. You know I’m in chill mode right now, but I feel you.”

  “Nah, nigga, you ain’t been feelin’ me in a minute. You ain’t been puttin’ in work yet you collectin’ a fuckin’ check each week.”

  Cane sat up at attention. “I buss my gun like the next nigga. You buggin’.”

  The chronic had Scar paranoid. “How come you ain’t never there when these bitches are gunnin’ for us?”

  “What the fuck you mean?”

  “You heard me, nigga!”

  Cane was confused. He was high and tipsy and he couldn’t tell if these were Scar’s words or the Henny talking. “I can’t speak for them bitches, Scar. I ain’t in their heads so I can’t know when they gonna strike.”

  Scar was simmering with rage. “What happened at the trap house?”

  Now Cane was aggravated. “Come on, man. Why you goin’ there? You blowin’ my high, nigga.”

  “How the fuck nearly a dozen of our most thorough goons get mowed down and let you tell it, it was one nigga?”

  “It was!” Cane hollered, tired of the third degree.

  “Why you ain’t dead, nigga?”

  Cane dropped his head into both hands. Scar’s paranoia was evident. He was accusing him of something. If Cane was keeping it one-hundred, something was up with him. And it started that night at the trap house, or maybe with the news of Takenya’s murder.

  But if he had to put a name to it he felt he had PTSD. Watching Nick murder all those men right before his eyes—seeing those bodies drop—had affected him. Sure, he’d been seeing men murdered most his life. For some reason this was different.

  Cane had been through a lot. He had lost his mom, dad, friends, and family. His brother Chris was doing life in prison and would never get to hit a blunt, fuck a bitch, drive a fast car, or have children. Cane was getting older and he wanted a future. He wanted a wife—a good woman—and some kids. His sister was a survivor, but he was the first to admit that she wasn’t to be trusted. If she had to, Cane knew she would flip on him for the right price. She had sociopathic tendencies that he was well aware of. Citi was always one card short of a full deck, so he couldn’t place his future in her hands.

  Scar took his silence as an admission. When Cane looked up it was like slow-mo as he watched Scar dig deep in his waistband and pull out the .45. With his arm outstretched, Scar aimed and fired.

  Cane’s instincts were on point as he took flight.

  Bak! Bak!

  Cane took two to the back. He tried to crawl away, but Scar was on him.

  Scar stood over a man that could have been his brother in-law and fired. Click! Click! Click! His gun jammed.

  “Fuck!”

  Citi heard the shots and came running out her bedroom with her 9mm ready for war. She thought Apple and Cartier had followed them home. When she saw her brother on the ground and Scar with a smoking gun, she quickly assessed what had happened.

  “Scar, no! Are you crazy!” She ran to Cane’s aid.

  “That nigga snitchin’.”

  “What’s wrong wit’ you!” she screeched. Tears streamed down her face as she watched her brother try and remain awake. “Cane, don’t go to sleep, you hear me? I’m gonn
a get you help.”

  Scar towered over them both as he thought two things. When was the last time I cleaned my gun? And, Damn, that nigga looks fucked up right now.

  Citi ran and grabbed two head scarves and tied them tightly around her brother’s open wounds to help slow the bleeding. “Help me!”

  “You don’t wanna hear this, bae, but I think he’s workin’ wit’ them bitches.”

  “Are you insane! This is my brother!”

  Scar smirked.

  “I swear to God you better help me, Scar. He can’t die in here!”

  Scar took another look at Cane. His smooth brown skin was turning ashen. He looked terrible. “That nigga dead, Citi. Why you goin’ through all that trouble?”

  Citi ignored him and called two of her goons who were one floor below. “Cane’s been shot. Get up here now!”

  Ant and Bucky came running upstairs. Between the two they had four guns. They had no idea what they were charging into. Citi let them in and they saw a lifeless Cane bleeding out. Scar was back on the sofa chilling, sparking up another blunt.

  “What the fuck happened?” Bucky asked.

  “No questions!” Citi demanded. “We need to get him to a hospital. Ant, help me—help me stop his bleeding.”

  Ant didn’t move.

  Citi leapt up from the floor and slapped the shit out of him. “What the fuck are you waiting for!”

  Quickly, both Ant and Bucky jumped into action. One ran and grabbed some sheets from out the closet and wrapped up Cane’s body.

  “On three, let’s lift him up,” Bucky said. “One, two, three.”

  “Be careful wit’ his head.” Citi was whimpering at this point. “If you die on me, Cane, then I’ma kill myself.”

  “Get this dramatic bitch outta here!” said Scar. “And that snitchin’-ass nigga too!”

  Ant and Bucky had no idea what had gone down, but they did as they were told. They took the back staircase down to the underground garage and sped to the nearest hospital. They dropped Cane and Citi off at the curb, where she was able to get the attention of medical staff. She had to admit, shit looked fucked up.

  29

  Kola couldn’t stop crying. There were no words anyone could say to her to ease her pain—not right now. She had lost her baby boy at nearly nine months, and it was one devastating event too many. She went into a deep depression and refused to be around any other children. Looking into their faces was just too painful, and Peaches and the others became a constant reminder of what she didn’t have and couldn’t have on her own—children.

  Kamel was attentive and supportive. Every day he was by Kola’s side, holding her hand, trying to comfort her, and trying to stay positive about the situation. It was his baby too.

  “We should try again,” he said to Kola.

  “No!” replied Kola sternly.

  Her doctors were clear to her. They were against her getting pregnant again. It was highly unlikely that she would ever carry a baby to term.

  “Think about a surrogate then,” he suggested.

  Kola cut her eyes at him like he was crazy—a surrogate? She wasn’t thrilled about some next bitch carrying her child. In fact, the thought of it angered her and she ripped into Kamel and cursed him out so bad it almost left marks on his skin. He had to leave the room.

  Kola burst into tears again. She was sinking deeper into depression. She didn’t want to interact with anyone. Day after day, she locked herself in the dark room and wanted to be alone. She didn’t eat. Kamel feared that she was trying to starve herself—commit a slow suicide. He felt that his hands were tied. He loved his wife, and he hated feeling helpless.

  He saw one last solution. Kamel called Apple to tell her about Kola. Apple was shocked to hear about the miscarriage. Why hadn’t Kola reached out? Apple could only imagine how hard it would be to lose a child at thirty-three weeks.

  Apple called Kola after speaking to Kamel, and the only thing her twin kept saying was, “Koke is dead, Apple. He’s dead. Koke is dead.”

  “Sis, it’s gonna be all right,” said Apple.

  “How? Koke is dead. My poor little man is gone.”

  “You know I’m always there for you.”

  “You’re not here now,” Kola griped.

  “I know, I’m just tryin’ to take care of some business.”

  “Where are you?”

  Apple didn’t want to mention her location, but Kola was in great pain. “I’m in Miami,” she said.

  “Miami? Why?”

  “Like I said, sis, I’m handling some business out here.”

  “You mean you’re going after Citi. I’m not stupid, Apple,” Kola said.

  “Okay . . . yes, I’m hunting that bitch down.”

  “I wanna help.”

  “What?”

  “You fuckin’ heard me. I wanna help you. I wanna fly down there to be by your side.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Kola. Now is not a good time to get involved wit’ this shit. Besides, you got the kids to look after, especially Peaches,” said Apple.

  “And?”

  “We can’t afford to both get ourselves killed.”

  “Then we better be extra careful then, because I’m coming down there. I don’t give a fuck what you say. I can’t stay here, Apple. I need to leave—I need to escape,” Kola protested.

  Apple knew there was no changing her sister’s mind. They were both stubborn.

  “Fuck it—just let me know when your flight lands.”

  Their call ended.

  That same night, Kola and Kamel got into a heated argument. The kids could hear them arguing from their bedroom.

  “You’re not fuckin’ leaving!” Kamel shouted.

  “You don’t fuckin’ tell me what to do!” she shouted back.

  “You’re emotional, Kola. You ain’t thinking rational.”

  “I’m thinking just fine.”

  “No—you and I—we’re supposed to be out of that life,” he shouted.

  “She’s my sister and I’m gonna always be there for her,” Kola retorted.

  “And what about us, huh? Do you give a fuck?” Kamel snapped back.

  After hours of arguing, Kola finally relented and promised Kamel she wouldn’t go to Miami. She would stay. She continued to cry over her miscarriage and told her husband that she was still upset and emotional about losing their son. Kamel promised he would support her and would always be by her side.

  They reconciled, but Kola told him that she still needed some time alone. That night, he went to sleep in the guest bedroom.

  Kamel woke up the following morning, and the first thing he did was walk into the main bedroom to check up on Kola. She was gone. He scurried around the bedroom to find some of her clothing missing from the closet, and he looked out the window to see that she had taken the Benz.

  “Fuck!” he cursed.

  ***

  Kola had left for Miami in the middle of the night. She decided to drive the twenty-plus hours from New York to Miami to clear her head. Her sleek Benz hugged the highway, speeding down I-95 South. It was a painful, emotional, and tiring trip. There were tears and apprehension. She had to stop halfway there, and she checked into a ritzy hotel on the outskirts of Savannah.

  Inside the hotel room, Kola took a shower, ordered herself some room service, and downed some Henny on ice. She exploded into tears once again, thinking about her baby. She cried for hours. She felt weak. She believed that happiness wasn’t meant for her. She thought she had done everything right. She’d changed her life around—for the better. She gotten married, she was raising her niece, along with Eduardo’s kids, and yet, she couldn’t have any kids of her own.

  Eventually, she passed out on the bed. The next morning, she woke up feeling like she had an impetuous purpose, and she vowed to never c
ry over losing the baby again. She had done enough of that, and now it was time to move on. Reminiscent of her twin sister, she felt there was some unfinished business that she needed to tend to in Miami.

  ***

  Kola arrived in Downtown Miami late that night. She climbed out of her Benz and looked around, feeling a bit of nostalgia. Being back in the city brought back a flood of memories for her. Long ago, she was queen bee bitch down here—money, power, respect, she earned that. But now, she was a shell of her old self. Everything done changed.

  She took a deep breath and vowed to stay strong. No more tears, she told herself. She gazed up at the towering glass building. It was impressive. It reminded Kola of her old Miami residence long ago when she had paid 1.8 million for it—pure luxury from top to bottom. Not too far from the building, crowds were leaving the American Airlines Arena after attending the Miami Heat basketball game, where the Heat defeated the Lakers. The streets became flooded with foot and vehicular traffic.

  Kola walked toward the building and entered the lobby, where there was security on standby. Kola, clad plainly in blue jeans, a T-shirt, jacket, and Nikes, caught the security’s attention. One look at the twin, and the middle-aged man knew who she was. Apple had left her name and a spare key for her.

  “You’re definitely Apple’s sister . . . very pretty,” he said.

  Kola wasn’t in a friendly mood. She’d been through a lot and wasn’t for the small talk. The man had to do a double take. They were identical, and he was in awe. Sensing her standoffish attitude, he kept his words short and handed the key to her.

  Kola went up to the empty apartment. It was sparsely furnished, like a crash pad. There were several laptops and surveillance equipment on the table, some blunt wrappers, Henny bottles, and cartis spewed around the place, and there was barely any food in the fridge. There were guns in the bedroom—enough firepower to take out a small army. Kola wondered where her sister had gotten such high-end weaponry so quickly. She thought about calling Apple, but reveled in the alone time. She fixed herself a drink and turned on the television to watch some Netflix.