Mafioso [Part 2]

by Nisa Santiago

  Meyer wasn’t in the mood to backfill Knock’s position right away. He looked at the two soldiers and said, “Y’all niggas get the fuck out.”

  Knowing Meyer hated to repeat himself, the two thugs pivoted and left the office, leaving Meyer and Luna to contemplate their next move.

  With the door closed, Meyer, with one motion of his hand, angrily cleared everything off the desk and crashing to the floor. He screamed, “Muthafucka!”

  “They’re not even sure if it’s him,” Luna said. “It’s just a headless body in a trunk of a car.”

  “It’s him.” Meyer was sure of it. “Like they said, Knock is always around. Who could have gotten to Knock like that though?”

  “Deuce got a nigga named Jimmy I keep hearing about.”

  Meyer frowned. He removed a cigarette from his full pack and lit one up. He plopped down in the chair behind the desk. Deuce had taken too much from his family already, and he was still taking from them. Meyer couldn’t look weak, not to his father and definitely not to the streets.

  “We need to call someone on this, Luna. I’ll pay anything to have these niggas got,” Meyer said.

  “Call who?”

  “The brothers,” Meyer suggested.

  “They’re expensive.”

  “You think I give a fuck about money right now? Every day Deuce lives and breathes, I’m losing money, soldiers, and respect.”

  Luna nodded. He then said, “You think your father will approve?”

  Meyer cut his eyes at Luna, saying he gave no fuck what his father would approve of. He needed to fix the dilemma by any means necessary. He needed to assert their authority on the streets of Wilmington. And he wanted desperately to avenge his siblings’ murders.

  ***

  The Greene brothers were from Chicago’s North Side, and they’d grown up in the notorious Cabrini-Green projects. Their family had seen gang warfare since the late seventies. Their father was a high-ranking Vice Lord whose name was well known in the streets of Chicago, like Al Capone’s. The Greene family was bred to commit violence. It was in their blood. Every member of their family was prone to violence and murder. One of their uncles took down three rivals with his bare hands inside a nightclub in ’83. Another uncle killed two cops in ’91 and laughed at the murders. Their oldest brother was doing life in prison for multiple homicides, as was their father. It was rumored that their mother beat her sons with belts and bats when they were young to get them used to the street life and to toughen their souls.

  In the early 2000s, the brothers enlisted in the Marines after 9/11 and were sent off to Iraq. Overseas, they were thrust into violent combat and saw their share of carnage. Some say they enjoyed their tour in Iraq too much. They hunted enemy soldiers down and tortured and killed them so gruesomely, their commanding officers were appalled and they were soon dishonorably discharged. The military deemed the brothers psychotic. Not only were they a threat to Iraq, but also to fellow soldiers.

  The Marines schooled the brothers on how to kill efficiently, taught them weaponry, and once back in the States they were out of work and looking for excitement. Like sharks, they had a taste for blood. They became hired killers for drug crews and gangs in Chicago and operated under the radar. Word got out about the Greene brothers and their way of doing things, including allegedly eating their victims to hide the bodies. That was a welcome lie. It kept them employed. Their reputation soon stretched into different states, and they didn’t lack for any work. But they were so sadistic and unpredictable, even the hardest criminals were sometimes apprehensive about hiring them. They didn’t want the Greene brothers to linger in their cities. Yes, they took care of problems, but their behavior and appetite for chaos and bloodshed sometimes came back to bite people in their asses. These brothers were stealthy, and they were the best at killing.

  ***

  “We might have another problem,” Luna said.

  “Like what?”

  “Knock—if he was tortured, you think he gave shit up? Gave us up?”

  Meyer thought about it. “I don’t think so,” he said.

  “You wanna chance that? I mean, we’re already taking losses now. If Knock talked to whoever because of what they put him through, it could be catastrophic to our organization.”

  Meyer knew Luna had a point. “Fuck,” he muttered. He sat there thinking about what Luna said.

  “We need to react now before it’s too late,” Luna added.

  “Close down the warehouse and make the calls. We shut everything down momentarily and beef up security at every location,” Meyer said.

  Luna nodded, agreeing with the decision.

  Meyer scowled while seated behind the desk. His fists tightened, ready to punch a hole in the wall. Yeah, he needed the Greene brothers in town. He needed them to clean house by doing what they did best—killing muthafuckas and not giving a fuck.

  12

  The penthouse terrace became Layla’s favorite place to be, especially at night. She could sit out there naked for hours on the cushioned chaise underneath the canopy of the stars and bright moon, smoke her Newports, and finish a bottle of expensive wine. But tranquility didn’t bring security. Though Scott had his armed goons around, she kept her .380 close by for safety. She had a lot on her mind, and she didn’t need any more troubles. Although Maxine was never any trouble to her, Layla figured the sixty grand would be more than enough to help Maxine get her life back on track and help her mother out.

  Did Scott know that Maxine was free? She doubted it. Twenty years together and he’d never brought up Maxine’s name—out of sight, out of mind. The streets and money kept her husband busy. Layla didn’t quite see Maxine as a threat to her marriage or her health anymore. She looked worn down and unkempt. The cute, young girl from the block was long gone, and in her place was a broke-down, dyke-looking bitch. Did she like pussy now? The thought crossed Layla’s mind. Twenty-two years behind bars could alter someone’s sexual habits, and Maxine had always been weak and easy to take advantage of.

  The thought of Maxine turning gay and being raped and sodomized by some Big Bertha-looking bitch was an interesting idea for Layla. Yeah, that place had broken her, like it was designed to. It was the reason she’d never visited Maxine, besides the one time. Layla couldn’t imagine prison life; it wasn’t designed for her.

  She and Scott did everything in their power to stay free. They were careful and smart throughout the years, and they took their time building an extensive network from the ground up, from the underworld to the business world. They’d laundered enough drug money that the feds could trace no dirty money to them. Not even a penny. It was all filtered through several expanding businesses and accounts they’d set up overseas, numerous properties they owned, smart investments, and nightclubs they’d opened. On paper, it was all legit, taxable income. They could easily account for their lavish lifestyle.

  Layla downed the last of her Chardonnay, one of her favorites. She took a pull from the cigarette pressed between her full, glossy lips. Her nakedness glistened under the city lights and the moonlight. The stillness of the penthouse was sometimes frightening for Layla. She was alone. She didn’t want to be alone. Her husband was elsewhere, and her living children were grown. It was times like these that she missed Gotti, Bonnie, and Clyde. Somehow, it felt like the killers made it their business to take away her youngest kids. It amplified the sadness inside her.

  Maxine seemed broken from prison life, but Layla too had become broken in her own way. Her life was under attack. She had all the money in the world, but she had many enemies too, and she had a husband who had no interest in her.

  Hearing someone entering her luxury dwelling made Layla turn and reach for her pistol. But she quickly relaxed, seeing it was Scott. She put her .380 back on the Euro-style glass table next to the empty wine bottle.

  Scott joined her on the terrace with his lit cigar in
hand, dressed handsomely in a tailored black suit and black tie. He always looked GQ and suave. He puffed on his cigar as he stood near the railing and glanced at the illuminated city for a moment, his back toward her.

  Layla wondered about his sudden presence. He wasn’t home to be with her. He wasn’t there to make peace with her, or make love to her, and make her feel wanted. It looked like he had something on his mind.

  Layla remained naked. Her body would be a treasure for other men to adore, but Scott was indifferent.

  She extinguished her cigarette into the ashtray and locked eyes with her estranged husband. In her drunkenness, she smirked up at him and slowly spread her legs, showing all of her glory. She kept it tight. She had no choice.

  “What’s the matter? You don’t like it anymore? It don’t look pretty to you no more?” she said. “I remember nights when all you used to do is eat me out and fuck the shit out of me . . . when you were on that gangsta shit. What happened to you?”

  “Put some clothes on,” he said dryly.

  Layla chuckled in disbelief and shook her head. “This muthafucka,” she muttered, not believing her husband would pass up a good fuck. Tonight would have been the perfect night to make love and connect sexually on the terrace underneath the bright sky.

  She wasn’t putting any clothes on to make him feel comfortable. “I’m still your wife,” she uttered.

  “I know, and that’s why I need for you to leave New York. I want you to go back to Florida.”

  “Go back to Florida? Why!”

  “I’m not asking.”

  “And I’m not leaving.” She closed her legs, suppressing her sexual needs. His offensive proposal made her want to cover up.

  Scott grimaced. “Layla, don’t make this difficult. It’s for your safety.”

  “My safety? My safety is stayin’ here in New York, not in Florida. Why would you even suggest it? You think I’m some weak bitch that needs to run off when the heat comes? You know me better than that, Scott.”

  “This is different. Our businesses in Florida need to continue. With you up here, how’s that gonna happen?”

  “We got people we pay for that.”

  Her Florida compound was a haunting reminder of what she had lost. Without Gotti, Bonnie, or Clyde, why would she go back there? Florida was more their home than New York. They loved it there, and they couldn’t wait to permanently move to the Sunshine State. But everything done changed. The only way she would leave for Florida was if Scott and the kids came with her. Meyer and Bugsy were busy traveling back and forth from Delaware and New York trying to kill Deuce. And with Lucky’s open drug case, Layla wasn’t leaving the city. Her business was in New York with her remaining children, not in the South. She would leave the extravagant real estate she’d built behind. She felt the place no longer had a purpose. She had it built for her family, but now her family was torn apart by murder.

  Layla remained defiant. “I’m not leaving, Scott. I’m not leaving my kids behind.”

  “Your kids know how to take care of themselves.”

  “They need to; you’re not protecting them.” Layla sprung up from the chaise and marched inside the penthouse.

  Scott glared at his wife’s plump backside as he lingered on the terrace smoking his cigar. He felt like throwing her off the terrace. No one defied him, but Layla steadily tested him. He took another drag from the cigar in his mouth and breathed out. He would make her leave somehow; the discussion wasn’t over with.

  He dowsed the cigar on the costly Euro-style table and walked into the penthouse. Layla was in the bedroom. He wanted to kick down the door and take her by the throat and slam her against the wall. But he decided not to continue arguing with her. He had other matters to attend to. He needed to leave.

  “We’ll talk later, Layla. You’ll see things my way,” he thundered for her to hear in the bedroom.

  She didn’t respond. She was too busy getting dressed. She knew he was leaving soon, and she wanted to be ready.

  The door closed. He was gone.

  Layla waited for a moment then exited too. Faintly disguised in a black sweat suit and a ball cap, the brim pulled down low to help hide her face, she hurriedly made it down to the building lobby just in time to see Scott and his associates exit the big glass doors and get into a black Escalade. The SUV sped off.

  Layla was determined to follow the vehicle. Fortunately for her, there was an approaching yellow cab that the doorman hailed down. She climbed into the back seat, and like in the movies, she yelled out, “I want you to follow that black SUV.”

  The middle-aged driver wore a bright orange turban. He started the fare. Scott was already a block away, the Escalade idling at a red light. The driver moved away from the curb just as the red light transitioned to green. When the SUV drove off, Layla’s taxi was four cars behind it. She had a big advantage following Scott in the yellow cab—It was camouflaged among a sea of other yellow cabs. She followed him to Central Park West, where the SUV parked in front of a neo-Italian Renaissance-style building.

  Scott climbed out from the backseat. Flanked by his armed security, he approached the building and disappeared into the lobby.

  Layla sat in the taxi across the street and waited, watching everything like a hawk with acute vision. She swelled up with anxiety, knowing something wasn’t right. The fare continued to run, while she continued to wait. The money and time was irrelevant at the moment. She needed to find out what her husband was up to.

  Fifteen minutes later, Scott resurfaced from the building, but this time he was with a female. But that wasn’t the shocking part to Layla. Penelope, their former nanny, stood by her husband’s side with a protruding belly. Layla was transfixed by the stomach. Her own stomach tightened with anger and jealousy. Scott was fucking their ex-nanny.

  Penelope was a twenty-one-year-old immigrant from Cuba who spoke little English. She came to work for the Wests at eighteen. She was a lovely woman, a little too cute for Layla’s comfort, but she was a good worker. And she was great with Gotti when he was younger. Two years earlier, when Layla had started her real estate project in Florida, Scott explained to her that Penelope was laid off because they needed someone more mature who spoke English, so there wouldn’t be a language barrier if something jumped off. Now Penelope, looking seven or eight months pregnant, was snuggled against her husband on the sidewalk and smiling brightly like she was getting fucked on the regular.

  The bitch’s pregnancy wasn’t the only thing Layla was stunned by. Penelope looked fabulous in her stylish clothes and jewelry. Her long, jet-black hair flowed down to her shoulders flawlessly. It was money well spent in the salons. Scott was spending lots of money on his pregnant mistress.

  The rage consuming Layla felt like a massive nuclear bomb was inside her. She was becoming a WMD—a woman of mass destruction. She tossed the cabbie a fistful of money and jumped out of the cab, her rage fixed on Penelope and Scott, who looked so happy together.

  She jogged across the street. Unable to contain her anger, her movement picked up into a full sprint toward the couple. Fists clenched, she stormed their way, and before Scott’s two bodyguards, Kevin and Dwayne, could see her coming, Layla was up on them just in time to throw a punch at Penelope. Her knuckles smashed into the side of Penelope’s face, and the bitch fell backwards on her ass.

  “You fuckin’ bitch!” Layla shouted at her.

  Penelope stared up at Layla in shock and fear, her mouth full of blood. The blow was staggering; Layla had a mean right hook.

  Scott shouted at his wife, “Bitch, you fuckin’ crazy?”

  “You fuckin’ the nanny?” Layla screamed out emotionally.

  Scott’s two goons quickly grabbed Layla before she could do any more damage. But she tried to break free from the men’s hold to go after Penelope again.

  “Chill, Ms. Layla,” Kevin said. “You in public.�
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  Layla fidgeted angrily in their hold. She glared at the girl, who was still on the ground in shock and nursing her bloody mouth.

  Scott quickly went to Penelope’s aid, infuriating Layla even more.

  “You choose that immigrant bitch over your own wife? Is it your baby she’s fuckin’ carrying?”

  Scott yelled at his men, “Keep her away from us!”

  “That’s why you want me in Florida? To parade this bitch around town?”

  Onlookers gawked at the minor skirmish. Scott was embarrassed by it. Concerned about the baby, he crouched near Penelope and helped her off the ground.

  “Fuck you, Scott! Fuck you an’ that dirty immigrant bitch!”

  Layla watched in outright anger as Scott helped his pregnant mistress to the vehicle and ushered her into the back seat to get her to the hospital. Layla desperately tried to charge at him, spitting and cursing his way. Pregnant or not, she wanted Penelope gone. It was the ultimate disrespect. She couldn’t hold back her tears. They trickled down her face like a waterfall. The hurt Layla felt quickly swelled inside of her like a large tumor. She loved Scott. How could he? How could he reject her and choose this non-English-speaking whore?

  With Penelope safely seated inside the Escalade, Scott pivoted toward Layla. “You stupid bitch!” he shouted.

  “Fuck you, nigga!” Layla felt betrayed. Her heart was beating so fast, it felt like it would burst out of her chest at any moment.

  Kevin and Dwayne gripped her tightly, but she was becoming a handful for them.

  Scott glared at Layla. He could kill her right then for what she did to Penelope. “You’re a savage,” he growled at her.

  “Look who’s talking.”

  The turning police car caught Scott’s attention. His anger subsided. He didn’t need any more problems.

  Layla screamed, “You ready to kill me over that bitch? Huh, muthafucka? You ready to murder your fuckin’ wife of twenty years? The bitch that gave birth to six of your kids and had your back on these streets?”