Mafioso [Part 2]

by Nisa Santiago

  “I want her dead,” he said faintly to Tarsha.

  “What did she do? She did this to you, right?” she asked.

  He frowned a little, his body aching badly. He looked and felt a mess.

  Tarsha closed the door to the room and moved the chair closer to his bedside. It was time to talk. She stared keenly at him, wanting to know everything.

  Bit by bit, Wacka explained the situation to her—he had done a few murders for Maxine for some money, and the murders were of children.

  Tarsha was taken aback. “Children?” she uttered with surprise. “Explain yourself.”

  Wacka told her about the hit-and-run on Gotti in Florida and then about the vicious killings of Bonnie and Clyde in New York City.

  Tarsha could feel the hairs on her head rising like she had been hit by electricity. “How did they find you?” she asked.

  “Only one person could have told them—Maxine.”

  Wacka had pissed off some dangerous and influential people. They’d killed his mother and his friends.

  “Do they know about me and your son?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said.

  “You need to think clearly,” she spewed, feeling her and their son’s life might be in danger too.

  “I’m goin’ after every last one of them,” he proclaimed with his raspy voice.

  “You’re in no condition to do anything right now.”

  Wacka hated that he was weak and disabled. He desperately wanted to yank the wires from his body and get up from the bed.

  “I need you to get in touch with Shiniquia,” he said.

  “Shiniquia?” Tarsha squarely looked him in the eyes and told him, “She’s dead.”

  “What the fuck you talkin’ ’bout?”

  “She was murdered in prison—stabbed to death by several inmates.”

  The news was another crushing blow to Wacka. How many more people would he lose? What he heard sent his body into a freefall of pain and relapse, and his vital signs went haywire. The machines hummed loudly. He was out of control. He convulsed in the bed.

  Tarsha, frightened by it all, leaped from her chair and ran to notify the nurses what was happening. “I need some help! I need a fuckin’ doctor!” she screamed frantically.

  A team of nurses and physicians came charging into the room to aid Wacka. He had flat-lined, his body going into cardiac arrest due to added stress. They brought in a crash cart to revive him once more. They went to work on Wacka’s fragile body with multiple medical instruments, including a defibrillator.

  A nurse steered Tarsha out of the room, as a team of people quickly operated on Wacka. The door closed and Tarsha was left in the hallway wondering if she would see Wacka alive again. She had no clear view of him anymore, as his bed was surrounded by white lab coats, nurses, and machines.

  Fifteen minutes later, she received some news from the doctor. Wacka had slipped back into a coma.

  28

  This was news that Miguel wanted to deliver to Maxine personally. It could have been easily done by phone, but he wanted to see her face to face and let her know, “Mission accomplished!” He wanted to see her for other reasons too. The first time with Max in the back seat of his car was fantastic. He never thought he could have pussy so good. Nadia was his girl, and the mother of his children, but Max became his infatuation. He couldn’t stop thinking about that day in City Island.

  He parked on her street and called her cell phone. When she answered, he replied, “I’m outside. We need to talk.”

  “I’ll be out in ten minutes.”

  He lit a cigarette and waited.

  ***

  Killing Bugsy was easier than he thought it would be. He set up inside an elderly couple’s home that lived right across the street from the girlfriend. Early that night, Miguel masked up, put on black latex gloves to avoid leaving any fingerprints behind, and broke into the home. He held the old couple at gunpoint and tied them up downstairs. Then he removed a sniper’s rifle from a Blackhawk Long Gun Drag Bag, positioned himself at the front window in the living room, killed all the lights inside the house, and waited. He’d waited for hours before Bugsy finally arrived at the house via cab. Miguel watched his every movement outside the home. He had him in plain sight via night scope and could have taken him out right there, but Max wanted it done inside the house, near the window—shot dead like the legendary Bugsy Siegel. So he held off from the shot and waited for the right moment.

  The moment came half an hour later. Bugsy got up from the couch, and Miguel used a laser pointer to grab his attention. When he was in the line of fire, Miguel squeezed off four shots and watched him go down. He then fled the home and made his escape, assuming the man was dead, with four bullets in his chest.

  ***

  The front door opened, and Maxine stepped out of the house. Once again, Miguel was blown away by her beauty and her outfit. She strutted toward the car wearing an outfit fitting for the late summer month—a pink and white Adidas open-back dress with a pink Kangol and a pair of high-top Adidas. She looked old-school and so cute. She climbed into the car and waited for the news from him.

  “You look beautiful,” he quickly said.

  “Thank you,” she replied nonchalantly.

  “It’s done. He’s dead.”

  Maxine was elated. “You’re worth every penny. Tell me. I want the details.”

  Miguel told her about the neighbors he’d held hostage and the rifle he’d used. Then he added, “He took four in the chest by the window.”

  “In the chest?”

  Miguel nodded. “Yes, in the chest.”

  “I told you I wanted him shot in the head,” she whined.

  “It was a difficult task already. I did the best I could. Be happy he’s dead.”

  “I wanted a closed casket funeral for him. I wanted that bitch to see her son’s face twisted.”

  “He’s dead, Max. That’s torture enough for any mother.”

  They argued about the hit, but Miguel was able to deescalate the drama. He had become sweet on her and didn’t want to upset her.

  29

  Layla raided the private bar in the lavish hotel suite she was staying in and poured herself a drink. She dropped her behind into the plush chair and threw back the scotch. She enjoyed the taste of the alcohol and then lit a cigarette. Since her release from central booking, she’d checked into the Waldorf Astoria hotel in Manhattan. The price of her stay was very high, but money wasn’t an issue for her. She needed time away from her own place, and she wanted the best. The sprawling suite was bedecked with a glass chandelier, and the living room had a bio-fuel fireplace and an enormous 80-inch TV. The master bedroom had a bedside control panel that gave control of all features of the suite, including the draperies, lighting, and temperature. The bathroom had an enormous sunken marble tub with a large window overlooking Park Avenue.

  Layla had been plagued with one issue after another. With so much on her mind, she wanted to disappear for a moment. She heard about the attempted hit on her husband’s life, but she didn’t run to see him. She didn’t feel the urge to comfort him and be that wife by his side, saying it would be okay and she would be there for him. No! Thinking about Penelope, his mistress, and how he had treated her blocked any wifely duties on her end.

  Instead, she indulged herself with everything the luxury hotel offered—room service, spa service, facials, the gym, and simply being lazy and drinking in the comfort of her room. But with all that, she was still depressed, bitter, and angry. The luxuries that the hotel offered weren’t the cure to her hostility toward her husband and Penelope.

  She felt a strong urge to do something sinister. She wanted Penelope gone—nothing ambiguous about it. The Cuban bitch was a problem, and if she stayed alive and had that baby, Layla felt that the problem would grow out of hand. She needed to cut the rotten
root from the tree before it spread. The only family tree that mattered was hers.

  She knew her two sons, Meyer and Bugsy, well. Bugsy, smart and focused, was a daddy’s boy and wanted to be just like Scott. She knew that she could request nothing from him, especially to do the unthinkable and have a pregnant Penelope killed. But Meyer was different. He was a mama’s boy, and he was a stone-cold killer. What he’d done in DC, killing off Shiniquia’s family so brutally, made her a proud mother. If she wanted something done, he rarely asked questions. He did what he was told because he loved his mother unconditionally. And he loved a challenge. Both sons would kill for her, but she knew Meyer wouldn’t hesitate to kill a pregnant woman—a woman he once knew.

  She poured herself another drink and lit another cigarette. She inhaled the nicotine and pranced around the hotel room in a luxurious red cashmere robe. She walked toward the window and stared out to watch the city transition from afternoon to evening. Standing there, she made the phone call to Meyer.

  He answered, “Yeah, Ma, what’s up?”

  “Meyer, I need to see you,” she said.

  “I’m in Delaware. Is it important?”

  “It’s crucial.”

  He sighed. “A’ight. Tomorrow I’ll be in the city.”

  She smiled. “Wonderful. I’m staying at the Waldorf Astoria.” She gave him the room number, and their call ended just like that.

  Layla knew he would come. Her pussy got wet just thinking about Penelope’s demise.

  The next day, Meyer showed up at the lavish suite as promised. He didn’t come alone. He brought Luna. The man was becoming his shadow. Layla didn’t want him around. She only wanted Meyer’s ears to hear this, and no one else’s.

  “Tell him to leave,” she said about Luna.

  Meyer looked reluctant, but he did what his mother said. “Yo, go wait for me in the car. I’ll be all right,” he said to Luna.

  The man nodded and left.

  Meyer stepped farther into the suite. He looked around and was impressed. “This some nice shit,” he muttered.

  “You know me, son—I deal with nothing but the best.”

  “Yeah, you do.”

  “Have a seat.”

  “Nah, I’m good,” he said. “I got places to be, Ma.”

  Meyer was dressed like some hoodlum from a rap video, wearing a black tank top highlighting his young, muscular physique and tattoos, black cargo shorts, expensive Jordans, and a large platinum chain around his neck with a large diamond gun medallion. A Yankees baseball cap sat askew on top of his head.

  Layla was shocked that he got by the clerks and security dressed like that. But Meyer had his ways, and he easily intimidated people.

  “What you call me here for, Ma?” he asked, ready to get down to business.

  “I take it you heard about the drama between your father and me?”

  “Yeah, and that’s y’all business, not mine.” He waved it off like he didn’t care.

  “Well, I have a problem.”

  “What? You need me to take care of someone?”

  She smiled. “You read my mind.”

  “Who we talkin’ about?”

  “I want his fuckin’ mistress dead, and you’re the only one I can trust to handle it.”

  Meyer was somewhat taken aback by her request. “Yo, you mean Penelope?”

  “Yes.”

  Meyer shook his head and chuckled at his mother’s request. He looked his mother squarely in her eyes and said unequivocally, “Nah, I can’t do that. It ain’t happening.”

  “What you mean, no? I want that bitch dead, and I want you to make that happen,” she said.

  “I said no! You know I’ll do anything for you, Ma, but that—it ain’t happening. And you better not try anything on your own. Just let it be.”

  “Have you lost your muthafuckin’ mind?” she shouted.

  “No, but you’re losing yours, Ma. If Pop gets a whiff of this, you know what he’s gonna do? Just let it be, Ma.”

  Layla needed another drink. Not in a million years did she think her son would go against her. “So you sidin’ wit’ that bitch, huh?” she exclaimed.

  “It ain’t like that, Ma. I love you, but I know this shit ain’t gonna end right for anyone.”

  Layla didn’t know that Bugsy and Meyer had always been sweet on Penelope. They both liked her. They both had known of their father’s affair with the young girl for some time. It was a secret they’d kept from their mother for a long time. Penelope was cool peoples. She would feed them Cuban food, and she was pregnant with their family. There was no way Meyer would take either life. He also knew that if he listened to his mother and killed Penelope, his father would no doubt come after him with full vengeance and maybe take his life. Besides, his father was a man, and he did what men do—fuck some good pussy. To him, it didn’t mean that his father stopped loving his mother.

  “Get the fuck outta my suite, Meyer,” Layla growled.

  “Ma, look, I always got your back—”

  “Get the fuck outta here, nigga! You ain’t shit to me!” she screamed. “Leave!”

  Meyer was upset. “So, you gonna do this to me, your own son?”

  “You ain’t shit, nigga!”

  “Well, fuck you too, bitch!”

  Layla was furious. It felt like all the men in her life were turning against her. Had they all lost their minds over this immigrant mistress? Did they want a piece of her too?

  “You trippin’, Ma, fo’ real. You need to calm the fuck down!”

  “Don’t tell me to fuckin’ calm down! Scott’s my husband, not hers!”

  Layla didn’t want to hear anything else Meyer had to say. She wanted him gone from the room.

  Meyer said, “Fuck you! And don’t do anything stupid!” He angrily pivoted and marched away from his mother and the room.

  Layla slammed the door behind him. She heaved in anger. She would not quit on having Penelope killed. She hadn’t gotten this far in life by giving up. If Meyer wasn’t man enough to do the job, then she was determined to find someone who would.

  Layla and Scott had recruited over three dozen new goons into the organization to protect the family. In fact, five new goons she knew of were parked outside the Astoria at the moment for her protection. It was a risky idea, but Layla was desperate to do the job. Maybe it was better to hire someone new, who wasn’t as connected to the family and her husband.

  She consumed another drink and lit another cigarette. Once again she lingered by the window overlooking Park Avenue and simply watched people’s lives pass on by. She was overwhelmed with stress and disappointed with her kids. Meyer especially broke her heart, but she refused to dwell on it. Something had to be done about Penelope.

  After extinguishing the cigarette, Layla got dressed and left the room. She traveled down to the lobby in her “red bottoms” and sauntered through the atrium and through the front entrance with her cell phone in hand, looking for her security detail. Wherever she went, they went. Scott made that very clear to everyone.

  It didn’t take long for two men to approach her. Mrs. West was what they called her. They believed she was leaving the premises, and they were to accompany her. Her life was their life.

  “Where to?” the older man asked.

  But Layla wasn’t interested in him. The second one was younger and looked easier to persuade. He looked no older than twenty, but he also looked like an angry pit bull that wasn’t afraid to show its bite.

  She looked at him and said, “I need you to come up to my room.”

  He looked flabbergasted. “You need me?”

  “Did I fuckin’ stutter?”

  “I’ll be right up,” he said. The young goon had two bodies on him, yet he found himself fearful of the woman, knowing her status.

  Layla turned and marched back to the h
otel and went back to the coziness of her suite.

  Moments later, there was a knock at the door. Layla opened the door and allowed him inside.

  “What’s your name, nigga?” she asked him, emphasizing the word “nigga” to him clearly.

  “Trans,” he said.

  “Trans, you’re new to our world, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you know my husband?”

  “Yeah.”

  Layla was stern with him; he needed to know that she was a boss bitch and that he answered to her.

  “I got a job for you.”

  “What kind of job?”

  “Murder. And I know, for a nigga like you, that ain’t no thang.”

  “It ain’t,” he replied coolly.

  “That’s what I like to hear.”

  Layla walked farther into the suite, and Trans followed.

  She put a small picture of Penelope in his hand, a pretty picture of her. Trans’ eyes lingered on the image, and Layla took notice.

  “That picture gets your dick hard, nigga?” she asked him with an attitude.

  “Nah!”

  “Good. Because I want her dead by week’s end,” she said. “You understand?”

  Trans nodded, looking deadpan.

  Layla provided a little more detail about Penelope, and to give him some incentive, she removed five grand from a small bag and placed it into his hand. “That’s for your troubles,” she told him.

  He didn’t smile or anything but carried that same deadpan gaze. He kept the money, and she sent him on his way.

  With that out of the way, Layla went to the private bar and poured herself another drink. Lately, she’d been drinking more to alleviate her pain, but it wasn’t working too well.

  ***

  Layla slid into the warm, soothing bath. She wanted to relax and feel some peace. Nearby, she had a bottle of Dom Pérignon, and her long-stemmed glass was filled almost to the rim. Layla’s naked body felt like it was getting a thousand massages from head to toe. A sigh of relaxation escaped from her lips as she was submerged from the neck down in the bubbly water. She took a sip of champagne and closed her eyes.