“Put them down,” Scott told the men.
Reluctantly, the men placed their weapons onto the ground and took a few steps back.
With Maxine in his hold, Wacka slowly made his way toward his car, with Scott and his men standing down. As Wacka moved to his vehicle, another unexpected thing happened, and it brought tears to Maxine’s eyes. Her mother loomed in the doorway. She had finally awakened from her sleep, and there she was, standing near the chaos in a floral nightgown looking confused. She saw the men and then Scott, and stared at her daughter being held in some man’s arms.
“Maxine, get your narrow tail back in this house, chile. You got school tomorrow,” she said. It was the early stages of dementia.
“Mama, go back inside please . . . it’s cold out here,” Maxine replied.
Her mother refused to listen. She was nosey, seeing the men in her front yard was odd, and then there was Scottie, the same young gangster she didn’t want her daughter hanging around. She was troubled by his presence. She was gradually losing her memories, but she could never forget that face—the face of the man who charmed her daughter and turned her good girl bad. He had been the distraction in Maxine’s life that caused her to go astray.
“You need to leave,” she said to Scott, oblivious to the horror unfolding around her.
Wacka continued to hold Maxine hostage at gunpoint and forced her to his car. Maxine could only look on worriedly, knowing she was most likely going to die. Wacka shoved her into the car and shouted out his warning to Scott and his men. “If y’all muthafuckas try to follow us, this bitch is a dead bitch.”
“You’re gonna kill her anyway,” Scott growled at Wacka. “Let her go!”
Wacka smirked. “Today, I’m God, nigga . . . maybe I will; maybe I won’t.”
“I’ll find you, nigga. I got peoples and resources all over this fuckin’ planet. You won’t be able to hide.”
Wacka stood undaunted by the threat. Scott was no one to him. He had seen hell personally, and he felt that even the devil himself couldn’t take him down. The look he shot back at the man making the threats was deeply disturbing.
Scott recognized the look. The crazy bastard was suicidal, and Maxine’s chances of survival were very slim. So he pleaded, “Take me instead. I’ll be a better hostage to you than her.”
Wacka wasn’t taking the bait. “No deal, nigga.”
He continued to hold Maxine tight and forced her into the driver’s seat. His gun went off, and he quickly flattened the tires to each SUV, ensuring that Scott and his goons wouldn’t follow them. Wacka was thinking of everything. He had to, or else he was a dead man. In the passenger seat, he shouted, “Drive, bitch!”
Maxine had no choice. She sped off with Scott looking on in rage and regret. He didn’t know if he would ever see Maxine alive again.
3
Bugsy and Meyer stood shirtless in the center ring of the gym. Both twins had their hands wrapped, and the boxing gloves were on. Bugsy had on blue boxing shorts, and Meyer was wearing black. Both their bodies were conditioned and lean. Meyer had the large tattoos, though. They draped over 70% of his upper body.
Bugsy glared at his brother, ready to throw some punches and maybe knock some sense into him. Bugsy was upset with Meyer for taking sides with their mother. He wanted to get the family back together, and if he had to fight his brother in the ring to get a word with him, then so be it. They would spar in the ring with their entourage of goons looking on. Meyer was ready to go head-to-head with his brother, but Bugsy had dreams of being a young Sugar Ray Leonard when he was a kid. But that dream was never a factor in his life. He took up the family business.
The bell sounded, and each brother threw up their boxing gloves defensively. Meyer threw the first punch, but it missed. He then threw a second and third while Bugsy bobbed and weaved in the ring. Bugsy quickly bent his knees and moved his head in a V-shaped motion to the outside of the punch and kept his weight centered. Meyer didn’t even see the counterpunch coming. He was hit with a left and then a right. He stumbled, but he didn’t fall. He got upset. They threw more jabs at each other, and in doing so, Bugsy quickly said, “You’re being foolish, Meyer. What the fuck are you thinking?”
“I’m thinkin’ business, nigga . . . building my shit,” he replied.
“With our mother? You think that’s a smart idea?”
“I’m tired of Pop. He’s always clownin’ me, and he don’t respect me,” Meyer griped.
They danced around the ring for a moment, eyeing each other. Bugsy heard him speak but felt everything Meyer was saying was asinine. He threw a few more jabs, they connected, and then Meyer caught him with a few body shots and pushed him against the ropes. Bugsy pushed him off.
“I still need you in Delaware,” he said to Meyer.
“Fuck Delaware,” Meyer cursed.
“Deuce is still out there, and he’s still a threat to us—our family,” Bugsy said, followed by an intense swing. Meyer blocked it and backpedaled.
“Deuce ain’t my problem anymore,” Meyer said.
The statement frustrated Bugsy. “He’s everyone’s problem. You think this war with him will stop because you and Lucky sided with our mother?”
“We gonna do things differently,” said Meyer.
“You’re not thinking straight.”
“I’m building my own fuckin’ empire wit’ Ma,” he said. “I’m tired of being our father’s lackey—his fuckin’ doormat. He respects you more than he do me.”
“Pop’s just got a lot on his mind.”
“Well, he ain’t gotta worry about me anymore, unless he comes at me the wrong way.”
The brothers were doing more talking than sparring at the moment, moving around the ring with their attention fixed on each other. People watched on as each twin showed off his technique, not afraid to get hit and not afraid to go on the offensive. A few more punches were thrown; some connected and some didn’t.
“If you gonna be ignorant, then tell our mother to give the money back. She stole fifty million from Pop.”
Meyer chuckled. “It ain’t happening. That’s her money too.”
“Scott ain’t happy. He’s gonna come for it.”
“And you think I care?”
He didn’t. Meyer saw an opportunity with his mother and sister. In his eyes, that fifty million was his to indulge in too. He thought about the power the money brought them and the things he could buy with it. He wanted to have some fun for once—without Scott looking over his shoulder. Meyer wanted to have a good time. He wanted to go to the strip clubs and make it rain with hundred-dollar bills. He wanted to continue what he’d been doing, which was balling out of control. Deuce, he would be dealt with. But for now, it was his time to shine. Meyer wanted to wear the crown. He wanted to be the boss for once. He wanted his father’s respect. And if he couldn’t earn it, then he would take it.
Their new organization had a lot of seed money, and they had hired a gaggle of new goons—killers who were loyal to them and not Scott. He felt untouchable.
“You never could see the big picture,” said Bugsy with aggravation.
The comment angered Meyer. “You calling me stupid?”
“I’m calling you ignorant!”
The sparring match ended for Meyer. Like a child, he removed his gloves and threw them down to the floor and went on a childish rant about his father, Penelope, and how he hated Maxine.
“I don’t trust that bitch! And our father is a fuckin’ fool for allowing her into his life,” he shouted. “He chooses her over our mother? You’re on the losing team, Bugsy, because Pop ain’t thinkin’ clearly. I can’t promise you there won’t be collateral damage in a turf war, and the first to go will be that bitch Maxine.”
Bugsy immediately threw two quick punches Meyer’s way, which landed against his chin and put him on his ass. He stood over Meyer
wrathfully. Meyer didn’t see it coming. It was a sucker punch, and it created disarray inside the gym. Both sides came charging into the ring, guns were pulled out, and a pushing match ensued between several men. Bugsy’s people had known Meyer for years, so they weren’t as quick to put a bullet in the boss’s son. However, Meyer’s goons didn’t know Bugsy, nor did they give a fuck about him or Scott. Meyer was the boss, and if he gave the word, Bugsy and his peoples were dead men.
But things went no further than some pushing and heated words between both camps. Meyer picked himself up from the floor and told his men to stand down. They did.
He glared at Bugsy and said, “So that’s how we gonna play the game now? Hit someone when they’re caught off guard? I thought you were better than that, brother.”
Bugsy pivoted and walked away, leaving Meyer grimacing.
Meyer collected himself and exited the ring, his armed goons following behind him. Before he left the gym, he heard Bugsy saying to someone on the phone, “I’ll be there soon as possible!”
4
Scott stood there and could only watch Wacka take off with Maxine behind the wheel. He felt helpless at the moment, but he would not stay that way for long. He was pissed that a two-bit thug had gotten the best of him and his men and escaped with the love of his life.
What made things worse was seeing Maxine’s mother sprawled out under the doorframe. She had suddenly collapsed. Was it from a stray bullet? He ran over to her to provide aid, but there was no blood, no bullet holes. Inexplicably, she was unconscious.
“Call 911 and clean up the situation,” he told Mason.
They quickly went into action. Their guns were placed into the SUV and hidden in a secret stash compartment. The ambulance was on the way.
Scott immediately called Bugsy; he would need his son’s assistance too. He held the senior woman in his arms and couldn’t stop worrying about Maxine. This madman had taken her hostage, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it. He was enraged by the strong possibility he wouldn’t see her alive again. It was a hard thing for him to swallow. He wanted to put his fist through a wall and flip over cars.
It didn’t take long for the cops to swarm onto the scene. They came from both directions with their lights blaring, and several cops hurried out of their marked cars like it was a movie scene. They were expecting trouble. Neighbors had called in the disturbance and the quiet Sunday morning was looking like chaos in Baghdad.
“Hands up, motherfuckers! Everybody freeze! No sudden moves,” an officer shouted at the men.
Scott kept his cool and stayed near the old woman, remaining crouched with her in his arms. He shot an intense look at the approaching cops and shouted, “She needs help!”
In a loud, commanding voice, another officer shouted, “Get your fucking hands up, now!” His gun was trained on Scott’s head.
Scott growled under his breath and stood up. He didn’t want to become another nameless face on a t-shirt while people marched for justice. Too many black men were dying at the hands of trigger-happy police officers.
Officers went to assist Maxine’s mother while Scott was roughed up. A sergeant approached him, and the man wanted to be an asshole today. He cursed at Scott and called him a thug. Scott knew his rights. Neither he nor his men had committed a crime. The only crime committed was Maxine being kidnapped. But he didn’t need the NYPD’s help for that. He would handle it on his own. And he had lawyers that would chew these officers up and spit ’em out like used gum.
“Is there a problem here, sergeant?” Scott asked him gruffly. “Why are we being harassed?”
“There’s been a report of disturbance and gunfire being heard in the area,” the sergeant said.
“No guns here. I was here to see a friend, and, unfortunately, she fell ill during our visit,” said Scott calmly, adjusting his suit.
The sergeant looked doubtful. Scott was well dressed, and his men didn’t fit the profile of typical churchgoers up early Sunday morning. His officers searched the SUVs but came up empty. The guns were well hidden and secured in false bottoms of the vehicles. The sergeant wanted to hold Scott and his goons on suspicion, but they had nothing on them.
“Unfortunately, when we left the house, we came out to find our tires shot out, and we don’t know by whom,” Scott said.
The sergeant frowned. Something wasn’t adding up, but he wasn’t a detective. Neighbors emerged from their homes and gawked at the scene. The cold weather wasn’t welcoming, and their Sunday morning had started off with a bang. The only thing the cops could do was take down their statements and make sure everything was okay, including the old woman. The ambulance arrived, and EMS workers rushed to her aid.
Scott looked composed in front of the cops, but he was bubbling with rage, vengeance, and concern for Maxine. Each moment he spent on the block detained with the NYPD was a moment too long for him. He wanted to jump into action and make phone calls. He knew the car, and he remembered the license plate number. He wanted his men on it ASAP.
It looked like the president’s motorcade had arrived on the Brooklyn block, as the three black Chevrolet Suburban trucks parked across the street. The sergeant and the cops were in awe and watchful. The doors to the vehicles opened, and several black men climbed out. Each one of them looked too dangerous for the cops’ taste.
Now who are they? the sergeant asked himself.
Bugsy and his men approached the scene. They moved with authority, not caring for the sea of blue surrounding the area. The only thing Bugsy was concerned with his father’s well-being. Seeing Scott in the front yard, he walked that way flanked by his new right-hand men, Choppa and AJ. Two cops tried to interrupt his gathering with his father, but Bugsy looked at them intently and said, “That’s my dad, and I need to talk to him.”
The rookie cops were inundated with intense stares from dangerous looking men. They reminded them of the Nation of Islam, and the cops didn’t want trouble that could give them those five minutes of fame on the Internet. Several neighbors had their phones out recording the commotion. They stepped aside reluctantly and minded their business.
Bugsy approached his father with some unease. “What’s going on, Pop? What happened?”
“Take a walk with me,” Scott said.
Bugsy and Scott trekked away from the front yard alone. Bugsy was itching to hear what Scott had to say.
“Maxine’s been kidnapped.”
“What? By who?” he asked.
“I don’t know, but I need to find her.”
“We’ll find her, Pop. I’ll get my people on it right away,” Bugsy said with urgency in his voice.
Whatever his father needed, Bugsy was ready to provide tenfold. He would not leave his father’s side until everything was okay. The two attempts on Scott’s life and now Maxine’s kidnapping made Bugsy feel edgy. He thought about his woman, Alicia, and to alleviate his worries, he called her to make sure that she was okay.
“I’m fine, baby,” she said to him.
“Okay, just be careful and call me if there’s something wrong,” he said.
“I will. Love you.”
“I love you too.” He hung up and exhaled. The last thing he ever wanted was to lose her, so he knew how his father was feeling about Maxine’s abduction.
Maxine’s mother was wheeled to the ambulance on a gurney and placed inside, where they were still working on her condition. She wasn’t looking too good. Scott sent one of his soldiers to the hospital with her to make sure she would be okay. Then Scott and Bugsy got into the back seat of the Chevrolet SUV, and they were driven away with their motorcade following.
During the ride to their location, they continued to talk and speculate. Scott was frantic. He did not understand the kidnapper, or why he wanted Maxine. But a wolf recognized another wolf, and Scott knew the man had murdered before. The man’s sketchy eyes and bold actions wer
e evidence. Scott and Bugsy concluded that the man had come from Deuce. He had to be one of Deuce’s violent thugs. But why take Maxine? The man had Scott dead in his sights. He could have killed him right there, but he didn’t. What kind of game was he playing? The troublesome theory they came up with was that the man would torture and kill Maxine to get to Scott. Deuce wanted to see Scott suffer. Somehow, his rival had quickly acquired accurate information on him and Maxine.
“We’ll find her,” Bugsy said.
Scott didn’t reply. He lit a cigar to ease his mind. They had to find her. They had no choice.
Bugsy swiveled his head left and gazed out the back window. He had a chilling thought—a passing notion that it was Layla behind the kidnapping. It made perfect sense to him. His mother had motive to do it, and she knew Maxine’s address. They used to be friends, so Layla would know to track Maxine where she would be most vulnerable. He wondered why his father didn’t point fingers at her. Maybe he was too upset to think clearly.
Bugsy kept the assumption to himself. If Scott suspected it was Layla, he might kill her. Though Bugsy opposed his mother, the last thing he wanted for her was death. Bugsy knew how far Layla would go to win—and to hurt Maxine was winning. His mother could be a coldhearted bitch. Bugsy suspected she killed Penelope, and now it was Maxine’s turn to die. Layla wasn’t going down without a fight. She loved a good brawl.
5
Oh shit . . . oh, eat that pussy . . . oh god! Do you, nigga! Do you!” Layla hollered.
Her manicured hands dug into his bald head, as she arched her back and spread her legs on the comfortable king-size bed. Her muscular and chocolate knight had a tight grip around her lower half, and he was eating her pussy out like a champ. He tasted her sweet and earthly juices. Her pink center was glistening with moisture. Layla felt she so needed this. She needed to get her mind off things, especially the separation from her husband.
Her raw sensuality drove him over the edge. The man licked, sucked, tongued, and licked more below. She grabbed his head and held it to her pussy, feeling the warmth of his tongue working her clit and everything else. She was having mini orgasms in his mouth. Her muscles tensed up, causing her to arch her back. He encircled his arms around her thighs tighter so she couldn’t get away from him.
Mafioso [Part 3] Page 2
