Winter had frozen the land and decorated the trees with ice as thick as cake frosting. There was a lake a half-mile away and trails throughout the property. The property also boasted a horse facility that included a ten-stall barn with tack room, feed room, wash rack, outdoor ring, and numerous paddocks with four-board fencing. Scott had a thing for horses and had invested hundreds of thousands of dollars into breeding thoroughbreds.
The main residence was a mansion placed in the middle of the farmland, at the end of a long driveway flanked by board fenced paddocks. The mansion overlooking the vast property was like a palace inside with the latest amenities. The interior was decorated with stone fireplaces and giant flat screens.
In the mansion’s great room, the men were greeted with food and drinks, and they socialized like they were at a convention. The West goons were ready for war. They all had heard about the kidnapping of Scott’s new love—or old flame—Maxine. They knew about Whistler and Lucky’s affair, and now he was an enemy to them all, as was Deuce and his DMC soldiers. They all knew there was a civil war brewing inside the organization. Word on the street was that Layla West had broken off from the faction, stolen an abundance of money from her husband, and had started her own thing with Meyer and Lucky on her team.
It was the first time Scott had called all of them to one location. He had a lot on his plate, but he wasn’t buckling or folding in defeat. If the king wanted a war, then the men were prepared to paint the city red with their enemies’ blood.
Scott lingered in the master suite alone, contemplating his next move. It was time to galvanize his soldiers. The wolves were trying to knock down his door, believing he was weak from the gossip they’d heard. Whistler was gone, his wife was against him, Lucky and Meyer had defected, and Deuce was trying to make a mockery of his reputation and damage the organization. The wolves wanted to take his empire apart, but they all had another thing coming. He was a veteran of the streets and war. He knew how to survive and read his enemies.
Bugsy was there to oversee everything and everyone. He was respected and feared—the prince to the king. He stood tall among the dozens of goons on the farm. He was the second in command, but it was his father’s show.
Scott loomed into the great room looking the part of a leader and a king, dressed in his black tailored suit on such a cold day and his diamond Rolex watch peeking from underneath his diamond cufflinks. His presence was intimidating and demanded respect. To many in the room, especially the younger goons, he was a myth. Finally, they were seeing the man in charge in person. Their leader was flanked by his son and three other armed goons.
Scott eyed the men crowded into the room and stood in quiet for a moment. He puffed on his cigar, and his silence was making a statement. Once he showed up, the room fell quiet, knowing he was about to speak. But he didn’t. He only stood there smoking his cigar in silence, and it bewildered Bugsy and others.
Why were they there? Why did he invite everyone to the farm if he would not give them a speech, give those orders, or animate them with rage and hate?
But then he spoke. “I have a treat for y’all niggas,” he finally said. “It’s outside in the stall barn.”
He walked away. His soldiers exited into the cold weather and walked toward the stall barn in droves. Bugsy walked with them. He was in the dark like everyone else.
Once there, several of Scott’s lieutenants removed large wooden crates from the barns and pried them open with crowbars. Everyone looked on as the men removed several advanced and high-powered weapons from the crates. There were dozens of Heckler & Koch MP7A1s, over fifty TEC-9s, enough Uzis for an army, and a handful of Z-M LR-300s.
The soldiers were like kids in a toy store. The sight of the weapons generated a new level of enthusiasm among the troops. Bugsy stood there near his father and watched the men unload the weapons from the crates. Where did they come from? Bugsy thought. He knew they must have cost his father a small fortune, but they were worth the payment. Now he saw the reason Scott wanted all their goons on the farm. The excitement on everyone’s faces was evident. Scott had galvanized his troops into taking action without saying a single word. Bugsy was impressed.
“Now, y’all niggas got your fuckin’ toys, I wanna see results with them,” Scott boomed out at them with authority. “I want to see every last one of Deuce’s men gunned down and destroyed.”
Scott didn’t care about the fallout it would create on the streets. He’d had enough of the bullshit. His lawyers were on standby, and his peoples knew to keep their mouths shut if caught. Everyone was ready.
Half of the goons were dispatched to Delaware, and those remaining would stay in the city to hunt for the man who’d abducted Maxine.
Scott turned to Bugsy and said, “I want you in Delaware too. You’re the only one I can trust to get things done right down there. You got the guns and the manpower to smoke that muthafucka out from his hole once and for all.”
Bugsy was taken aback by the request. He didn’t mind the order, but he was his father’s right-hand man, and he felt he should be close by with everything going on. He didn’t disobey the order. Bugsy understood that Deuce was their top priority. They couldn’t underestimate their rival any longer. The mistake had cost them dearly. With him still breathing, no one would ever be safe.
Bugsy nodded. “I’m on it. I already got something conjured up to make him come out of hiding.”
“Get it done.”
Bugsy knew he would.
Mason received an urgent phone call and knew he had to deliver the news to Scott right away. He walked toward his boss and whispered in his ear, “It’s Maxine. They found her—alive.”
“Where is she?” he asked with apprehension in his voice.
“In the hospital,” Mason said.
“The hospital?”
“She was in a terrible car accident on the Belt Parkway. She’s in Brookdale.”
The news made Scott pivot and hurry from the stall barn. He was on a mission to get back to the city quickly. He needed to see her. He needed to see if she was okay. He remained deadpan and marched toward the SUV. He wanted to be by her side. And he wanted answers. Where was the goon? How did she get into an accident? He climbed into the backseat of the Escalade, and his chauffeur whisked him away. He left Bugsy in charge.
8
The Learjet descended toward the private airfield in Miami. The pilot announced that they would be touching down in fifteen minutes. Layla downed the last of the champagne from her stemmed glass feeling ambivalent about being back in Florida. She was there for business, not pleasure. She had no access to her estate in the Keys and arranged to check into a hotel near the beach. The compound was a painful reminder of the grief and betrayal she’d been through. Fortunately, she had moved on to bigger and better things.
Layla stared out the window, observing the city below come closer and closer as her plane descended. It was mid-January, early afternoon, and it was a sunny and beautiful day in Miami—a complete contrast to the New York cold and snow. The plane touched down on the sun-drenched runway, and the pilots skillfully guided the Learjet onto the tarmac. The plane came to a complete stop near an idling black Maybach. The door opened, and the stairs came down. Layla, Lucky, and Meyer exited the plane and entered the Mercedes. The chauffeur exited the runway and drove toward the expressway. Immediately, Layla was on the phone conducting business, making big boy moves.
“We’re in Miami. Our ETA is fifteen minutes,” she said to someone over the phone.
“Who that?” Meyer asked brusquely.
“Insurance,” Layla replied.
While the driver navigated the Maybach through the Miami traffic, Layla sat looking unbothered. If she was nervous about meeting with cartel kingpin Angel Morales, it didn’t show on her face or actions. To her kids, she seemed as cool a cucumber.
“Where is this meeting at?” Meyer asked.
“In Coconut Grove,” Layla said.
“I don’t trust this fool, Ma. I don’t trust the fuckin’ cartel,” Meyer voiced.
“He’s willing to meet with me, so you keep your temperament cool and chill, Meyer. The last thing we need is any problems. I have enough of that with your father. We need a connect in these streets, so I’ll do the talkin’. The two of y’all observe and watch my back,” Layla said to her children.
“I am chill, and I got your back. I’m just sayin’, this fool got a nasty reputation for making people disappear, even for the slightest disrespect. I heard these muthafuckas cut up bodies and dump ’em in barrels of acid—fuck a nigga up fo’ real. No body, no murder, right?” Meyer said, almost sounding impressed by it.
“It’s the cartel. What do you expect?” Lucky said.
“I expect them to treat us with respect once we’re there. If not, then they ain’t gonna be the only fools that will make a body disappear.”
“Everything will be okay. Our reputation precedes us from the streets to business, and Angel is a businessman from my understanding. I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse,” Layla said.
“And if he does?” Meyer questioned her.
“He won’t,” she replied with confidence.
Meyer smiled and replied, “The ball’s in your hands, Ma. Let’s roll.”
The Maybach traveled south on S. Dixie Highway and soon reached the affluent and lush neighborhood called Coconut Grove—a charming, bayside village within urban Miami. The sleek Maybach approached a sprawling estate at the end of Anchorage Way, and it came to a stop at the towering iron gates, where an armed Latino man stood guard. He gawked at the vehicle with suspicion. He approached the car with a scowl and leaned into the driver’s seat. He asked, “Who you here to see?”
“Layla West to see Angel Morales,” the chauffeur replied.
The guard got on his two-way radio and called it in to his superiors. It took less than twenty seconds for them to respond.
“She’s expected. Let her through.”
The guard nodded and waved them through. The gates slowly opened, and the chauffeur moved the vehicle through the gates and onto the property. Layla wasn’t impressed with the extravagant estate. Her former estate was bigger and better. She eyed the trimmed shrubberies and the slim trees; everything was neatly manicured, and it made her think of her sexy gardener, Fabian. Oh, how she missed watching him work shirtless on her property. She wished she had fucked him.
The Maybach finally came to a stop outside the two-story home surrounded by privacy and opulence. Two armed guards were posted outside the double doors. Things were looking serious already.
The Maybach doors opened thanks to their chauffeur, and Layla was the last to exit the vehicle. Looking stunning in her open-back little black dress and high stilettos, she strutted toward the house with an air of confidence about her. Meyer and Lucky followed her inside. They were greeted by one of Angel’s men, and he led them past lots of rooms and long hallways. Layla’s stilettos clicked softly against the marble floors as she edged down the hall behind the henchmen. She strutted past rare paintings and cultural statues. She felt for a Mexican thug, the man had some taste in his decor.
The trio was led outside, and before they were to step any farther into the area, they were greeted by several security guards who all looked like they had swallowed something sour. Docked nearby was a 100-foot yacht.
“You all must be searched before meeting with the boss,” the lead security guard said.
Meyer immediately let them know, “I’m strapped, nigga.” He lifted his shirt to reveal the 9mm tucked in his waistband. He also had a pistol concealed in an ankle holster.
The guards looked at Meyer deadpan. They didn’t see him as a threat, as he was outgunned and outnumbered, but he still had to surrender his weapons. He did so reluctantly. With that, the trio was led across the private 90-foot cement dock and boarded the lavish yacht.
Angel Morales sat at the stern with a bottle of Cristal champagne in an ice bucket in front of him. He was surrounded by several other yachts, the beautiful blue ocean, and a bright sun. Angel stood upon their arrival and smiled at them.
“Layla West, the wife of a street legend,” he greeted them.
“Legends are usually dead, and my husband is very much alive,” she replied quietly.
He smiled. “Yes, he is . . . and too bad he’s playing for the wrong team,” he said, referring to Scott’s business relationship with Angel’s rival, Javier Garcia.
“Well, I’m not here to talk about my husband. I’m here to talk business,” Layla replied.
“I see. Sit. Let’s talk.”
Angel had a cigar shoved in the side of his mouth. Men and their cigars. What is so special about them? she thought. Layla and Lucky sat opposite Angel on the stern. Meyer stood. He wanted to be on his p’s and q’s. He didn’t trust the man.
“Champagne?” Angel offered them.
Angel’s male servant immediately loomed from the yacht’s interior, ready to serve the guests with whatever they needed. Layla waved him off. She wanted to get straight to her reason for coming there.
Angel took a pull from the cigar and fixed his attention on Layla. She was a breathtaking woman—more beautiful than he’d imagined.
“You want to do business with me, this is what I hear,” he said calmly.
“I didn’t travel to Miami just to socialize and take in the view . . . been there and done that,” Layla said candidly.
He chuckled. “I know that you’re no stranger to my city.”
His appearance didn’t seem dangerous or threatening. Angel was mild-mannered, standing five-eight and 180 lbs. His wardrobe was neatly put together. He wore white shorts, a clean white shirt with white loafers, and a gold watch around his wrist. There was nothing gaudy about him. He was missing out on muscles, with slicked-back hair and a neat Freddie Prinze mustache. He didn’t even have a two-pack under his white shirt. What he lacked in physical dominance, he made up for with his brutal temperament. He was a dangerous man with a hair-trigger temper. He’d collected enough bodies to fill a cemetery.
“Listen,” Layla leaned forward in her seat, “I have the muscle and the means. All I need is a connect to help build my organization,” she said.
“You see, my problem with you is you’re a señora. And I always believed a señora is only good for two things—giving me pussy and giving birth,” he said.
The insensitive comment made Meyer scowl. Lucky frowned too, but Layla didn’t even flinch at the remark.
Angel then continued with, “And two, your Scott’s señora, and do I need a war with him and Javier by jumping into bed with you? I hear there’s a lot of discord in your camp.”
“You wouldn’t have taken this meeting with me if you weren’t willing to hear me out,” replied Layla.
He puffed on his cigar and wasn’t quick to respond to her comment. He did everything leisurely. He was the boss, and he didn’t have to hurry for anyone.
“How do I benefit from you?” asked Angel. “How can you guarantee that our business dealings will be worth the heat?”
Layla sat back and crossed her long legs in front of him. “I can handle Scott.” She meant that. “I’m a dangerous woman with the heart of a warrior. I don’t scare easily, if at all. Now, you might think señoras are only to be fucked, which is understandable. But I didn’t come this far to debate antiquated ideologies. But to let you know how serious I am, I came with gifts.”
She glanced at Meyer and nodded. He pivoted and left the boat.
“I like you already,” said Angel.
“I don’t want you to like me; I want you to respect me,” she said.
Angel laughed. He reached forward and removed the champagne bottle from the ice bucket and poured himself a full glass. He took a sip and leaned back. H
is eyes were on Layla and her lovely figure in the tight, black dress.
“I assume you heard about my reputation,” he said.
“I have. I vetted you, as I know you’ve vetted me,” she said.
“So knowing what you know about me, does it scare you? Because believe me, I treat women as equals to men when it comes to punishment.”
Layla didn’t miss a beat. She locked eyes with him. “I’m a businesswoman, and I can hold my own in the streets and anywhere else. Do I look like I’m ready to fuck you over?”
Just then, Meyer arrived back on the yacht carrying a brown duffle bag. It caught Angel’s attention. Meyer walked over to him with Angel’s gun-toting goons watching his every move. Meyer placed the duffle bag on the table near Angel and slowly unzipped it. Angel took a peek and saw the abundance of cash inside. It was 1.5 million dollars to be exact.
Layla looked at him smugly and said, “Like I said, I’m about my business, and I’m ready to work with you. That’s just a taste.”
“And what’s your network like?” Angel asked her.
“I learned from the best, and I have a team put together in New York City, Delaware, New Jersey, and upstate. You deliver the kilos to me in New York, and I’ll take over from there. I can guarantee turnover in a week’s time,” she said.
“A bitch in your position and you still want to run and play in the mud with the dogs and get your cute shoes dirty. I find that puzzling. You have many legal businesses and you can step away from all of this, so why?”
“Because this shit—it’s in my fuckin’ blood. I love the hustle, and I love the power. It’s the one thing that gets my pussy truly wet,” Layla replied.
Angel laughed again. “I’ll toast to that,” he said, holding his glass up.
Meyer stood near his mother, still on edge. He felt he could never trust a man like Angel Morales, and he would protect his mother by any means necessary. Lucky remained silent and allowed her mother to work her magic with the cartel kingpin. She was nervous, but she didn’t show it. She too wanted respect from men like Angel Morales and to gain that power—not just on the streets, but everywhere from the political world to the corporate. She didn’t want to be in her parents’ shadow forever. So, she watched her mother work, and she was taking notes.
Mafioso [Part 3] Page 4
