Layla and Angel worked out the details in shipment, payment, and logistics. She was ready to flood the city with so many drugs, it would look like the blizzard of ’96. She would show Scott and everyone else how she got down. It was her time, she felt, and she was ready to become the next Griselda Blanco, but even more powerful.
The trio left the house and climbed back into the Maybach. As the car drove away from the location, Layla felt proud of herself. She’d sealed the deal with Angel Morales, and this was only the beginning.
“What was your insurance that he wouldn’t kill us right there?” Meyer asked her.
Layla replied, “I vetted him and knew that he likes to take his meetings on his yacht. My insurance was our goons on the adjacent yacht with their guns trained on Angel. All I had to do was give the signal, and Angel’s brains would have blown out of his eye socket.”
“And we still would have been fucked. I was unarmed,” Meyer said.
“But our chauffeur wasn’t,” she said.
“So you had everything under control, huh?” Lucky said.
“I wasn’t goin’ in there blind,” said Layla.
It was all a risk, but it had paid off. Layla felt she thought everything through, but Meyer and Lucky knew that they were still on shaky ground. Lucky knew that you don’t betray or kill a man like Angel Morales and not have it blow back on you.
As the Maybach traveled to the hotel, a call from New York came in to Layla’s cell phone. The juicy gossip about Maxine had reached her in Miami.
“What happened?” she said.
By the time Layla got news from a source that Maxine had been kidnapped, the next thing she heard was that she’d escaped death and was in the hospital.
“That bitch got nine lives,” Layla exclaimed.
Layla was pissed off on so many levels. She couldn’t revel and gloat that Maxine was most likely kidnapped because of Scott. Maxine had stepped into her shoes just in time. She was making major moves and felt that Maxine and Scott deserved each other. Their time would come.
9
Lucky was happy to be back in New York. Miami was beautiful and sunny, and their meeting with Angel Morales had gone well, but there was nothing like home—though it was asshole cold in the Big Apple. Lucky had personal and business affairs to tend to. Like her mother, Lucky was a hustler. She was smart enough to know how to make something happen for herself and not fall victim to the streets. She had learned from the best—her father, even though she hated his guts at the moment. Scott and Whistler were once her idols, and they knew the street game. Her father could hide behind a suit-and-tie and his companies all he wanted, but he was still a Brooklyn drug dealer deep in the game.
Lucky was a hundred percent behind her mother, though. She would follow Layla into hell. The trust was there, and Layla had a plan and a motive. Her mother was determined to outshine Scott and take complete control over the drug trade and build up her empire. Layla was setting up a system for herself that seemed foolproof, starting with winning over Angel Morales. Layla planned to forge a level of trust with Angel so strong, he would support her when push came to shove.
Lucky glanced at herself in the small mirror in the sun visor. Her look tonight was simple— long hair in a ponytail, a baseball cap, blue jeans, black Puma sneakers, and a winter coat. Her gaze lingered on her droopy eye for a moment, a harsh reminder of what she’d been through. Lucky felt Whistler was to blame that she was no longer flawless. She was still pretty, but she wasn’t perfect anymore. Why not kill me? she thought. Why leave her alive to remember when they beat her and disfigured her? Why kill Gotti, Bonnie, and Clyde, but spare her life? Lucky had so many questions, and she wondered if she would ever get the answers. Would she ever run across the men again that brutally attacked her? She could remember the smell of one; his stench was strong of alcohol, cigarettes, and body odor.
Lucky snapped herself out of that nightmare and released a deep sigh. She sat parked outside the glass high-rise residential building on 57th Street in Hell’s Kitchen. Instead of her G-Wagen, she drove a green Tahoe—the company car, as her mother would put it. The name of her mother’s new empire was Boss Bitch, Inc. Layla had big plans, and they were being implemented skillfully. It was gonna be like Rome during its heyday.
She climbed out of the Tahoe and strutted toward the building in the middle of the night. Lucky was on a mission, one she hoped would benefit her. She needed tonight, especially with so much on her mind. She stepped into the lobby, moved past the night guard with ease, and headed toward the elevators. Moments later, she was on the fifteenth floor and knocking on the apartment door.
Carter answered with a smile, expecting the company at the late hour. He allowed her into the swanky apartment. It was something she was used to—the affluent lifestyle—her place being bigger than his. But as far as he knew, Lucky was a down-to-earth girl from humble beginnings. He did not understand who she was—that she was a West, and that her father was Scott West, major drug kingpin, real estate tycoon, and business mogul.
Dressed in a long, black robe and Nike slippers, looking like he had just stepped out of the shower, Carter looked at Lucky hungrily, like he just ordered takeout food. He was excited to see her. He was high yellow and clean shaven, but a solid looking man in his mid-forties with notable power. He wasn’t as powerful as her father, but Carter was a major player in the game, and he controlled areas in Staten Island, Philly, B-more, and West Virginia. Over the years, he’d taken a lot of losses, longer stints of jail time, and was shot three times in different incidents. Yet, he was still in the game. He was a survivor, and he knew the game and the streets like the back of his hand. It was one reason Lucky was drawn to him.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he said.
Do I?
She remained expressionless—no smile and no thank-you. What she was wearing seemed Salvation Army, but he liked her in the plain wardrobe. She wasn’t pretentious like the other women he’d encountered, and he was itching to spoil her rotten. He stepped toward her and promptly grabbed her roughly into his arms. It wasn’t a shock to her. He pushed her against the wall, pressed his body against hers, and locked his lips with hers. She didn’t resist. They kissed passionately. He swiped his tongue across hers, tasting her, learning her, demanding a lot more from her. Her coat flew off, his hands went up her shirt, and he cupped her breast. It was an intense moment. He wanted her so badly that his penis grew hard like steel and concrete combined. His robe opened up, and he was naked underneath. Lucky was still pinned to the wall when she took his hard dick into her hand and gently jerked him off while they continued to kiss passionately. Their breathing became one.
“I want you to fuck me,” she said into his ear.
He hurriedly undressed her. Her jeans dropped, her shirt ripped away, and her bra quickly unsnapped. Carter scooped Lucky up into his arms, urging her thighs apart so she could she straddle him. Still pinned to the wall with her legs wrapped around him, he thrust himself inside of her, not pausing to wrap up his dick. She grunted and felt him inside of her. What was it about older men she loved so much?
“Oh shit . . . Ooooh, you got that good pussy,” he howled, plunging deep inside her.
He continued to fuck her vigorously against the wall, feeling a strong orgasm brewing. He was dangerously close to getting his first. Her nails clawed into his shoulders, her hips bobbed, and her legs tightened around him with her tits smashed against his chest. She squirmed against him, clinging. He squeezed her ass and pumped his hard dick in and out of her.
“Fuck me!” she cried out. “I’m ’bout to come!”
It was becoming harder for him to hold out. Her pussy was tight and too wet. Suddenly, he released inside of her, shuddering from the excitement and feeling his knees wobble, but he remained upright and firm, still holding Lucky in his arms. Immediately, her walls tightened around him, and she screeched with pleasu
re as she came. Finally, he released her from his passionate hold and stepped back.
Shit! Carter exhaled. He needed to collect himself. The sexual rendezvous was intense. It almost felt like he would never stop coming inside of her. He’d never had it so good—and it was good. He was ready to spoil her, take her on a shopping spree again, and flaunt his wealth.
“I needed that,” she said.
“I did too,” he said.
Lucky was never one to be subtle. They were only two weeks deep, and he was already whipped. He was throwing money at her she didn’t need, taking her on shopping sprees that she could afford herself, and buying her diamonds she wouldn’t wear. But she loved the attention from him. Carter seemed to overlook her droopy eye. He believed that Lucky was a college kid in a one-parent home. Her fake mother was a doctor, and she never knew her father. It was a lie well told to him, and he wanted to take care of her. Carter wanted to parade his young and sexy woman around town, but Lucky wasn’t having any of it. She only wanted one thing from him, and that was dick. She was never giving her heart to another man again. It would strictly be sex and nothing else. Whistler had fucked her all the way up.
They’d met at a nightclub. He sat in VIP, and something about her transfixed him as she walked by. Carter knew sex when he saw it, and Lucky was sexy; he saw no flaws in her. Her body was to die for. The two exchanged numbers, and he’d been relentlessly pursuing her ever since.
The more Lucky shunned his romantic and sweet gestures, the more it made him want her. It turned him on, Lucky’s aloofness toward his money and power. Usually, bitches wanted Carter to wife them, but not Lucky. She continued to carry an exceedingly nonchalant attitude toward the things he could do for her. She was nineteen years old, and on one hand that made Carter feel young and virile, but when she didn’t want to be seen with him that made him feel unwanted and old, and sometimes used.
The one thing Lucky didn’t like about him was the controlling attitude—and his mouth. Trying to impress Lucky, and also to show he trusted her, he did the one thing that no drug dealer should ever do—and that was talk a lot. He wouldn’t stop running his mouth to her about his operation. He would tell Lucky everything about his business, his connect, his crimes, and his wealth. It was pillow talk. A hustler’s enemy.
But after fucking, she wanted nothing to do with him. He wanted her to stay the night. She didn’t want to.
“I want you to fly with me to Jamaica this weekend. I got a meeting with some peoples out there, and I’ll be staying in a beautiful resort—five stars, the best food, spa, and everything. You can enjoy the beach and the spa, manicures, and massage. Everything’s paid for. You don’t have to worry about anything,” he said.
She politely turned him down, saying, “I have class.”
“I’ll have you back Sunday night. You’ll have fun, believe me.”
“Maybe next time,” she said.
He was disappointed. Carter wanted more than just quickies with her. He wanted to get to know her better. He wanted to spoil her with the things she liked. But she never told him what she wanted.
10
Whistler sat shotgun in the black Yukon watching the front entrance to the warehouse with Deuce and Jimmy. The men smoked cigarettes and made small talk while armed like soldiers in a Rambo movie. They were accompanied by a dozen henchmen in cargo vans who were ready to pop off and kill everyone inside.
The location was well known to Whistler; it was one of Scott’s warehouses in Trenton, New Jersey. He told Deuce and Jimmy that the location was a large cash drop-off point—a hub between Delaware and New York—and five to ten million dollars could be inside.
Deuce wanted that money. He wanted to strike quickly and continue to wreak havoc on the West organization. With Whistler on their team—for now anyway, he felt it wouldn’t be long before he brought the West organization to its knees. He would cut off the head and watch it all collapse. Deuce wanted this more than anything. He wanted bloodshed, and he wanted to crush everything his rivals had built. The bonus would be to murder Layla and Lucky in front of Scott and his two sons.
Deuce was thinking crazy thoughts. His latest was ruminating about burying the whole West family alive. He’d dig five deep holes and bury them in wooden coffins in unmarked graves. The thought of them clawing at the wood until they ripped their fingernails out—gasping for air and screaming to no avail—excited him.
Deuce sat in the backseat and looked through his binoculars at the two-story, brick-and-metal warehouse near the railroad with arched windows, pilasters, and other corbelled brickwork. He inspected the exterior from his distance and it appeared to be his for the taking. Everything seemed quiet in the industrial part of town in the late evening. The sun was gradually descending behind the horizon, and the cold wind was blowing. There was a brown van parked nearby, and one man dressed in a bubble coat was standing alone near the place, pacing back and forth. If he was security, then Deuce believed it was a joke.
“We hit them hard and kill everyone inside,” said Deuce.
“I say we shouldn’t—not yet anyway. Something isn’t right,” Whistler protested.
“Fuck that, nigga. You don’t have a voice in this shit here. You’re intel, nigga, and it’s the only reason we kept you alive. If you correct wit’ this information, then we good,” said Deuce.
It was an uneasy relationship between them. Whistler had been caught slipping. He had been so worried about Scott and Lucky that he’d put Deuce on the back burner, and now he was paying for it. Deuce was smart, manipulative, and psychopathic. He had set the trap for Whistler and patiently waited for his capture.
Whistler griped about how the warehouse was oddly not guarded; one man standing outside didn’t make sense to him. He wanted to hold back on the attack. He felt it was a trap, but Deuce wasn’t listening. Deuce wanted to go into the place with his guns blazing, trap or no trap. It would be another knockdown on Scott.
Jimmy sat quietly for a moment in the driver’s seat. He watched everything in the surrounding area. “You sure about this, Deuce? Maybe he’s right . . . something ain’t right,” Jimmy said.
“Y’all niggas questioning me now? Huh, muthafuckas? You say it’s some serious money in there—millions of dollars—and we gonna let that shit go by without checkin’ it out? Y’all muthafuckas crazy. It’s tax time, and they gotta pay. I say we hit these muthafuckas now and fuck shit up. I’m tired of playing wit’ these niggas,” Deuce shouted. He was the boss, and he gave the executive order to his men.
Whistler and Jimmy seemed to acquiesce. They locked and loaded their weapons and exited the Yukon. Behind them, the doors to the vans opened up and a gang of armed goons exited into the street. Winter coats, handguns, and assault rifles—they looked like overzealous thugs in a rap video. But this was the real deal; every man approaching the warehouse had a murderous resume, and there was no director on set to yell “cut” if there was a mistake. Whistler was among the men carrying Glocks. His heart raced, and he was watchful of everything. He knew Scott, and he wouldn’t have made it so easy.
The man outside was taken out first and fast. He went down brutally with two bullets to his head. So far, so good. A dozen men were ready to storm the property. There was no turning back, trap or not. They kicked the door in and rushed into the building. Deuce’s men were met with minimum resistance and gunfire from Scott’s men. The gunfight was brief, and after the smoke cleared, three more of Scott’s men lay dead. Deuce spit on their bodies and felt victorious.
The men inspected the entire building, and there was no one else inside—no other threats. Deuce noticed several black barrels on pallets, twelve in total. They were quickly opened, and what everyone saw inside elated them. Even Deuce grinned like a school child when he saw that the barrels were filled with money bundled in ten-thousand-dollar stacks. It was more than they could count at the moment.
“Shit! Now
this is what the fuck I’m talkin’ about,” Deuce said.
Whistler stood in the background and was quiet. To him, it was still too easy. Did they not see it? Why were there only four men watching millions and millions of dollars? That uneasy feeling swam inside of him. Could it be a booby-trap? Could there be hundreds of men on their way to the location to kill them all? Whistler didn’t want to stick around and find out.
Deuce picked up a handful of stacks from the barrel and smiled at Whistler. “You did good, nigga. You were on point today.”
Whistler didn’t feel on point. He felt apprehensive. He gripped his gun tight, and said, “We need to leave quickly.”
“Yo, y’all niggas start loading this money up into the vans,” Deuce said. “We takin’ it all.”
They were all happy to oblige. The barrels were loaded into the white cargo vans for transportation.
Even Jimmy looked pleased with everything. Whatever apprehension he felt earlier flew out the door once he saw the money. He looked at Whistler and said, “Maybe your boy is getting sloppy.”
Scott was never sloppy with his business, especially with the money. Even if Scott slipped, he had Bugsy to catch him—and Bugsy was just as diabolical. He was one to watch out for. He was smart and calculating.
With the last barrel loaded into the van, Deuce wanted to leave a thank-you note behind. He cut the throat of one dead man in the warehouse and scrawled onto the drywall of the building with blood: Thanks for the gift! -DMC
He smiled at his ruthless handiwork. The bloody message was displayed loud and clear. Whoever came in afterward would right away see the Fuck-You message from DMC.
“Let’s get the fuck outta here,” Deuce said.
Mafioso [Part 3] Page 5
