Mafioso [Part 3]

by Nisa Santiago

  When he first saw Maxine that day in their Florida home, he was taken aback. He was standoffish, even though he wanted to scoop her up into his arms and hug and kiss her passionately. Soon he charmed his way back into her life. Layla was foolish for bringing his ex-girlfriend back around. He did not understand what she was thinking.

  Scott sighed as he took Maxine’s still hand into his and felt guilt entirely consume him. He was a killer, but today he felt like putty, and his emotions were heightened. He’d been through a lot in the past months with the death of his kids, warring with a rival crew, Whistler’s betrayal, and now Maxine being kidnapped and winding up in a coma.

  Scott was determined to remain by her bedside until she woke up. He’d abandoned her a long time ago, but today, he was rooted by her side.

  While Scott was deep in thought, it finally happened. Her eyes flickered, and her hand gradually moved in his. Scott perked up and watched her with anticipation. He immediately alerted the doctors. They hurried into the room to check her vitals and to make sure Maxine was okay. She was finally awake, and she was aware. She stared up at Scott watching her with concern. She was happy to see his handsome face. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead and gently squeezed her hand. It seemed like she would be okay, although she had a lot of pain medication in her system.

  “You had me worried,” he said. “You were in a coma for over a week.”

  She wondered if he’d been by her side the entire time.

  A week . . . the last thing Maxine remembered was being held at gunpoint. She didn’t even remember the car accident she’d caused to escape Wacka. Wacka would have killed her. His eyes didn’t lie. The man was overtaken by rage and revenge. It was a miracle she even survived her escape. She had seen her life flashing before her eyes.

  All she could do was lie there and recuperate slowly. Her legs felt numb and she felt some pain in her body. Scott continued to talk and comfort her. With him there, loving her and being her man, it felt like ’94 again, when life was good and they were so young and had so many dreams.

  The door opened and Bugsy entered the room. He smiled Maxine’s way and he greeted her warmly. He kissed the side of her cheek and was genuinely happy to see she was out of her coma.

  “You had us shook,” he said to her.

  Maxine stared into his face. The guilt consumed her, and she burst into tears. Looking at Bugsy, who showed concern for her well-being, made her feel like a monster.

  What had her life become? What had she become? Arranging the death of Gotti, Bonnie, and Clyde brought forth no closure. She thought their murders would fill the void, remove her sadness, but it didn’t. Maxine wasn’t proud of what she had done. It was the past, but the guilt would stain her soul—it would forever corrupt her core.

  Scott wiped away her tears and continued to comfort her. He believed she was crying because of the kidnapping. She had overcome a terrifying incident. Something like that could scar someone for life.

  “Don’t worry about that fool. I got every nigga on him and we’ll find him. He’s gonna pay for what he did to you,” Scott told her with conviction.

  She remained silent. In reality, she hoped that they never found him—alive anyway. Wacka had too many dark secrets that, if revealed, would turn her entire life upside down and most likely be her demise.

  “Tell me anything you know about this nigga. Did he say anything about where he’s from or who sent him at you?” he asked her.

  Maxine shook her head. “He was just there at my mother’s place. I don’t know why.”

  “Don’t stress yourself, baby. He won’t bother you anymore. I promise you that.”

  Scott and Bugsy shared a quick look between themselves. It was something bad—something that they weren’t telling her.

  Maxine noticed it. “What is it?” she asked them.

  They both looked reluctant to tell her. Scott took her hand into his again with his eyes locked on to hers. He would be the one to tell her. It was his right. Bugsy wanted his father to delay the news, since she’d just come out of a coma, but Scott felt it was better just to tell it—rip it off like a bandage.

  He gently caressed her hand and said, “I have some bad news.”

  “What?” She felt her heart flutter and her stomach twist.

  He heaved a sigh. “It’s your mother . . . . She had a stroke . . . . She passed away while you were in a coma.”

  Maxine’s chest tightened, and she began to sweat profusely. Large, round teardrops flowed down her cheeks.

  “No! Ohmygod . . . no, please! Are you serious!” Her cries echoed from the hospital room.

  “She died peacefully, Maxine,” said Scott.

  She sobbed in the hospital bed, the sorrow wracking her soul. She was inconsolable, but Scott was there to comfort her the best he could.

  Bugsy had to leave the room. His cell phone was ringing and he stepped outside to take the call. He strolled down the hallway and could still hear Maxine wailing. He had to take care of business, though. It was AJ on the phone.

  “What is it?” Bugsy asked.

  “We got an exact location on where the money’s at. It’s been sitting for three days straight, unmoved,” AJ said.

  “A’ight, you know what I want,” Bugsy said, choosing his words wisely while on the phone.

  “I got you.”

  “Meet me tonight—you know where—and we’ll discuss this further,” said Bugsy.

  “Got you,” AJ said.

  Bugsy hung up. He knew it was only a matter of time before their trap was discovered. He wanted to execute his plan immediately, and he wanted to handle it alone. His father was still distracted over Maxine’s kidnapping and her condition. His nerves were rattled. But it would be unwise not to inform Scott of what was going on.

  Bugsy turned and marched back to the room. He slowly opened the door to see his father holding Maxine in his arms.

  Scott noticed his son looking in on them, and Bugsy’s expression said there was something crucial that he needed to speak to him about. But he didn’t want to leave Maxine.

  “What is it?” Scott asked.

  “It’s about Deuce,” Bugsy said.

  The name made Scott’s blood boil. Scott believed that Deuce had sent one of his henchmen to kidnap Maxine. He didn’t want to depart her side, but this was important too.

  “Baby, give me one minute. I need to handle something,” he said to her.

  He grudgingly left her side to talk to his son in private about their problem. They went into the stairwell to talk. Bugsy gave him the 411—told his father about the trap he deployed, the robbery and cash, and where it was.

  “We have a beat on it right now, and the pigs are all lined up and ready for the slaughter,” Bugsy said.

  Besides Maxine waking up from her coma, this was the next best news for Scott to hear. He wanted to be there to see his enemy fall. He was itching to do it himself and finally put a bullet between Deuce’s eyes. However, Bugsy advised that he should stay in New York and remain by Maxine’s side. She would need him.

  Looking his father in the eyes, Bugsy said with confidence, “I got this, Pop. I’m on it.”

  “Bring him to me alive if you can. If you can’t, then just bring me his fuckin’ head,” Scott said seriously.

  Bugsy nodded. He had his father’s blessing to raise hell. Bugsy turned and descended the stairwell while Scott went back to Maxine’s side.

  Several hours later, four vanloads of killers with heavy artillery were on the New Jersey Turnpike headed south. It was a three-hour drive to Delaware.

  18

  It was 3 a.m., the devil’s hour as some call it. In Tarsha’s case, the devil may be retired from the game. She sat shotgun next to her friend, Tammy, in Tammy’s Cherokee after another night of partying with friends. The Jeep sat idling and parked outside her home. Tarsha r
eleased a deep sigh. She was a little tipsy and regretted coming back.

  Tammy smoked her Newport and shared it with Tarsha, and then said, “Damn bitch, you act like you about to do a stint in prison and shit. What’s up wit’ you?”

  “My baby daddy is gettin’ on my damn nerves,” Tarsha said.

  “He stayin’ wit’ you now?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “And I guess by the look on your face, it ain’t goin’ too well,” said Tammy.

  Tarsha took a pull from the cigarette and exhaled. “I wish he would leave! Broke-ass muthafucka!”

  “Damn, girl. It’s that bad?”

  “Tammy, you don’t even know the half of it. Nigga can’t fuck, can’t make any money, can’t do shit. He’s just a fuckin’ cripple sittin’ in my fuckin’ house.”

  “Damn. Wacka? Fo’ real?”

  “Fo’ real, girl. Nigga went to New York to take care of some bitch that did him dirty and ended up getting a few of his fingers cut the fuck off. Like what the fuck, nigga? You supposed to be this big-time gangster, and you can’t even handle some bitch?”

  “Oh shit!”

  “Yeah, and now he expects me to take care of him—like I’m fuckin’ Molly Maids and shit,” Tarsha griped.

  Tarsha took a few more needed pulls of nicotine and exhaled. She stared at the entrance to her home, knowing Wacka was inside and probably sleeping or looking sorry.

  “What you gonna do, girl?” Tammy asked her.

  “I don’t know, find me a new nigga,” she joked, but was really dead-ass.

  “Yo, you know that nigga Michael is feelin’ you, and he moving up in the game too. He was all over you tonight, buying you drinks,” said Tammy.

  “Yeah, but I heard he got a small dick.”

  The girls laughed.

  “Small dick, deep pockets, though.” Tammy laughed.

  “Bitch, you know I need the best of both worlds.”

  “I feel you, girl,” Tammy agreed.

  They continued to smoke and have their girl talk. Tarsha felt swallowed up in anger and unfairness. She hadn’t signed up for this. What other options did she have besides taking care of a cripple and a has-been in the game?

  She lingered in the Jeep for a few more minutes, then told Tammy goodbye and climbed out into the cold, late-January weather. She looked good in a pair of skinny jeans and stilettos, showing off her ample cleavage in a sexy leather corset she wore under her winter coat. Bright pearls adorned her neck, and she had on matching pearl earrings. The clothes and jewelry were perks she had received from Wacka in his heyday—when he actually got money.

  She entered her home to see Wacka snoring on the couch with both his hands bandaged. He looked like a shell of himself. He’d lost weight and he looked weak. Weeks of trying to take care of him was sickening and tiring, and Tarsha no longer had the patience for him. So day in and day out, her acid tongue was emasculating him. She gave no fuck about his feelings. She wasn’t happy. She wasn’t satisfied. She wanted him gone so she could find a new man to take care of her and her son. What were they going to do for money with him not out there taking from others? He had no pot to piss in. The only thing he was good for was watching their son.

  She frowned at the sight of him, disappointed by what he was becoming, and trotted off to bed.

  The next morning, Tarsha woke up to the smell of someone cooking in the kitchen. The aroma of scrambled eggs and toast stirred her awake. She removed herself from the bed, donned a robe, and left the bedroom to investigate. She walked into the kitchen to see Wacka trying to prepare breakfast in his feeble condition.

  “What the fuck you doing?” she barked at him.

  “I’m makin’ breakfast,” he said.

  The kitchen was a mess—eggshells everywhere, toast burning in the toaster. Their son was seated at the table, watching his daddy’s attempt to scramble eggs with his hands bandaged. He could barely grip the spatula. It was pathetic. She didn’t want breakfast, especially not from him.

  “I’m not hungry for that shit,” she said with an attitude.

  “What you want then?”

  She pouted and huffed. “You know what the fuck I want from your ass—you know what, never mind. I don’t need shit from you. Just look at you, all fucked up and lookin’ weak. I never thought I would see the day when my baby father would look this fuckin’ pathetic. Nigga, you used to run these streets! Muthafuckas feared you out there! And you let some bitch fuck you up!”

  Wacka simply stood there and listened. The eggs were burning in the frying pan. Their son cried. Tarsha went over to him and picked him up, continuing to glare at Wacka and put him down with harsh words.

  “Nigga, we need shit for him like diapers and milk. He needs some clothes and shit, and money is fuckin’ low. Muthafucka, you were the man in our lives, but I guess you ain’t no more, right? Some bitch took your fingers and your fuckin’ balls!”

  Her words cut deep. Wacka no longer had the desire to finish making breakfast. He tossed the spatula across the room and marched out of the kitchen, feeling defeated by Tarsha’s callous words.

  Tarsha watched him leave the room and rolled her eyes and sighed. He couldn’t even be a man and curse her out. The nigga just stood there and took the verbal abuse. It was a sad, sad thing to see. Wacka used to be that nigga who didn’t play that shit, and it was like walking on eggshells around him. You didn’t want to catch his attention and piss him off.

  “I’m goin’ out tonight, so you might as well watch your fuckin’ son again. That’s the least you can fuckin’ do since you can’t do shit else around here,” she shouted.

  I need a real nigga and some real dick, she said to herself.

  She felt that her relationship with Wacka was over. A man who could do nothing for her—he didn’t want to fuck, couldn’t make money, couldn’t cook, couldn’t even eat her pussy right—was a man she needed to put behind her. They had history, but history would not help their situation and provide her with the life she was used to living.

  She heard a door close. He was in the bathroom. She didn’t care. Another sigh spewed from her mouth, and she carried her son into the next room.

  Wacka took a hard look at himself in the bathroom mirror. He felt wrecked. What he saw, he didn’t like. He stared miserably at himself and at the bandages that covered his hands. How could he be feared if he couldn’t even hold a gun correctly? That fuckin’ bitch, he thought. Maxine had destroyed him. He wanted to kill himself, but he couldn’t even pull the trigger.

  Such irony!

  Instead, he angrily pushed his forehead against the mirror and shattered it. He bled, but he didn’t care. He gazed at his warped reflection in the broken mirror. Like the mirror, Wacka felt broken, too. He repeated the same violent action again and again, until the mirror was gone completely with shards of glass scattered around and in the sink, and his face was coated with blood. He never thought he would see the day when his baby mama didn’t respect him—and the day he felt helpless and defenseless.

  19

  The Victorian brownstone on Remsen Street was a quiet area near the Brooklyn/Queens Expressway. It was an unassuming three-story in the middle of the block where a few of Scott’s men counted and protected millions of dollars brought in weekly from all over the city. Not too many people knew about the location. Two men could travel to the site and make the hefty cash drop. It was well guarded with steel doors in the front and back and security cameras craftily placed around the location. Inside the house, there were four men—three were muscle, and the fourth was the money man—the accountant, the money manager of the place. He was hood certified, and he made sure the count was always right.

  There were several areas in Brooklyn that Scott controlled, which collectively brought in two to three million dollars a week. But this was the central hub, where all the cash went before it got shipp
ed out of town, laundered, or invested overseas.

  Meyer and Luna sat outside the property scoping the place. Meyer knew what buildings to hit and what time to hit them, and the intel was passed down to his minions. The orders were to kill Scott’s men and take over everything. Layla wanted to leave a strong message. She wanted her husband to feel her wrath and know that the deaths of his men and the destruction of his organization were by her hands.

  With it being nightfall in the beginning of February, it was so cold outside that Meyer farted snowflakes and pissed ice. The Dodge Charger they sat inside idled with the heat on blast. Parked behind them was a car full of hired killers. They were eager to strike and seize their opportunity as soon as Meyer gave them the word. The money made them hungry. And the time was now.

  The block was empty and quiet. The cold kept everyone inside. It was an advantage for them. Meyer lit a cigarette and eyed the brownstone and waited. He looked at Luna and said, “You know that bitch I met at the sneaker store in Harlem the other day?”

  “Yeah, shorty was fine,” Luna said.

  “The bitch finally called me.”

  “That’s what’s up. What she about?”

  “She talks that smart and educated shit. I mean, she speaks three languages and done seen the world. She’s in school, trying to get her bachelor’s in business and communication,” Meyer said.

  “What, you intimidated by the bitch?” Luna said.