Mafioso [Part 3]

by Nisa Santiago

  “Oh, y’all up there,” Alicia joked.

  He laughed. He couldn’t argue with her.

  He held her snugly against him and gazed at her. She smiled at his tenderness. He caressed her cheek. She touched him invitingly. What he felt, it was real. He wanted to be with Alicia forever. With her, everything felt normal. After what happened at the warehouse in Delaware, her touch made him human again, and her smile quieted the monster he had to become out there. She stirred in his arms and felt protected by him. There was no way Bugsy would allow anything to happen to her.

  “I love you so much,” he said, gazing into her eyes.

  “I love you too.”

  He saw a future with her. He saw her becoming his wife. He wanted no one but Alicia. She was everything he dreamed of. So he asked her, “Do you see yourself having a family with me . . . kids?”

  She smiled. “Do you want a family with me?”

  “I do.”

  “I do too,” she replied.

  It made him happy to hear that.

  “I think you would make a great father,” she said.

  “I would, right?” He laughed.

  There was one dilemma with that dream, and that was Bugsy’s family. He wanted normalcy in his children’s lives. He would teach them better than his parents taught him. He wouldn’t bring his street life anywhere around his kids like Scott and Layla had.

  Eventually, they stopped watching TV and focused on each other, kissing fervently and slowly undressing each other while sprawled on the couch. Alicia’s long legs were spread and straddled his lean frame. Her nakedness was beautiful, and she felt like paradise as he thrust his erection between her wet pink folds and groaned from the sudden jolt of pleasure. Their mouths hungrily devoured each other’s lips. She tightened both her legs together around his thighs, and Bugsy could feel the heat of her lust rising against him. Her eyes were bright with a lustful hunger for more; they glistened with a deeply devoted love for him.

  “Ooooh, Bugsy . . . oh God,” she moaned.

  With each deep penetration, he felt her convulse around his dick. He quickly pulled her up and made her ride him against the couch. Alicia bounced on his lap, crowding him with her passion while her tight walls compressed around his dick. The sensation was nearly mind blowing as her legs squeezed and she arched her back, feeling every bit of him inside of her.

  “I’m gonna come, baby!” she announced.

  His eyes closed and there was no place like home. Every bit of him invaded her. When she came, her body shuddered lightly against him. Their sex was the best, and when he finally came, it was like all the pieces to the puzzle were finally put into place.

  They collapsed against each other; her face was on his chest, her body warmly held in his arms. They exhaled.

  “I think we just got started on our family.”

  She laughed. “You so silly.”

  He looked at her intently. There was never any hesitation with it. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  26

  Another tailored suit and hard bottoms, another night out with Zoe. Once again, Meyer was looking more like Bugsy than himself. His time with Zoe was always uplifting and fun. He took her wherever she wanted to go, on his dime. Together, they toured the city like two kids, and she took Meyer places he would never go himself. They went to the top floor of the Empire State Building and walked around the observation deck. The view was breathtaking. She took him to the American Museum of Natural History, and they went skating at Rockefeller Center and saw a concert at Radio City Music Hall. Then there was the occasional dinner and a movie.

  It was a timeout from the thug life. When Meyer was around Zoe, he was someone different. She still believed he was into real estate and a businessman with the occasional club promoting.

  It’d been a while now, and she still had him waiting on the goodies. Usually, it only took a day to break in a new bitch and fuck, but Zoe had a ninety-day rule. She was adamant not to break it. If it were a lesser female, Meyer would have already told her to suck his dick, but this one was special. She was wifey material.

  The two walked in the cold, hand-in-hand in Central Park, and conversed naturally. With Zoe, Meyer became a romantic. They had just finished a horse and carriage ride in the park. It was dreamy, and it impressed Zoe. He presented her with flowers and candy. He also gave her diamond earrings and a diamond tennis bracelet. It was the best money could buy. She loved it, but she loved the horse and carriage ride and the flowers more.

  “So, why no boyfriend? I mean, a beautiful woman like yourself, I would think a nigga would have wifed you up by now,” Meyer said. “You sure I don’t have to look over my shoulder for some stalking-ass nigga? I’m sure you have plenty of those.”

  She chuckled. “I’m a very picky person,” she replied. “And besides, I’m a busy woman, and some men just can’t keep up with me.”

  “Picky, huh? I’m a picky man too. It’s the reason I don’t have a girlfriend,” he said.

  “What, no string of young girls to play with?” she joked. “Handsome, rich, and romantic—you probably got females lined around the corner waiting to get with you.”

  “Nah, I’m busy with my career, and besides, when I meet a girl, I don’t know if she loves me for me or my money.”

  “So what about me? You think I’m with you because of your money? You think I’m a gold-digger too?”

  “Nah, you’re different. I saw that the very first day I met you.”

  “I’m different, huh? So what makes me different?” she challenged.

  “It was your conversation and your attitude. You were just different.”

  “You can’t elaborate more?”

  “See? There you go, using cute words like elaborate . . . and taking me to museums and Broadway shows. You have culture, Zoe, and that’s a turn on.”

  “Thank you.”

  They walked and talked more. The cold weather wasn’t bothersome to them. Their chemistry was keeping them warm. Holding hands, especially in a public place, was never Meyer’s thing. He was surprised he was doing it. It was like he was living a double life. But no matter what kind of image he presented for Zoe, the streets never rested, and the streets never forgot. Life went on, and he was a murderous drug kingpin, and his business was in the millions. The phone call he got from Layla was a reminder.

  Meyer wanted to ignore it, but she was trying to reach him a second time. The caller ID said that it was Layla, and Zoe looked at him with suspicion and said, “You might want to get that. It could be important.”

  It could be important, and, knowing his mother, it was something majorly important.

  “It’s my mother,” he said.

  “Oh.”

  “Give me a minute,” he said.

  He reluctantly answered her call, and immediately he heard Layla’s rage. “I want that muthafucka dead!” she hollered. “I want you to kill that nigga, Meyer! I hate his fuckin’ guts!”

  “Ma, hold on . . . calm down,” he said. “What’s going on?”

  Meyer felt that now wasn’t the time, but his mother was making it the time.

  “It’s your father. What he did to Lucky and me—he needs to die! Right fuckin’ now! I need you here, Meyer.” she hollered.

  “I’m busy right now, Ma.”

  “I don’t a give a fuck what you’re doing. We need to meet now! I’m not asking you.”

  Meyer sighed. Zoe was standing right there, and he didn’t want to come out of his character. He knew if he denied Layla, she would keep calling him. He could turn off his phone, but he would never hear the end of it.

  “I’ll be there in an hour.” He hung up. He was vexed.

  Zoe asked him, “Is everything okay?”

  “It’s my mother. She’s upset about something, I think her and my father went at it
again,” he told her. It was the partial truth.

  “Well, go see if she’s okay.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. It’s your mother. I understand.”

  He smiled. “Thanks.”

  And just like that, their lovely night together ended.

  Meyer was becoming tired of Layla’s bullshit. He had a life too, and it didn’t revolve around her. He hated being summoned like he was some dog.

  27

  Whistler pulled back the blinds and carefully looked outside. The black Dodge Charger with tinted windows was still parked nearby. He knew they were watching him. It was Jimmy following his every move. Deuce had him on a tight leash. He knew he didn’t have long to lure Lucky into his web and tangle her up so Deuce could sink his fangs into her. He was at Deuce’s mercy.

  Deuce was right; he had gone from a king to a peasant. Day by day, Whistler was spiraling downward and losing more and more of himself. The cocaine he snorted daily expedited his collapse. The nose candy was his escape from his troubles, but looking out his window and seeing that black Dodge Charger parked outside, he knew there was no escape. They distrusted him and didn’t hesitate to let him feel the animosity. But tonight, it was now or never. He couldn’t prolong it. He had to take care of business.

  He donned a leather jacket, snatched up his pack of cigarettes from the nightstand, and exited the room. He climbed into his Lexus and drove off. As predicted, the Charger followed right behind him. Jimmy was becoming a headache to him. He was on Whistler tighter than white on rice. And if it wasn’t Jimmy, then it was one of his henchmen. For two days straight, Whistler couldn’t take a piss without someone watching him. It was time to execute. He’d promised them Lucky and her mother, and he had to deliver or he was a dead man.

  The midnight hour and the winter cold made the streets sparse of traffic. Calmly, Whistler drove into the night knowing time was ticking. He got on the highway and drove a mile and then exited at the gas station/rest stop. The Charger followed. Whistler stopped at a gas pump behind a brown jeep Cherokee, scanned the area, and saw an opportunity. Walking toward the station, he saw Jimmy sitting behind the wheel of the Charger and idling close by. They frowned at each other.

  Whistler walked into the station and followed a man into the bathroom. The man was average height, middle-aged, and not put together neatly. Once they were in the restroom, Whistler made his move. The man didn’t even see him coming. The hit was swift and to the back of his head. The man dropped. Whistler hit him again, knocking him unconscious. Whistler rummaged through his pockets, grabbed his car key with the Jeep emblem, wallet, his jacket, and hat. He removed his clothing and put on the stranger’s garb. He dragged the man into a stall and closed the door. One look in the mirror and Whistler was confident he could pull it off.

  He exited the bathroom looking like someone else. Composedly, he walked out of the gas station and glanced at the Charger. Jimmy was climbing out of the Dodge and walking toward the station to check in on him. But Whistler was walking right by him with his head lowered and moving toward a different car. Jimmy glanced his way, but there was no recognition. Keep cool, keep moving!

  He got into the man’s brown Jeep, the only other car besides his and Jimmy’s, and drove away. He’d finally ditched his babysitter. He got onto the highway and drove north from Maryland. New York was a few hours away. He was free, but he had some work to do. He lit a cigarette and accelerated to 70mph. He wanted to get as far away from the area possible. Jimmy would not be fooled for long. He would figure it out—the brown Cherokee was already marked and maybe Jimmy remembered the plates. The man was good, and there was a reason he was Deuce’s right-hand. Jimmy reminded Whistler of himself—they both took nothing for granted and trusted nothing. They both paid attention to the details and were good at killing and tracking people down.

  An hour went by, and Whistler’s cell phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID, and it was Deuce calling. He refused to take the call. What was he going to say? He’d ditched Jimmy and he was on his own. But they would come looking for him, so he had to be ready. He had to give them what he had promised. He’d get to Lucky, and then he’d get to Layla. But he had to be smart about this. He was making enemies everywhere, and one wrong move would wreck everything.

  The sunrise over the city was alluring. Whistler had been sitting outside of Lucky’s building for over two hours. He watched everything—people’s comings and goings, the traffic going by, the employees entering and exiting. When he felt he’d inspected the area long enough, Whistler exited the car and approached the towering brick building. He thought back to the last time he was there. It wasn’t a fond memory.

  Being back in New York was dangerous. Scott had people everywhere—eyes watching and alerting him from every corner of the city. Whistler knew a bounty was on his head, and all it took was one phone call and his former friend would send out the killing squad.

  Whistler walked into the grand lobby of the building and swiveled his head in every direction. The doorman was new. Whistler knew the doorman watched everyone come and go. He would know Lucky’s face; she was hard to miss. Whistler approached him with extreme caution, got his attention with three hundred-dollar bills, and asked, “Have you seen this woman in the building lately?”

  The doorman’s job was supposed to come with discretion, but for a few extra hundred dollars, he was easily swayed. “No, she moved out a while back,” the doorman said.

  It was all the information Whistler needed. There was no use in prying further. The man wouldn’t know Lucky’s new address. He slipped the man the three-hundred and headed out.

  Fuck! Whistler thought. It was a wise move. They were at war, and he was now their rival, so he knew they would change anything old. But he was a tracker, and he was on the clock.

  Think, think, think, he told himself. He had to think fast and find her. But what if she was no longer in New York? Could she be in Delaware? Or Florida? It would be easy for him to keep on driving, maybe go far out west and start a new life there. But then what? He would spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, and Whistler wasn’t the type to run. It would end someway and somehow. Even if it meant by bang, bang.

  He knew everything about Lucky—her likes and dislikes, her taste in clothing and men, and the foods she loved. Lucky didn’t cook. She ordered out and loved fine dining. But her favorite type of food was Thai, and she only liked the best. His next step was a tedious one, but it had to be done. He looked up all the best Thai food places. He remembered her favorite place was Tue Thai Food near Central Park. She’d moved away from the area, but chances were, she would still be ordering from her favorite restaurant.

  Whistler was familiar with the delivery boy; he’d delivered food to Lucky’s old address plenty of times, and Whistler was sure he remembered her well. It took some time, but he finally cornered the delivery boy outside of the restaurant. Whistler held the man’s bicycle hostage and showed him Lucky’s picture and demanded her new address. At first, the delivery boy was reluctant, but for five hundred dollars, he spewed the information out faster than he could breathe.

  “I know you. You boyfriend. Why you don’t know?” he asked Whistler.

  “It’s best that you just mind your business,” Whistler warned him.

  He took the advice and left.

  ***

  Lucky felt like her life was unraveling, but she would not let her father win. She would not go off the deep end. The rift was widening more and more between them. Lucky wanted to shoot her father right between the eyes for what he did to her and her mother. The disrespect was insane, and she wanted to put a stop to it. The man she had once looked up to and adored was now enemy number-one.

  Lucky arrived home to her luxurious apartment on the upper west side. Things were quiet and dark, like usual. Inside the bedroom, she dropped her handbag and pistol on the bed and turne
d on her stereo system to listen to some Sade. She undressed down to her bra and panties and lounged on the tufted chaise near her bed, as “The Sweetest Taboo” began playing.

  Whistler hid in her closet, submerged in the dark. He was still and patient, watching her from the small opening in the door. He had to make sure that she was alone. He watched Lucky for a moment, noted the pistol on the bed, and saw his opportunity. He abruptly emerged from the closet and pointed his gun at her.

  Lucky’s eyes widened. She wanted to reach for her gun, but Whistler stepped closer in a threatening manner and warned her, “Don’t do it, Lucky!”

  She was staring down the barrel of a Glock 19, and the bang from it could easily make a mess of her.

  “Why are you here?” she exclaimed.

  “I’m not here to hurt you,” he said.

  “You could have fooled me. How did you find me? How the fuck did you get into my place?”

  “You know I have my ways, Lucky,” he replied.

  She glared at him. He stared at her, and she didn’t look too good. Her face still showed the bruises from Scott’s attack. It looked like she had gone five rounds with Mayweather in his prime. It also looked like she was wearing a wig. This wasn’t the Lucky he knew—she looked like she had been through hell and back. He tried not to stare too long at her, knowing how sensitive she had become about her looks.

  “Look, we need to talk,” he said.

  “Fuck you!” she shouted. She was still itching to reach for her gun and kill him—if she could.

  Whistler read her movements, and he knew her like a book. “You won’t get the shot off, Lucky. I have the advantage. I didn’t come here to kill you. I could have been done that. I came here to talk.”

  She scowled. Talking was no longer relevant to her. All she wanted was revenge. She wanted to fuck him and Scott up. The two men she once trusted had both betrayed her and had let her down. If they were on fire, she wouldn’t piss on them to put them out.