Mafioso [Part 3]

by Nisa Santiago

  “I came to make amends. I know I hurt you, and what I did to you, it was wrong. I’m sorry,” he said.

  “My father is gonna fuck you up!” she replied. “Fuck your ‘sorry!’”

  Coming there, Whistler knew he was risking his life, but he had to try. He had to get through to Lucky somehow. So far, it was a very rocky start, which he expected. And as much as he thought he hated and despised her, he didn’t want to see her dead. Whistler knew that once Deuce got his hands on her, he would slowly tear Lucky apart physically and mentally. He would torture her in cruel ways. The man was a sadist, and he knew Lucky and Layla would be the ultimate prize in Deuce’s hands.

  “I’m working with Deuce now,” he blurted out. There was no sugarcoating it, no going around it.

  “What?” She was shocked to hear that. “You’re workin’ with that monster? The man who had my brothers and sister killed?”

  “Your father left me no choice.”

  “So you go and side with the fuckin’ enemy? You fuckin’ coward!”

  “I tried talking to you and your father. I wanted to reason with him, but he went crazy. He tried to have me killed.”

  “I wish he would have succeeded.”

  Whistler shook his head. A woman scorned, huh? But he would not give up. He’d come this far. She would hear him out one way or another. He was a serious man, and maybe he needed to remind her of that. But she quickly spoke again, exclaiming, “I loved you! I always loved you! You took advantage of me. You started to care more about your whores than you did me! I wanted to be your fuckin’ woman. I didn’t want anyone else but you. What the fuck did you want, huh? What did you want from me? I gave you the best sex, and I woulda died for you, but that wasn’t enough, was it!” A few tears trickled from her eyes.

  “I can’t change the past, Lucky. I can’t change the things that I’ve done. But I can make it right.”

  “How can you make it right?”

  “Look, you’re in danger,” he uttered.

  “You think that’s something new to me?”

  “Deuce is out for blood, and he won’t stop until he has you and your mother in his clutches. He wants you dead, but not before he has his thugs exploit you and then bury you on his plantation as a trophy from his drug war with Scott. And believe me; you’d rather be dead than to have him take you hostage.”

  “So, you’re here to kill me? Save me the pain?”

  “I have a plan.”

  “And I’m supposed to just trust you?”

  “I know it’s hard, after everything that’s happened, but I’m not gonna let him hurt you,” he said with conviction.

  Lucky stared into his eyes, and they were filled with fervor and some sincerity. He lowered the gun. Gradually, he was getting through to her, he felt. He said, “He wants you alive, but my plan is to kill you first.”

  Lucky was confused. “Kill me?”

  Whistler detailed his plan to her, but first, he warned her through clenched teeth not to double-cross him.

  “You double-crossed me, nigga,” she retorted.

  “It was my mistake.”

  It was a thin line between love and hate between them. But they needed each other. They had to survive.

  “I need a female to die in your place, Lucky. I will make it look like an accident off the LIE in your truck. A fiery blaze leaving the body charred beyond recognition.”

  “Say what now?”

  “You heard me. It’s either gonna be the real you or a fake you, but you’re marked for death. Deuce is gunning for you, and this could buy us a few days.”

  He would need her truck and some of her accessories. Jewelry would be perfect, especially her diamond nameplate. She was upset about her G-Wagen and the jewelry, but wasn’t bothered that an innocent girl would probably die in her place.

  Whistler continued, “Word will get back to Deuce that you were killed in an accident before I had a chance to get at you, and he’ll be furious and want to kill me on the spot. But I’m putting my life on the line and betting that I can still convince him that a captured, grieving Layla is still worth keeping me alive. Jimmy will object, and this time Deuce will insist on having Jimmy not shadow me but ride shotgun when I drive 95-North to kidnap Layla. And this is where you come in.”

  “Me? Why should I help ya sorry ass?”

  He exploded. “Got-damn it, Lucky, can’t you grow the fuck up? Our fuckin’ lives are on the line. This nigga done killed half your family, and your father can’t seem to stop him and neither can I . . . I can’t do it alone.”

  She rolled her eyes, not willing to park her childishness on a shelf. “What else can I do to help you besides allowing you to burn up my beloved truck and liquefy my favorite necklace?”

  There wasn’t an “off” button with her, even in the face of danger. Whistler ignored her sarcasm and wondered, briefly, if he should just tie this bitch up and hand deliver her to his oppressor. Was she even worth the headache? From day one, their affair had cost him. Now it could cost him his life.

  “You have access to something I don’t. Shooters. Do you have a couple goons that are loyal to you?”

  She nodded.

  “Good. Then I am going to set up a trap for Jimmy. After Deuce hears of your death and sends me after your mother, I am going to bring Jimmy to the lake house in Albany that your parents own. Do you remember it?”

  She nodded.

  “When we get there, your shooters better be on point and take Jimmy out. And, Lucky, don’t get cute and have them take me out too. If you keep up your end of the bargain, then I will hand deliver Deuce to you on a silver platter. So think long and hard on how you want to play this. Is it more important to see me dead, a man who’s loved you until this very day, or the man who murdered Gotti, Bonnie, and Clyde and had you beaten?”

  But Lucky didn’t understand it. “Why not just kill Deuce?”

  He planned on doing so. Whistler wanted his life back. With Deuce and Scott dead, he could show his face without looking over his shoulders and start up his organization. Once he got Deuce to put his guard down, he would have Lucky’s soldiers kill Jimmy and make it look like Scott’s crew were the culprits. With Jimmy gone, Deuce would become a much easier target to wipe out.

  Scott had to die too. He couldn’t fill Lucky in on that part of his plan, though. Whistler realized that Scott would never forgive him, and their friendship and partnership was long gone. The extreme was all Whistler had. Scott would never believe that Lucky was killed accidentally on the LIE and would finally snap and go ham on locating Deuce. Scott would be certain that just as his other kids’ murders were made to look like accidents, so was this. He would feel like less than a man to have four children murdered by one man and would move heaven and earth to exact revenge. And Layla wouldn’t rest until they got at Deuce. Deuce, too, would come out swinging and looking for payback for Jimmy. Lucky would help implement this plan whether she liked it or not. She was the catalyst to ignite the fire to burn it all down.

  The key to this plan would be that Scott would believe that Lucky had been murdered. It didn’t matter who took whom out; whoever survived would die by Whistler’s hand. It was a long shot, like winning the lottery, but Whistler felt he had to be in it to win.

  “If he were that easy to kill, don’t you think Scott with all his muscle and millions would have done it already? Huh? Think, Lucky. This is the only way.”

  Lucky pondered the bizarre plan. She was pissed at Scott anyway, so the idea of making him grieve and suffer almost made her smile. But to have the rest of her family think she was dead?

  “I hear you, Whistler, but to have my mother, Meyer, and Bugsy think I was killed in a car crash is just cruel.”

  Whistler did a lot more explaining and ended with, “It’s the only way.”

  It was a lot to swallow, but Whistler knew how to be
persuasive. She was up for it. She explained that she wanted revenge on her father anyway. Who did she hate the most, her father or Whistler? Each time she looked into the mirror and saw the bruises on her face and felt the pain and betrayal, her rage toward her father surfaced. Whistler had broken her heart, but he never physically beat her. Her father struck her and damaged her soul. She looked ugly, and she felt it too. She had bald spots in her head from her father’s violence, and her face was still healing. She wanted some payback. Whistler came at the right time with his plan.

  But what about her mother? Would she be safe? Layla could handle herself, but Lucky had to be there for her. Whistler assured her that Layla was safe, but she couldn’t know about their plan. It was between them. Everyone had to be in the dark. They couldn’t know that her death was a ruse. They had to feel the emotions, and it had to look and feel real for everyone to see—including Deuce and Jimmy.

  “I’m putting my life on the line to save you.”

  She understood. And for a moment, they’d reconciled.

  Their conversation went from the bedroom to the living room. Lucky picked up a bottle of red wine and drank it out of the bottle. Whistler watched her. The way she was drinking, it seemed harmful.

  “Maybe you need to cut back some on the alcohol,” he suggested.

  She shot a hard stare at him and barked, “Muthafucka, don’t tell me what to do! You don’t fuckin’ own me. And after what I been through, I need to relax.”

  He left it alone. He watched her walk around the room in her panties and bra. She didn’t care to become decent in front of him. Though her looks had changed with her bruises, wig, and her droopy eye, her body was still curvy, thick, and in shape.

  Whistler talked about his master plan. He wanted to map it out accurately, to where there would be no mistakes. This was life or death.

  Lucky, however, continued to drink. She approached him with a wicked smile, pushed her body against his, and touched the side of his face. “Do you miss me?” she asked him.

  Whistler stood there straight-faced. He didn’t answer her.

  Her hand went from the side of his face, traveled down his torso, and landed on his crotch. She squeezed his dick and said, “I do miss you. Damn, I do miss him.”

  He knew that she wanted to fuck. She tried to kiss him, but he gently resisted. “Now is not the time,” he said.

  “What’s the matter? You don’t find me attractive anymore?”

  “It’s not that. I just want to take care of business.”

  “I am your business, and you owe me,” she said.

  “Not like this. I’m trying to save your life.”

  She huffed and pouted. She drank more. She was becoming frustrated. The hostility she had toward him earlier had transitioned into yearning with lust for him. He was still fine, and he still had a big dick.

  Whistler looked her directly in her eyes and undoubtedly proclaimed, “I still love you, Lucky. I always will. But I just can’t right now. We both have too much going on in our lives to continue something that got me in hot water with your father in the first place. Before we even think about going there, we have to figure out this mess and stay alive.”

  She had no words. Strangely, she understood him. It was just that seeing him again, those old feelings crept back and she wanted to be touched and loved once more. She needed the affection—some affection, it didn’t matter from who.

  He handed her a burner phone. “We need to keep in touch.” And with that, he exited the apartment.

  Lucky stood in the center of her living room and watched him go. Just as easily as he’d come, he was gone. She looked at the phone and wondered if she’d made the right choice by allowing Whistler back into her life. Could she trust him again? What if it was all a ploy to take her and Layla down? Whistler was the master of manipulation. He had a way with words—ways of making people listen to him and believe him. His gift of gab was a superpower.

  Was she thinking more with her heart than her mind? There was no telling what Whistler was up to.

  28

  Whistler avoided the brown Cherokee and stole a dark Toyota Camry. He started the ignition and peeled out. He glanced up at Lucky’s towering brick building and felt he had worked his way back into her life again. The look in Lucky’s eyes was inviting; he could easily have had his way with her. She was young and naïve, and that worked to his advantage, as did the history they had together. The extreme measures he was taking were risky, but Whistler’s life had always been unsteady, and he was no stranger to taking it to the extreme.

  He navigated his way out of the city and toward the west side highway, and from there, moving toward the Verrazano Bridge. He was on his way back to Maryland. But he made the phone call first, and Deuce answered.

  “You muthafucka!” Deuce growled.

  “I know you’re upset with me for ditching Jimmy, but let me explain. The trap has been set. I’m back in Lucky’s life,” he quickly explained. “I’m sending you proof.”

  Before Deuce could rant and throw threats, Whistler sent a picture of Lucky from behind in her bra and panties to Deuce’s phone. Once again, and somehow, Whistler was able to persuade Deuce to trust him.

  “When can I have her?” he asked.

  “In a week,” Whistler replied.

  “You have one week, muthafucka, and not a day more. But I have other business for you take care of.”

  “Like what?”

  “Not over the phone. I expect to see you back in Maryland within twenty-four hours.”

  “I’ll be back in town in five hours,” Whistler replied.

  “Don’t fuck with me, Whistler.”

  ***

  Whistler sat shirtless in the room and did a long line of cocaine. The white girl was a boost—a stimulus. It was his escape, temporary though. He was alone, and he was under a lot of pressure. It had been two days since his reunion with Lucky. Time was winding down. Deuce expected to have Lucky and Layla chained inside his dungeon.

  The TV was on, but it was muted. Whistler did another line of cocaine and felt that leash around his neck again, and it was tightening quickly. He wiped the powder residue from his nose and looked for his cell phone. He needed to call Lucky and get an update. He dialed her number, and her cell rang four times before she answered.

  “What?” she said roughly.

  “What you mean ‘what?’ You know why I’m calling. What’s the verdict on what we talked about? Did you find someone?”

  “I need some time.”

  “We don’t have time, Lucky. This is life or death. If we don’t get this shit right, we’re both dead,” he griped.

  “Nigga, don’t fuckin’ rush me. You never gave me a fuckin’ deadline!”

  “Lucky, this is not a fuckin’ game. You need to find someone and fast. This is my life you’re playing with too, and before I take a bullet for you, I’ll see you dead first. You have seventy-two hours.”

  He hung up on her. He was frustrated. He tried not to panic, so he did another line of cocaine. The predicament Whistler found himself in was disturbing. His fall from grace was hard, and it was ugly. He was becoming a drug addict and depending on a nineteen-year-old girl to save him. Going from a king to a peasant felt surreal. He had five days left to do what he’d promised Deuce—and those five days were winding down fast.

  ***

  Whistler flicked the lit cigarette out the passenger window of the Maxima and sighed. Henny, one of Deuce’s lieutenants, was driving, and a soldier rode in the back. They were headed north on I-95 to Delaware with five kilos of cocaine—packaged and concealed for street distribution. Traffic on the highway was light, and it was about to get dark soon.

  Whistler had two days left to deliver Lucky, but until then, he had become a drug mule for Deuce. It was something he’d never had to do in his position with Scott. He had slid down t
o the bottom of the totem pole.

  While doing the speed limit on the highway, Henny turned to Whistler. “How the fuck you go from something to nothing? Yeah, I heard about you—you were supposed to be this big shot muthafucka from New York, fucking Frank Lucas and shit. More like Fred Lucas.”

  It was said as an insult to him.

  The soldier in the back laughed.

  Whistler turned and looked at Henny. Muthafuckas were looking at him as a zero. Whistler was a regular guy to them—today, a drug mule just like him.

  “You got a problem with me, nigga?” Whistler asked sternly.

  “I’m just talkin’, that’s all . . . making conversation,” Henny replied.

  “I prefer if you keep your comments to yourself. You don’t know me, and you don’t have shit to say to me. I’m old school, nigga, and I’ll cut your nuts off fast and shove ’em down your throat. We do this job and we go our separate ways,” Whistler exclaimed. “Don’t say another fuckin’ word to me.”

  Henny frowned. He didn’t like being talked to recklessly, but he’d heard the stories about Whistler. But that was back in the day—who was he now? Deuce’s old school errand boy. He chose not to test the waters with Whistler and kept his mouth shut and kept driving. Whistler had nothing to lose, but Henny had three kids.

  Whistler lit another cigarette and took some needed drags. It felt like a long trip on the road although Maryland and Delaware weren’t that far from each other. Whistler was antsy. There’d been no word from Lucky yet, and he was ready to drive back to New York and confront her. Chances were, she was gone, and he would be fucked. He inhaled the nicotine from the Newport, but he was yearning for something much stronger. That cocaine was calling his name. He needed that extra lift.

  New Castle, Delaware was six miles south of Wilmington on the Delaware River. Like almost all of Delaware, it was a blue-collar town. Unemployment was high, poverty was rampant, and drug use was prevalent. Deuce had been making a fortune in New Castle for the past year. It was untapped territory, and his foothold on the town was fierce. One of his stash houses was an abandoned market perched near the river. It was quiet, inconspicuous, and well fortified.