Mafioso [Part 3]

by Nisa Santiago

  “I’m just saying, Mom, everyone is making money, and we’re living the good life. You’ve got your thing going, and we’ve got ours.”

  “It won’t fully be the good life until that bitch pays with her life, and if your father keeps choosing to protect her, then God help him too!”

  There was no getting through to her—she was stubborn and ignorant. Bugsy saw where the conversation was going. He needed to change it.

  “Well, I’ve got some good news,” he announced.

  Layla downed the champagne and went to pour herself more.

  “Good news, I wish you would tell me that bitch is finally dead,” Layla said, walking toward the mini bar.

  Bugsy sighed. She would never stop.

  “I’m going to propose to Alicia,” he said.

  The news made Layla spin around and shoot an objectionable look at her son.

  “You’re gonna do what?” she said, almost in disbelief.

  “I said, I’m gonna propose to Alicia—ask her to marry me,” he repeated.

  “Wow, pussy that good and it got you whipped, huh?” Meyer said and then shoved more food in his mouth. “Hey, I’m happy for you bro. Do you, nigga! If that pussy makes you happy, fuck it, marry it, and have kids—make me a muthafuckin’ uncle.”

  Meyer’s way of congratulating him was both abrasive and warming simultaneously. Bugsy took no offense to his words.

  “I’m happy for you too, Bugsy. Alicia’s cool peoples,” Lucky said. “I ain’t got no beef wit’ her.”

  It was her brother’s life, and he would live it the way he wanted to. Lucky didn’t see marriage in her future.

  “Well, I think you’re making a damn mistake marrying that girl,” Layla announced. “I take it that you already bought the girl a ring.”

  “Yes, I did,” he said.

  “You know what kind of life you gonna give that girl?” Layla spewed with disapproval. “She’s not us! That girl is not cut from the same cloth we come from. You think she’s gonna be a ride-or-die bitch when shit hits the fan? You think she’s loyal to you? God forbid you have to do jail time. I’m telling you, a bitch like that won’t hold you down. Her educated ass will be gone!”

  Layla was going in, and there was no stopping her.

  “She’s perfect for me,” Bugsy defended.

  “Perfect? Boy, there’s no such thing as perfect. I think she’s a fuckin’ gold-digger, that’s what I think.”

  Layla downed the champagne and screwed her face with anger about the engagement. She wanted to slap some sense into Bugsy. First, he goes against her and joins with his father, when she gave birth to him, and now he intends to marry some off-brand bitch.

  “She’s no gold-digger,” Bugsy said calmly.

  “Nigga, that bitch saw you coming from a mile away,” Layla retorted. “You payin’ her fuckin’ bills, buying her a new house, and now you wanna marry her. Is the bitch pregnant?”

  “You need to stop disrespecting my woman by calling her a bitch,” Bugsy said to her.

  “Muthafucka, you’re my son, and if I feel the need to call your bitch a bitch, then so be it. This is my fuckin’ home, and I do and say whatever the fuck I want!”

  She was getting drunk. Everyone saw it. Her words were becoming more and more reckless.

  “Ma, just chill,” Lucky tried to intervene. “We came here to talk and try and be a family, right?”

  “No, don’t tell me to chill. I got my son about to marry some goodie fuckin’ gold-digger bitch and she gonna take all his money, and I got Scott and Maxine laughing at me . . .”

  “Nobody laughing at you,” Meyer said.

  “They won’t be when they’re dead!” Layla said. “A bitch takes from me and I’ll take something from her. I don’t give a fuck if she’s a nurse or not—these are my fuckin’ children!”

  Bugsy took a deep breath and unclenched his fist. He was trying to defend his woman, but his blood pressure was going up. His mother was a vile woman and she needed help. Her drinking was getting out of control. The champagne bottle she was sipping on was nearly empty, and she always had a full glass in her hand.

  Meyer stood between his mother and brother. He looked at Bugsy and said, “Don’t let her get to you, she drunk. Believe me, I know how you feel.”

  Layla heard the comment and her eyes narrowed with anger and she huffed with contempt. “Meyer, fuck you too! You ain’t no better, nigga. Both y’all bitches came out my pussy and y’all have the audacity to disrespect me?”

  “You know what? I don’t need this shit. I’m out,” Bugsy said.

  He went for his coat, threw it on, and pivoted to leave the place. It was a mistake showing up. He knew it would not be a lovely dinner with his family. They were never a family. He could make his family with Alicia. Maxine had been more of a mother to him lately than his own biological. Layla was hell.

  “Fuck you, Bugsy! You’re my fuckin’ son! Don’t turn your back on me, nigga!” Layla hollered.

  Bugsy kept on walking out the door and let it slam behind him.

  Layla’s chest heaved with fury, and her face was hot with rage. She stared at Bugsy’s sudden exit with scorn, her eyes narrowed. All she wanted from Bugsy was information about Scott and Maxine. She’d heard through the grapevine that Maxine and Bugsy were chatting and getting close, and that burned Layla’s heart. Maxine had already stolen her husband. There was no way she would steal her son too and turn him against her.

  The night didn’t end well.

  34

  Several counting machines went off inside the room, and the sound of money adding up was music to Bugsy’s ears. There was nearly seventeen million dollars to be counted, packaged, and transferred to one of their fortified safe houses to be laundered. Hundreds, fifties, and twenties were being sorted into ten-thousand-dollar stacks, and the stacks were placed in boxes, suitcases, laundry bags, and duffle bags.

  It was a blizzard of dead presidents that overwhelmed the room. Two guys sat at a brown oval table and went through bill after bill—moistening the crumpled bills with a little water, then ironing them slowly and sorting the hundreds from the fifties and the fifties from the twenties. It was all about tallying the intake of cash and the neatness in it. The young men were gifted in mathematics and patient with the tedious task.

  The location was private and remote. Twenty minutes from Queens, the two-story brick building was on Long Island, near the Long Island Expressway. It was guarded by the best, but Bugsy didn’t want to attract too much attention, so he kept the guns and goons at a minimum.

  With Choppa and AJ by Bugsy’s side, he felt it would be another smooth operation tonight. Things were moving like clockwork so far, and they had only a few hours before the large amounts of cash would be transferred via U-haul vans to the safe house in New Jersey to be laundered.

  It would be another two hours before everything was completed. Bugsy looked around the room and nodded. He looked at Choppa and AJ and said, “I need to go take a piss. I’ll be right back.”

  Both men nodded.

  Bugsy left the room and went down the hallway. He stepped into the tiny bathroom to pee.

  A few moments in the bathroom, and he heard the gunshots—they sounded distant and muffled, but there was no mistaking it. He hurried to make himself decent and pulled out his 9mm and cautiously exited the bathroom. Before he could take three steps, a gun was put to the back of his head.

  “Move and I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains out,” the assailant growled.

  He was manhandled and brought to the counting room where he was held hostage like the others. Everything in the room had stopped—the money machines stopped counting, and every worker in the room was on their knees with their fingers locked behind their heads.

  The masked gunmen came heavily armed with assault rifles and pistols.

  How
did they get in? And how did they know about the building and when to strike it?

  Bugsy counted five of them. Each man’s eyes glared from their ski masks as they tied everyone in the room with zip ties to their wrists, arms folded behind them. They were dressed in all black, and he could tell they were no amateurs to this. The way they moved around the room and shouted orders, they meant business.

  A lone assailant stood near the door and kept quiet. Something about him caught Bugsy’s attention.

  “Yo, get that money—get all that shit!” one of the more vocal attackers shouted.

  They were going for it all—the duffle bags, the boxes, and the suitcases. Seventeen million dollars would be a serious payday for these robbers.

  Bugsy cringed at the thought of losing it all. He kept his eyes fixed on the silent robber, though, watching his movement astutely. That’s when Bugsy noticed his footwear—the sneakers. They were expensive—limited edition Jordans. The nigga was a sneaker head.

  “Muthafucka,” Bugsy grumbled quietly.

  The masked robbers were violent. They didn’t hesitate to pistol-whip one of Bugsy’s men in the room. AJ and Choppa were on their knees, tied up and looking fiercely at the robbers. Bugsy had been slightly knocked around.

  “Y’all niggas know who the fuck you robbing?” AJ growled their way.

  “Nigga, who fuckin’ told you to speak?” The butt of the AK-47 was smashed into AJ’s face and he immediately spewed blood from his nose and mouth and it felt like his jaw had been broken. He hollered from the pain. His blood trickled to the floor. Choppa wanted to react, but he was held at gunpoint with his wrists tied behind him, and he knew if he moved wrong, he was dead.

  The violent blow from the AK-47 didn’t discourage AJ. He was angrier.

  “You’re a dead man,” AJ threatened. “I’m gonna kill you myself. Fuck you, nigga!”

  “Fuck me, nigga?” the masked man shouted back. He marched toward AJ and thrust the barrel of the assault rifle to AJ’s forehead.

  AJ didn’t flinch. He glared up at the man and through daring and hard eyes, he shouted, “You know who the fuck I am?”

  “Yeah, a fuckin’ dead man,” the masked man uttered and then he fired.

  Rat-a-tat-tat!

  AJ’s brains were ejected through the back of his head and he collapsed, sprawled facedown at the triggerman’s feet with pieces of his head everywhere. It was a gruesome sight. The thick blood pooled beneath the body, and it was spreading fast. Bugsy and Choppa could only frown at the murder. They were helpless.

  “Fuck you lookin’ at, huh?” another masked man shouted at Bugsy.

  “I’m cool, yo,” Bugsy softly replied.

  The man marched closer to Bugsy and shouted, “You cool, nigga? You lookin’ at us kinda funny and shit! I don’t like that shit.”

  “You ain’t have to kill him,” said Bugsy.

  “Nigga, you wanna die too?”

  “You kill me and there will be hell to pay.”

  “Yo, you threatening me, nigga? I don’t think you in a position to throw threats at a nigga.”

  “Just take the money. We’ll meet later,” Bugsy said.

  “Nigga what?” The attacker put the barrel of his gun to Bugsy’s head.

  The masked sneaker head across the room shouted, “Nigga, chill!”

  “He got mouth on him, son!”

  “I said, chill.” It was a strong command, but the man harassing Bugsy didn’t seem fazed by it.

  A split-second later, Bugsy found himself on the receiving end of a pistol whipping. The butt of the Glock crashed against his face repeatedly. He could feel his face breaking apart. The man with the expensive Jordans ran over and attempted to pull the guy off Bugsy, but he was pushed away and a few more hard and violent blows rained down on a defenseless Bugsy. He felt his jaw breaking and his ribs cracking. He was in the fetal position with his hands tied, and he couldn’t defend himself. He was at the mercy of his attacker. It took the other masked goons to finally pull the dude off and stop him from killing Bugsy. They all ran out of the room with bags and boxes of cash, leaving everyone tied up and AJ dead.

  Bugsy was in bad shape. He knew he needed to go to the hospital and quickly.

  35

  The masked gunmen made it to their getaway SUV, and the driver sped away like a bat out of hell, the tires screeching into the night. The mood was mostly jubilation. They made off with millions of dollars, and it was a successful lick. But the passenger riding shotgun wasn’t too jubilant, although everything had gone as planned.

  When it was safe, the masks finally came off. Luna was driving the truck and Meyer glared his way.

  “We did it, nigga!” Luna exclaimed.

  Meyer suddenly punched Luna in the face, nearly causing an accident on the freeway. The truck swerved and then came to a stop on the shoulder. Meyer snatched the gun from Luna’s waist and put it to his temple. The men riding in the back were shocked. Why was Meyer attacking his right-hand man?

  “Meyer, what’s good, man? What the fuck?” Luna exclaimed with his hands up in the air in surrender.

  “You almost killed him back there,” Meyer shouted. “I told you, we don’t touch Bugsy.”

  “I had to make it look good. The way he was lookin’ at you, I think he knew it was you,” Luna said. “I did what I did to throw him off. I was trying to help.”

  “Muthafucka, that’s my brother!”

  “I was lookin’ out for you, Meyer!”

  Meyer was breathing hard. The fact that Luna had assaulted his brother put him in a difficult situation. He didn’t know what to do. Bugsy was his blood—his twin brother at that, and he wasn’t supposed to be harmed. Luna was his right-hand man—his brother from another mother. They both were family. But their orders were explicit—get the money and leave Bugsy alone.

  “I got mad love for Bugsy,” Luna proclaimed. “I didn’t want to hurt him, but we had to make it look legit. He’s gonna be ayyite.”

  “Just drive, nigga,” Meyer said.

  Luna sighed.

  Meyer removed the gun from Luna’s head and seemed to calm down. The other passengers in the back looked relieved. They had just executed a nearly perfect robbery, and there was no telling how much money they’d gotten away with. The last thing they needed was a violent incident on the freeway and attracting unwanted attention on themselves. They weren’t in the clear yet. They’d completed the job with one dead, and what they needed to do next was get the money to the boss bitch, Layla. It was the name she’d chosen for herself—boss bitch.

  ***

  Meyer and his men walked into Layla’s Bronx warehouse with the cash goodies to present to her. Every man carried a suitcase, a duffle bag, or a box or two. They walked into the boss bitch’s back office, where she was behind her L-shaped desk conversing on her cell phone in her pricey reclining leather chair. Meyer emptied one of the duffle bags onto her desk, and the cash went everywhere. Layla curtailed her phone call. She was too happy with the score. It was like taking candy from a baby. Once again, she’d hit Scott where it would hurt a lot, his pockets.

  Layla’s eyes gleamed and she was ready to bathe herself in the cash. She rubbed her hands with a greedy gesture.

  “How much is it?” she asked.

  “We didn’t count it yet,” Meyer said.

  “You did good, Meyer—real good.”

  Meyer didn’t look too enthusiastic. He was expressionless. It had been a long night, and there was more to tell his mother. He wanted to wait for the right moment—for the others to leave.

  “I wish I could see the look on your father’s face when he finds out about this.”

  All the surveillance she’d had Meyer do had paid off big time. Also, their little birdie was on the money—a reliable snitch was worth more than gold. It would be another crippling blow to Scott’s eg
o. She was winning, and it felt good. She couldn’t believe that Scott was so far in his bitch’s pussy he was letting his business go down the drain. It was too bad Bugsy was following right behind him.

  When the goons left, including Luna, Meyer said, “Ma, some shit went down—” But as he was about to confess, her cell phone rang.

  “Hold on for one minute,” she said. “Who’s this?”

  It was Choppa on the cell phone. “Bugsy’s in the hospital, Ms. Layla. He’s hurt bad. We couldn’t stay cuz we were riding dirty, but you need to go see him.”

  Layla couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Immediately her eyes shot at Meyer and they were burning with anger. Choppa went into details about the robbery and the assault, and Layla seethed more and more.

  “I’m on my way,” she told him.

  She hung up, and her joy toward Meyer pivoted.

  “What the fuck happened? I told you, not one hair was supposed to be touched on my son’s head!” she shouted.

  “Shit just got out of control.”

  Layla stormed from around her desk, marched to her son, and slapped him.

  “You let someone assault your brother and you didn’t do a damn thing about it? Who did it? Who had the nerve to attack my muthafuckin’ son?”

  Her eyes were on fire. She wanted an answer from him.

  Meyer frowned. He didn’t want to give Luna up.

  “Answer me, nigga!” she screamed.

  Reluctantly, he mumbled, “It was Luna.”

  “That muthafucka put my son in the hospital and you let him do it!”

  She slapped him again. Meyer stood there taking the hits. He diverted his eyes away from her.

  She shouted, “Look at me, nigga! What the fuck happened?”

  “He had to make it look good,” he said.

  “Look good—by putting Bugsy in the fuckin’ hospital! Are you stupid?”

  “I already confronted him about it.”

  “Oh, you confronted him, huh? So he’s dead, right?” She was being sarcastic.