Mafia Princess

by King, Deja

  Block had came down to the club a week earlier and had offered Ciara twenty thousand to set him up. He knew Murder Mitch loved Nude Daddy strip club and Ciara would be the perfect advantage. Craving money, sadly, she loved it more than a human’s life. Ciara accepted it without hesitation, and the fact that he possibly would have his life ended didn’t cause her to flinch.

  She told Block the strategy that would work for her, and he sent his goons in to do the job. Before the two Jamaicans escorted Murder Mitch out the emergency exit door inside the red room, which Ciara had deactivated, one goon had struck him across the face with the gun and threw him over his shoulder. He was knocked out cold. They had to because Murder Mitch was gangster and wasn’t willingly going to comply with their request like some sucka.

  Before they knocked him out, Murder Mitch had already warned them, “You niggas may as well kill me right here, ‘cause I ain’t walkin’ out this bitch like a pussy ass nigga.” Even with death kissing his face, he was still the same G.

  Nobody on the outside was aware of what was going down in the red room. The loudness from the blaring tunes was drowning out the commotion. When Ciara turned around to rejoin the live party not feeling an ounce of guilt, the other Jamaican asserted with his gun already aimed. “We leave behind no witnesses, bloodclot!” Her eyes bugged wide in fear, but he didn’t give her enough time to plead. He ended her life with the silencer.

  I just hope my daughter be straight, Murder Mitch thought as the numbers on his life had clocked down. He was living in his last moments on earth. Death loomed over him. He knew it was near, but knew his demise wasn’t untimely. The life he had led for so long had ultimately determined the cruel way in which he was about to die. He had taken more lives, had destroyed more families, and dismantled more drug cartels than any one man. Most people in his position would be pleading for their life, but Murder Mitch knew this was his fate. The cold-hearted man within wouldn’t allow him to beg, because his time had come and he had no regrets.

  Although weak, he tried lifting his head to look the grim reaper in his eyes but Murder Mitch knew his legacy would be enough for him. His reign of terror was worth it. An infamous street legend, an assassination machine that murder-for-hire story would be told to every hustler and gangster coming up in the game. Notorious was an understatement for Murder Mitch. He gave the ters ruthless and callous a fresh definition the very day he jumped off the porch headfirst in the murder game. But tonight was his judgment day—payment for all his committed sins. He held no pain or anger.

  A gruesome sight, Block’s torture was unbelievable and the carnage he used was that of retribution. Naked, Murder Mitch hung from a steel pipe where his hands were chain-shackled and he was severely beaten and bruised. Seeing him this way was poetic for Block, a lovely execution for the hated adversary. The two of them could no longer inhale the same air. They would never be able to co-exist and it was time for Murder Mitch’s demise.

  The image of Block was blurry, and the blood had flooded his vision. The red fluid slipped into his eyelids and stung an unbearable agony. His eyeballs felt as if a lava flame had been ignited within. Block and his goons had beaten him for two days and two nights, rotating shifts. The old adage of how you kill is how you’d die rang true. During his time, Murder Mitch had tormented people and karma had come around full circle. He hadn’t felt any remorseful chill in his ruthless bones. Murder had been his religion, coldblooded had been his creed and as nature’s law applies, he was reaping what he had sowed.

  His ribs were broken; most of his bones were crushed. His face was badly disfigured, but his mental state was so strong he knew even at his weakest point he had an advantage over Block. They both knew he was there to die, but what Block wanted to see was him cry. Tears would have given him satisfaction, but there was nothing that could possibly be done to Murder Mitch because he was a natural born killer and he didn’t fear death.

  While in this torturous moment, Murder Mitch was unafraid and in his fleeting moments of life, the only face that popped up in his mind was his daughter’s. He hated to leave her behind, but he had created a monster, and he knew that she’d be able to survive. As blood leaked from his body and poured from his mouth, and through sticky vision Murder Mitch managed to smirk meanly at Block.

  In exhaustion, Block circled the hanging body of Murder Mitch and stared back up at the dying man. Surrounded by a ruthless crew of dreadlocked Jamaicans, Block could have had one of the efficient workers that had been sent up from Kingston take his man out, but this shit was too personal. Block was tired of bullshitting around too, and it was Murder Mitch’s time to go. Orbiting around a man who he had once trusted, the barrel of the sawed-off shotgun screeching across the floor as he dragged it, Block was ready to make the lights go off on Murder Mitch. “Fuck you thought, nigga? I wasn’t gon’ ever catch up with you? Nigga, huh?” Block spit as he lifted his assault rifle up and aimed it skillfully at Murder Mitch’s head. “CLICK-CLACK!” He chambered the pump back in an attempt to blow Murder Mitch’s face off. “This for you, Kan!”

  “BOOM!”

  A loud crashing sound interrupted Block before he could kill Murder Mitch. A swarm of twenty plus DEA agents with labeled bulletproof vest on flooded the old factory as the warehouse went into complete pandemonium. “Everybody on the fucking ground!” one of the agents shouted.

  “What the fuck!” Block pushed past one of the Jamaican members and dropped to the floor, disappearing out of the back easily and unnoticed while thinking how in the fuck the police discovered his hideout. He had to contact Ox.

  Meanwhile, the Jamaicans shot it out with the New Jersey DEA. Gunplay unmatched, their marksmen aim flawlessly had given the

  officers a shootout that the East Coast hadn’t seen since the eighties. Bullets flew for what seemed like forever as bodies from each team dropped motionless. Ruthlessly and carelessly, the Jamaicans let their deadly devices sound off a flinching tune, but outnumbered, the Rasta boys were nearly defenseless, and each of them went down one by one, leaving a trail of dead bodies on scene. This was an event that would cause a great war between two of the most powerful drug bosses in the twenty-first century.

  With an unlit Cigar hanging from the side of his mouth, Gio stood underneath the wrought-shed of his privately owned hospital. Flashing red, white, and yellow lights gleamed as the ambulance approached the front entrance. He had enough pull to send DEA agents in, and as instructed, they had brought Mr. Richardson to him badly beaten, but nevertheless alive. Surrounded by an entourage of twelve Dominican men, one of the henchmen stepped forward with his boss and snatched the rear door open.

  A grin of satisfaction stretched across Gio’s face as he looked down at Murder Mitch, who had once been his most efficient worker. As fast as that smirk of elation washed upon his face, a cold frown took its place. Although the face that belonged to Murder Mitch was outrageously disfigured, Gio had noticed the teardrop tattoo stained underneath his right eye. Everything else was unrecognizable. His face, body and hands were all gruesomely assaulted.

  The sight of Murder Mitch infuriated him completely, and instinctively he withdrew his .357 magnum and slapped it across the injured face. He slipped his pistol back inside his waistband, but that didn’t damper the hurting emotions that overcame him. Angrily, Gio clasped his strong hands around his neck in an involuntary clutch to squeeze the rest of the life out of Murder Mitch. He had allowed his anger to get the better of him, although his attempts were useless. He was numb and unconscious. Releasing him from his firm hold,

  Gio watched as his private doctors unloaded the gurney from the paramedics.

  Gio spat as if his saliva was fire that would incite a gasoline blaze. Gio wished the fragile body had been doused in petrol so that he could light a match and watch the flesh burn into char remorselessly. But things weren’t that simple. He depended on Murder Mitch to survive. He needed his team of doctors to ensure his survival. He had to live so that he could tell him where t
o find his grandchild.

  The highly paid medical team burst through the double doors as they rushed him in for surgery. I should have never given you my blessings to marry my daughter, he thought regretfully as the stretcher disappeared down the narrow hallway.

  Many years had passed, but his grandbaby stayed etched to his memory. Gio hadn’t seen Semaj since she was a baby her doll face had never left his mental museum. There was a void in his organization that only she would be able to fill. She was an heir. Never had Semaj known it, but she was the granddaughter of Gio Milano. She was more than a princess of the ghetto. She was a Mafia Princess. It was only a matter of time before she encountered the life that her mother, Kasey had been born into: Drugs. Money. Murder. Mayhem. Wars. Omerta. A life of La Cosa Nostra. A legacy that would live on forever.

  Chapter 15

  After paying the ninety-dollar tab she ran up, Semaj tipped the cabdriver twenty-dollars and walked inside her home overcome with emotion. The pouring rain had her soaking wet. Exhaustion plagued her, but she knew there was no time for rest. She needed her father. She wanted her father so he could soothe her nerves. She also needed Quasim who she loved and prayed to God that she’d never lose his love.

  Semaj stood looking at herself in the bathroom mirror and noticed the stress lines forming on her forehead. Worry filled her face as tired bags rested beneath her eyes. Turning around, Semaj twisted on the nozzles to the shower on full blast.

  Undressing out of the wet clothing, she stepped into the spacious walk-in shower hoping the hot water would wash some of her worries away, but instead an eerie feeling passed over her. Choosing to ignore the nagging feeling in her gut, she continued to scrub her skin down and grabbed the towel from the rack before stepping out of the shower. Hearing her phone chiming, she thought it was her father until she noticed Quasim’s picture flashing across the screen. “Hello?”

  “I’m on my way to swoop you.” “Already home.”

  “Oh,” he paused, thinking nothing of it. “Well, I’m on my way home.”

  “Okay,” Semaj said fixin’ to hang up. “Wait!” Semaj called out. “What‘s up?”

  “Have you talked to my Dad? I can’t get in touch with him. I been trying for the last few hours and he still ain’t picked up. That’s weird because my father always answers for me.”

  “Nah, I ain’t talked to him either. But we’ll discuss it once I get there.” Quasim hung up not willing to tell her what was going on over the phone.

  As Semaj sat in front of her vanity mirror, she heard Quasim summoning for her to come downstairs. “Here I come,” she said, wrapping her black silk robe around her shoulders and slid into the slippers. Wanting to conceal her depressing mood, Semaj forced a smile to cross her face.

  “Hey pretty lady,” he said sweetly as he leaned against the foyer’s brick wall. He hated that he was the one to have to deliver the news about her father being missing. “C’mon here, baby,” he commanded and she complied. Quasim pulled her close to his chest and rested his forehead against hers. “I need to speak with you about something, Maj.”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He sighed heavily. “Don’t get scared or start buggin’ because I’m not sure what’s what. And I don’t want us to just start assuming shit.” “Okay, Qua. You scaring me.” Semaj placed her hand over her

  chest. “Would you just tell me what is going on already.”

  “Maj,” he paused, staring down into her beautiful eyes. “Haven’t nobody been able to get in touch with Mitch in the last couple of days.”

  “What are you insinuating, Quasim?” Almost instantly, a migraine overpowered her brain and she felt the room spin underneath her. Sweat formed on her nose as her heartbeat blared loudly in her ears. “You think my Daddy been snatched?” Tears were gushing from her eyes as she sobbed inside Quasim’s embrace.

  He felt so bad. Only if he could take her pain away he would undoubtedly. “We don’t know what is going on, Maj. Baby, stop crying. We don’t know yet. Please stop crying,” he said, begging. She had brought tears to his eyes and he could hear his heart breaking at her devastation. Not because Murder Mitch was missing because Quasim knew the life, but for the pain she endured.

  The doorbell rang loudly throughout the house, jarring them from the intimate moment. Seeing the detective at their door with a look of sympathy across his face was the only confirmation needed. Before the homicide detective could break the news, Semaj wailed and fell to the ground in distress. “Please tell me my father is okay!” she screamed helplessly.

  “I’m really sorry about this ma’am,” the officer said as Quasim helped Semaj up from the ground. “We will need a relative to come down to the coroner’s office. We found a wallet at a shooting scene and need someone to come down to identify the body.” He paused. “And again, I’m truly sorry.”

  “I’ll have someone at the morgue tomorrow morning,” Quasim said as he closed the door behind him. At that moment all he wanted to do was comfort Semaj.

  It was storming. The loud thunder and heavy downpour were every indication that something bad had happened. Lying underneath the soft sheets, Semaj tossed and turned unable to sleep. Restless, she climbed down from bed and walked over to the bay window. The lightning striking lit up outside, but the blistering winds and severe rainfall caused a blurry view, and the sounds of hail hitting the windowpane had gotten her lost in her thoughts.

  She heard the squeak of the hardwood floor and closed her eyes as she felt Quasim’s hand interlink hers. “You know I’m here if you need me for anything, baby.”

  He expected her not to respond, but to his relief she replied. “I just can’t believe my father is gone,” she whispered. “It’s like anything good to me leaves me.”

  “I promise I’ll never leave you. On everything, baby, we’re forever.”

  “Every time something right is going good in my life some bullshit happens. I done cried so much in my lifetime it seems like I’m all cried out. I never knew that one person could lose so many people in a lifetime. But I guess it’s different with me.” She stared out into the dangerous winds gusting with a tear-stained face. Semaj felt like she had to be cursed to lose her mother, her first love, her auntie and then her father in her short life.

  “You still have me and we’re going to build something beautiful together. A family one day. If you leave everything up to me you’d never have to cry another day in your life. You’re mine, Maj,” he said. “Now come back to bed.”

  “When I’m with you everything in my world seems so right. You make me feel like I have something to look forward to,” she whispered. “Me too. Me too,” he spoke into her ear. “You’re my happiness.”

  He led her back over to the bed to lie down. Semaj wrapped herself in his arms. He stayed up half of the night rubbing her back to ease some of her pain. With him next to her she found temporary peace, and was finally able to rest her eyes where her father lived in her dreams.

  The next morning when Semaj awoke, she sat up in complete shock. There had to be no space left in the bedroom. From life-size teddy bears to huge balloons to dozens of roses and over twenty gift bags filled up with cards, candy and plaques surrounded the room. Her heart smiled at his generosity. Quasim had showered her with the best of things, but this kind approach during one of the most troubling times in her life reminded her why she loved him so much. The material things he had provided for her wasn’t comparable to his thoughtfulness. She crawled out of bed and did her morning regimen before making her way downstairs. “Quasim!” she called out.

  “Good morning,” he said as he extended his hand to help her down the last step. He kissed her forehead. “I set up some places to visit so that we can go through planning his funeral together. Call Paris and see if she wanna go with us. I know that’s your homegirl and you’d love for her to help you though this too.” He knew how close the two of them were, but what he didn’t know was about their fallout. “I’m going to call her,” Quasim pul
led out his phone and dialed her number.

  “The Sprint subscriber that you are trying to reach is unavailable please try the number or code again,” an operator’s voice blared through the phone. A look of confusion crossed Quasim’s face as he looked at Semaj.

  She’s really mad to get her number change, she thought, feeling as if Paris was being over the top. Although they’d had a misunderstanding or per se a dispute, Semaj felt that they were way better than that. The money was nothing. Paris could have gotten more if only she had asked in a different way. She knew that she would call and apologize and they’d move on, but it was obvious that Paris was serious. Never in a million years would she have thought that Paris would become her archenemy, but in actuality, she had been the disguised foe from the very beginning.

  Murder Mitch’s death had drew Semaj even closer to Quasim, and he became her personal escort. Putting his business off, he focused on her and planning a small but beautiful memorial service. Her days were filled with choosing flowers arrangements and picking out caskets. Speaking with preachers, deciding on churches and opting cremation, Semaj wanted her father’s remains to be placed in an urn so that he could be with her forever.

  As Semaj passed through the days, she blocked out everything and turned off her emotions. Numbed, she withdrew as it got closer to having to say goodbye to her father. Detachment was the only way Semaj knew that she’d be able to get through it and keep her sanity. To avoid the pain, she had to disconnect herself from her feelings.

  Logically, if she was emotionless, then there wasn’t a way she could be devastated. She knew her father wouldn’t want her to be sad, and for that reason along with Quasim being her strength, she didn’t let her father’s death break her. She remained strong in what seemed to be the most trying time of her life.