Mafia Princess

by King, Deja

  “Hello, Ms. Semaj. Do you need me to take your suitcase?” Arturo asked as he stood at the bottom of the boarding steps.

  “Nah, I’m good. You can grab them crates once you get me to the car and unload them into that black Lincoln that’s coming through,” Semaj instructed as she cautiously looked around before proceeding off the jet. Rain outpoured from the darkened sky heavily and the illumination from the town car headlights appeared close. “Damn, it’s storming cats and dogs out this bitch,” Semaj pulled the knitted hoodie over her head and wheeled her designer luggage across the wet pavement as she walked underneath the umbrella the bodyguard held for her.

  “Fuck is this nigga pulling so damn close for?” she exclaimed, frowning in annoyance. The Lincoln Town Car blocked the backdoor of the limo, but before another thought could register in her mind, the darkly tinted window rolled down. Semaj’s eyes grew wide as she watched a dreadlocked Jamaican behind apparent night vision goggles emerge a small handgun with an infrared emitting. Her heart thumped in fear and she closed her eyes as she waited for the bullet that would end her life.

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

  Bullets whizzed past her, and when Semaj turned around she saw Arturo, a hole blown clear through his forehead and a chrome

  .40 caliber pistol dangling from his hand as he crumpled to the ground. The side window on the small plane was shattered and the captain lay slumped over the dashboard. Her head spun wildly and the hailstones hit her in the face as she turned quickly to check the status of her boyfriend. When Semaj saw Vega sprawled awkwardly on the pavement she screamed, “Oh my God!” Semaj’s hand shot over her mouth as she reiterated over and over again, panicky.

  Three men dressed in dark-colored clothing hopped from the backseat of the vehicle and ascended the jet’s boarding steps, “Don’t move,” the Jamaican driver said threateningly as he held his gun out aiming directly at Semaj, daring her to move. Before Semaj even realized it, the men had grabbed the crates, jumped back in the town car and screeched off recklessly. They were gone and Semaj was without a half ton of Gio’s potent bricks.

  Hit with bullets, two round splotches painted Vega’s white button-up shirt crimson. He gripped his shoulder and torso simultaneously as his face grimaced in an O of horror. The hot lead spread through his chest and arm like a California bushfire, burning his insides. His eyes closed in agony as the cold rain fell on his injuries, doing nothing to chill the open wound.

  Everything happened so fast and unsuspectingly that it wasn’t until Semaj saw Vega’s blood wash up onto her cream Hermès loafers that she snapped out of the shocked trance. She looked around for assistance and immediately realization settled in; she was all alone.

  “Vega!” she screamed as she fell to the ground beside him. “Please get up, baby!” she cried as she unzipped the suitcase for her phone concurrently pulling article of clothing out one after the other. “I’m calling for help. Just hold on!” Her shaky hands were barely able to dial 911 but she managed, and cradled the cell phone to her wet ear.

  “911 what is your emergency?” the operator answered.

  “Please, somebody help me! My husband— he’s been shot!” Semaj mumbled hopelessly and scooped up the umbrella in an attempt to shield his body from the torrent, as she compressed the wounds on his chest with the clothes that she’d grabbed in order to stop the bleeding. “I need help, hurry! Please, hurry!”

  After she told the operator her location, Semaj dropped the phone and concentrated on Vega. The heat flaming inside of his body was unbearable. The ache was excruciating. He was unable to speak. All he could do was gasp for air as he grasped the bloody garments while attempting to stare Semaj in the eyes with desperation, but the rain was obstructing his vision. He could see nothing. He reclosed his eyes as rain sprayed his face and the sluggish thump in his pulse caused him to shudder violently. He was losing way too much blood. He gulped as he tried to suck in some oxygen, but the water got in his lungs and he began to choke on his own blood as it overflowed from the side of his mouth.

  Semaj’s eyes burned as the rain mixed with tears fell from her face and onto Vega’s cheeks. The shirts she pressed against his wound were sopped, and the crying sky wasn’t letting up as if Mother Nature was sobbing with her. Her throbbing head spun, and she felt like she was floating through air. Her chest ached and she tried to inhale but each time she tried to suck in air a twinge erupted through her heart. She was devastated. “Please, I need you, Vega. I can’t lose you too!” Semaj closed her eyes and shook her head from side to side as if she were in disbelief.

  “Semaj,” he whispered, weakly. He heard her voice in his ear and it had given him enough strength to speak. She didn’t know it, but she was the one keeping him from slipping into unconsciousness. Her sweet tone was in the distance, so far away, but her soft, pleading mutters caused his eyelids to flutter wildly. Her melody was a temporary distraction from the agony. She was his dose of energy and there was no way he was going to let two gunshot wounds tear them apart. They had things to handle— he had scores to settle and until then he would remain in the flesh.

  “You’re going to be okay… just hold on. Hold on, Vega,” she pleaded. Semaj heard the strident sirens nearing and the flashing red, white and yellow lights lit up the darkened black night sky, as if it was a son et lumière.

  Semaj stared at her bloodstained hands as she nervously paced back and forth in the hospital’s emergency waiting area. Her clothes were bloodily drenched and her hair was matted down on her face. She walked to the oversized window and waited for her grandfather to arrive as she watched as the sky faded from black to a dull gray. Dawn had set on the horizon but due to the constant showers, the gloom barely allowed illumination to the city streets. The dreariness matched Semaj’s somber mood; it seemed to fit the occasion. For the life of her, she could not wrap her mind around what had happened. Vega was undergoing surgery and hundreds of bricks were missing. She was clueless to the fact of who would want to rob them—who were bold enough to rob them, and the ache she felt in her soul hurt horribly.

  When Semaj saw five black bulletproof Hummers pull up to the hospital’s door, one behind the other, a wave of relief washed over her. Out stepped the Milano Hitters from the leading truck, clad in their usual trench coat attire, their long, jet-black hair flowing as if the four of them were about to walk down the catwalk in Milan instead of guarding the hospital’s front entrance way for the mob. Shortly after, Gio climbed from the backseat of the last vehicle and entered the building with an entourage of sixteen armed Dominican men behind him. Members of the Milano family organization scattered around the area, preventing anyone from entering or exiting the premises. Four of Gio’s most efficient henchmen followed behind him over to where Semaj stood, a look of devastation etched to her face.

  “Excuse me, sir,” one of the front desk medical receptionists said as she perched up from her post. “You all just can’t have people blocking all entryways. It is a fire hazard.”

  Gio disregarded her protest, never acknowledging her as he kept his stride. “Pay her,” he ordered. His lead worker slipped her a stack of money and didn’t lose his step alongside the boss. “Arretao´, perra,” Gio ranted, cursing the bravery of the nurse in Spanish. “See what it will take to have a medical care flight to transport Vega to the private hospital. Whatever it takes, make sure it gets done quickly and quietly,” he whispered as he spotted his granddaughter, soaking wet.

  “G-Poppa,” Semaj ran to her grandfather and hugged him tightly. “I’m so sorry, Poppa. I didn’t know. I don’t know who…”

  Gio placed his index finger on his lips, indicating her to calm down. He hated for attention to be brought to him. He was discreet and preferred to talk in private. “Let’s take a step outside, Semaj,” he suggested in a thick Dominican accent. He removed his Roberto Cavalli suede blazer jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders, then gently grabbed her hand as he led her to the forecourt of the hospital. An elderly man sat in a whe
elchair out front, a winter scarf covering half his face, as a lit cigarette dangled limply in his trembling hand.

  Gio pulled Semaj’s arm and headed to the crosswalk out of earshot of the old man. “Now, tell me what happened,” he said as he looked around to see which of his people were paying him attention and the ones who were cautiously on the lookout. He noticed Emilia, the ringleader of the four-pack, on the phone, apparently in a deep, serious conversation. Her facial expression was emotionless and her gaze was distant, as if she was staring at something in particular.

  “When we got off the plane the Lincoln town car that usually picks up the work to deliver them to Uncle Bonjo’s main warehouse pulled down. I knew something was wrong, because how the driver blocked my path,” Semaj admitted. “Instead of José being behind the wheel, it was a Jamaican. He had a gun hanging outside of the window and before I could blink, he fired off shots killing our pilot and Arturo,” her head dropped as she continued to explain. “By the time I noticed Vega had been shot, three dudes popped out the backseat and grabbed all of the crates and got ghost.”

  “Uncle Gio,” Emilia called as she approached them. “I was just on the phone with some of our higher-powered sources. Said they found the town car a few blocks away from the private airport along with José corpse in the trunk. Stabbed several times in the neck and a single gunshot to the head.” She looked over her shoulder and distinguished the same Dodge Caravan creeping down the block that she saw when the call first came through. “Fuck this lil’ ass van keep coming pass here for?” she asked, suspicious.

  The three pair of eyes glared, eyeing the darkly tinted van that stopped in the middle of the street. Gio felt something was odd and he stared at the vehicle closely. Although all of his soldiers were strapped up, Gio still reached in his waistband simultaneous to him stepping off the curb and pulled out his Desert Eagle semi-automatic pistol. He let it rest in his hand by his side. He threw one of his hands up threateningly as if he was inviting the occupant behind the wheel to step to him. The van immediately sped off, leaving Gio standing there with his hand in the air. He felt he was too old for this shit, but then again, he was never too old to murder a man. “Stupid motherfuckers,” he smoothly replaced the powerful gun into his leather holster. He waved his hand in dismissal, pulled out a Cuban cigar and lit it, as he returned to the girls.

  Emilia leaned close to Semaj’s ear and whispered, “Some bullshit is happening.”

  “No doubt,” Semaj agreed. “Fuckin’ niggas getting real fuckin’

  bold, nowadays. Fuck is behind all this bullshit?”

  “The only mu’fuckas I can think that even got the balls to pull some shit like this is them bitch ass Jamaicans. Ox’s people,” Emilia replied matter-of-factly.

  Gio immediately thought of the beef he had with the Rasta boys and regretted not killing them all off and everyone associated with them. He knew that Ox was pissed behind the massacre of his people that he sent down from Kingston, but who would’ve known he’d have his private jet robbed upon landing.

  “Mil, I need you to put your ears to the streets. See who’s talking and who knows what. If you have to fill pockets to get information then you do that. It’s time to cut the bullshit out,” Gio said, never rising his voice. “Get people on the phone now and see what you can find out.”

  Semaj noticed something wasn’t right. As she looked around everybody seemed to have devious intentions. The two overly dressed men perched at the bus stop bench with their heads buried in the daily newspaper and also, the three white windowless minivans exiting the parking garage booth. By the time she realized what was going down, it was too late. The daring Jamaican posing as an elderly man removed a Tec-9 from the side of the wheelchair and pointed in their direction. “It’s a hit!” Semaj screamed as she tried to warn everyone.

  Emilia was always ready, on-point, and swift with her shit. She ripped her trench coat open and pulled out the AR-15 automatic assault rifle, and fired first, as everything seemed to happen in slow motion. With precision, Emilia let off shot after shot that filled the foolish imposter up with lead—the force of the barrage of military bullets threw him back and slammed him into the handicap seat before he could ever pull the trigger.

  All of a sudden, the two Jamaican men hopped onto the bench like a frog, both their feet planted firmly, with machine guns in their hand and began letting off shots at the Milano family. The three vans stopped at the hospital’s front exit and in the blink of an eye, the backdoors on the vans seemed to open at the same time. Four men jumped out of each van, all of them carrying army weapons. The bullets from the automatic assault rifles filled the morning’s atmosphere, Rat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tiny flashes of fire danced around in the air intending to take down the Milano’s family, if anyone in particular, the princess. Pedestrians screamed and ran for cover in an attempt to escape the warzone while dodging bullets. It was complete pandemonium as shots rang out, hitting innocent bystanders and outgoing cars, all in an effort to especially, forever, lay down Semaj (Milano) Richardson.

  Gio had grabbed a nine-millimeter from the side of his Ferragamo boot while firing at the Jamaicans who were closing in on him. Semaj had caught the gun in midair that her grandfather threw to her. She spun around, adrenaline pumping, heart pounding heavily in her chest as they shot it out with the shootas from Kingston Jamaica. Her eyes darted wildly around the temporary parking area as she aimed her gun and released one shot after another.

  POW! POW! POW! They returned fire. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

  Bullets crashed the windows of the car Semaj was ducked behind,

  sending glass flying everywhere. She reached over the car’s hood and shot back, holding her own as they went against Ox’s hoodlums. Hospital employees, patients, and visitors scattered in a frenzy, trying not to be the one caught by stray bullets.

  CLICK! CLICK!

  The audible indication that she was out of ammunition caused Semaj to scramble to run behind the Corinthian-style column as she realized her clip had quickly emptied, but the gun battle continued in full force. “Fuck!” Semaj thought defenselessly. Crouched low, she ran while bullets flew around her head as she inched as quickly as possible to shield herself behind the concrete wall.

  Meanwhile, Emilia had traded shots with the Jamaicans as she managed to keep them off long enough for her sisters to come in assistance. She yelled, “Buquí! Y’all wanna get ratchet?” and continued to let her weapon spew, “Learn how to shoot first mu’fuckas!” The Milano Hitters had a marksman aim and due to the reckless shots that the Jamaicans sent gave Emilia and her sisters a slight advantage.

  “Kill all these muthafuckas,” Sosa, the second oldest, shouted mercilessly as she stood next to her younger sibling Marcela. Both with a “street sweeper” in their hands, bullets flew loosely, killing everyone in plain view.

  These mu’fuckas must ain’t checked our background, Emilia thought, her face expression in a furious scowl. Fearless, the Milano Hitters blasted off on the incompetent hired guns that had been sent by the infamous Ox. It was obvious that he was out for blood and her family was the target, but Emilia knew her trigger-happy knack was flawless and Ox’s hooligans couldn’t match her body count alone. Not to mention their numbers tallied together. Make sure to send these bumbaclot pussies back in a fuckin’ body bag. The four female siblings were magnificent when it came to gunplay. As Emilio’s daughters, the girls had been taught by the very best and popped off nothing but deadly headshots as the hot lead penetrated skulls, causing brain matter and mucus to spill gorily from nearly half of the dreadlocked heads.

  “Arghhhh,” LuLu, the baby sister, shouted piercingly as she handled her weapon skillfully, relentlessly—like a madwoman. Enraged LuLu blazed off, and the Jamaican bodies fell like dominoes. Although by now the rest of the Dominican crew had come to their defense, the Milano Hitters had their murder game looking like artwork as they painted the city streets red. In the beginning, they were outnumbered in bodies, but
with a sharpshooter’s ability, the female gunners were more than their equal, and had drastically slashed the Jamaican men number down by more than half. “This ain’t what y’all want.” She was so ill with an AK you would have never thought she reloaded her weapon. LuLu fired a trail of shots while boldly moving toward the Jamaicans, who were now backpedaling trying to make it to their waiting transportation. The rapid spray of endless bullets was more than the men left standing could handle and they backed down.

  “We kills cha e’notha time,” roared from a thickly accented voice. Semaj heard one of the Jamaican gunmen threats as her ears rang deafeningly from the cacophony of gunfire piercing their surroundings like it was the Fourth of July. Her damp hair hit her in the face as she spun her head quickly and peeked around the granite-stoned pillar. Her mouth fell open in horror as she saw an onslaught of bullets fill LuLu’s chest, leaving her body violently jerking from left to right as her gun still rain bullets. The three remaining Jamaicans hurriedly hopped in their vans and peeled off, leaving a cloud of smoke behind from the burning tires.

  Semaj saw her cousin’s body drop to the ground, and the bullets left LuLu lying motionless in the middle of the hospital’s front entrance. The entire scene was of complete carnage with dead bodies littered all across the pavement as if it was something as simple as trash and a collision of damaged cars were in preparation to be junked. It was something like no other. The innocent were dead at the hands of “street violence” that had showed up to the rare, unexpected location. More than one hundred shell casings were scattered over the street, and the Dominican mafia and the Jamaican mob was the cause of the gunfire melee.