Mafioso [Part 1]

by Nisa Santiago

  “What about that other thing with your brother Wacka? Did the money come yet?”

  “I haven’t spoken to him yet, but it should be there,” Shiniquia said.

  “I need this to happen soon. And I want it to happen the way I described—by car—and make it ugly.”

  “Oh, wit’ Wacka, it will be ugly. For what you got that bitch paying out, my brother don’t got morals. He don’t give a fuck if it’s a kid or not, he gonna get the job done.”

  That was what Max wanted to hear. She needed a hardcore goon for what she had planned.

  One by one, they would go, and Layla and Scott would soon know what it felt like to be helpless. There was no amount of money or power in the world to prevent their children’s demise and, subsequently, theirs.

  ***

  It was after midnight, and besides the TV playing, the remainder of the house was quiet. Wacka sat shirtless on the plush couch in the living room, his elbows pressed against his knees. He stared attentively at the large flat-screen mounted on the wall as he watched an episode of Love and Hip Hop: Atlanta. Wacka laughed at the fights and enjoyed the beautiful ladies on the screen. Their cattiness was amusing to him. They had a style and charisma about them that made him a fan of the show. Wacka would lick these bitches from head to toe and stick his tongue deep up the crack of their ass. Especially Karlie Redd, the black-haired beauty. Something about her made him go crazy.

  “Yeah, I would definitely get that bitch pregnant,” he said to no one.

  He took a few sips of the cold beer in his hand, leaned back against the couch, and stretched his arms across the back. He was enjoying the neat, well-decorated house, which had all the latest amenities.

  After the show was over, Wacka felt it was time to do what he came there to do. He’d spent too much time watching the TV show and fantasizing over Karlie Redd. But it wasn’t like he was in any rush. Wacka was his own boss, and he did whatever the fuck he wanted to do.

  He finished the beer and tossed it to the side. He stood up. At six two, his appearance was intimidating. He was dark-skinned and muscular with a shiny bald head and dark eyes. His upper torso was painted with tattoos—everything from gang-related to prison tats. Covering his back was a giant, highly detailed demonic skull covered in blood. His tattoos and his scars told his story—He was an absolute bad ass who gave no fuck about anyone or anything. Many thought he was a few cents short of a dollar.

  Wacka picked up the large 8-inch bowie knife by his side and looked to his left. He scowled at two of his male captives gagged and hogtied on the floor.

  He approached, and the two men squirmed and muttered something incoherent. It was their home and their goodies that Wacka had treated himself to. He raided their fridge, ate their food, and enjoyed their entertainment system for over an hour while the two men were tied up.

  Wacka had broken into their home and held them at gunpoint. But these people weren’t innocent civilians; they were known drug traffickers living the good life in DC. They too were dangerous men, and if the shoe were on the other foot, Wacka would have been a dead man in the blink of an eye. These people had ordered hits, destroyed lives, and were killers too. But Wacka had gotten the best of them. After stalking them for weeks, watching and learning everything about them, he made his move when they least expected it.

  He crouched near Tommy, put the knife to his cheek, and said, “Y’all niggas comfortable?”

  Tommy fidgeted in his restraints and muttered something incoherent again.

  “What was that, nigga? Huh? Continue to make myself at home? I’m welcome here? Oh, your bitch is my bitch. That is so generous, Tommy. I appreciate the offer,” Wacka said. “And you do have a gorgeous bitch.”

  Wacka didn’t want to kill them yet. He was having some fun with them. He stood up and walked away.

  Tommy and his brother watched him with fretful gazes. Their eyes followed him until he disappeared into the next room.

  Wacka came back into the living room with Amber, Tommy’s wife. She had duct-tape over her mouth, and she was trembling in Wacka’s clutch.

  “You know I’m very grateful that you would give me your wife. And they say you’re a stingy and selfish bastard. I beg to differ,” Wacka mocked.

  Tommy and his brother squirmed against their stomachs, desperate to break free and help Amber.

  Wacka placed the knife to Amber’s throat. “Bitch, you gonna die slowly.”

  The blade nicked the side of her neck and drew some blood. For good measure, Wacka struck her with a violent blow.

  Just then, his cell phone rang. He answered the call from Dagmar, one of his trusted cohorts.

  “Wack,” Dagmar called him for short, “that thing wit’ your sister? It went through. The money came correct.”

  “That’s what up. I need that. I guess we’re taking a road trip south to Florida.”

  “Fo’ sure, my nigga.”

  Wacka ended the call and went back to what he started before the interruption. With one quick motion, Wacka put the bowie knife to Amber’s neck and cut her throat right there as she lay on her back in anguish. He watched as her blood pooled underneath her, crimson staining the wood flooring. Wacka could hear Tommy’s gag-muffled screams of pain and agony as his wife’s body lay lifeless nearby.

  Tommy and his brother fidgeted harder, but to no avail. They weren’t going anywhere while hogtied. They were at Wacka’s mercy, though they believed there would be none tonight.

  Wacka went to Tommy’s brother first. He crouched near him and slowly placed the knife to his throat. The brother cringed, knowing his fate. His breathing was labored, and his movement strictly limited.

  “It’s been fun, but life goes on, right?” Wacka taunted him. With that, he sliced from left to right, opening the man’s throat. Blood sprayed on the floor like a fountain, and the life drained from his eyes. He died soon after.

  Tommy’s eyes were watery. It wasn’t supposed to end like this for him. He could shout no last words to Wacka—no threats or insults.

  Wacka crouched over him in a threatening stance and placed the knife to his neck before repeating the slashing motion against Tommy’s neck from left to right. Tommy choked on his own blood. It took a moment for him to finally die.

  Wacka exhaled and admired his work. Three dead, now it was time to collect. He went into the kitchen and rinsed the blood from his black latex gloves. Then he went into the next room and placed two kilos of heroin into a bag. It was enough for him to eat off of. Maybe he’d wholesale it out of town or retail it on the street. Either way, it was a lot of money. Tommy and his brother were known around town as the moneymakers, the big shots, moving kilos like running water. Wacka gathered jewelry, cash, and a few guns after he secured the heroin. It was a good payday for him.

  Wacka made sure not to leave any evidence behind—no DNA, no fingerprints. The gloves would stay on until he left the premises. The bodies would stay there and rot until they were found. He left the place feeling no remorse. It was what he did best—kill people and take their shit.

  Wacka was ready for a road trip. It would be a good idea to get out of town for a while anyway. He knew the deaths of Tommy and his brother would stir up some chaos in DC, but he wasn’t running scared. He had to do a job his sister had connected him with. He didn’t care who it was. If the contractor was paying good money, he would go after the president of the United States.

  20

  Layla lay on her bed, sleeping in late that morning. It was another sunny, sizzling day in Florida, and she had a slight hangover. She had gone out clubbing the night before, gotten her drink on, and mingled with a few people. All she wanted to do was sleep all morning and perhaps all afternoon. She could afford to sleep all day. Her husband wasn’t home, her kids entertained themselves, and her business was taken care of.

  Gotti was a handsome young boy, athletic and the spitt
ing image of his father. If he wasn’t playing video games, then he’d be in the pool or messing around with his friends and their high-end toys and expensive bicycles. Gotti was a spoiled brat who got whatever he wanted and did whatever he wanted. His father was Scott West.

  Gotti and his friends ran around the pool area playing tag and pushing each other into the pool. It was all for laughs. They kicked each other playfully and tossed around food in jest.

  Gotti did a back flip off the deck and landed into the water, creating an impressive splash. He was a good swimmer. Layla had gotten him swimming lessons when he was four years old. Now nine, he was looking like Michael Phelps in the water. His friends tried to follow his lead, but they landed awkwardly in the pool. They weren’t as good as Gotti. They played Marco Polo and tossed toys and other items into the pool just for fun. They didn’t care who had to clean up behind them. They were boys being boys.

  They soon became bored with the pool.

  “Let’s go ride our bikes,” one of Gotti’s friends suggested.

  They were all with it.

  Gotti had a new bicycle he wanted to show off to his buddies. A one of a kind. His father had paid three thousand dollars for it. He wanted to explore the neighborhood with his friends, so they could race their bikes and pop wheelies in the street. He quickly dried off and went inside the house to ask his mother if he could go.

  Layla wanted complete silence while she lounged in her bedroom and slept. A sudden knocking on her door almost sent her into a heated rage.

  “What?!” she screamed out.

  “Mommy, can I go bike-riding with my friends around the neighborhood?” Gotti asked.

  “What! Hell no. Go clean up your damn room!”

  “Please, Mommy. My room is already clean.”

  “Gotti, don’t you lie to me. What I say?”

  “It is, and I don’t wanna stay here. It’s boring.”

  “Go play in the backyard or downstairs, or something. All them damn video games you got around here to play with . . . go and do that. But don’t go outside right now. It’s too damn early for this shit!”

  Gotti pouted. “You never let me have any fun!”

  “Boy, you better leave from my fuckin’ door and stay your ass inside until I get up. And stop waking me up. I had a late night,” Layla shouted.

  Gotti turned around and marched away from the bedroom door upset. He frowned and stomped his feet slowly against the floor. He stormed downstairs and hurried by Bonnie and Clyde, who were lounging in the great room, busied with their smartphones. They didn’t pay their little brother any attention.

  Most times, it was like Gotti was invisible to them. They were rich teenagers with good looks, doing teens things, including having sex. Bonnie was texting her older boyfriend and planning to meet with him later in the day. Clyde was chatting with friends and looking at porn.

  Gotti went outside to join his friends, who had already retrieved their bikes. “Let’s go!” he said to them.

  “Your moms say it was cool?” Reggie asked.

  “No. But I’m going anyway.” He knew his mother would most likely be sleeping all afternoon.

  Reggie shrugged.

  “I know where we can go,” Duane said.

  Gotti went to remove his mountain bike from the four-car garage and climbed on it. He popped a wheelie in the yard for fun, showing off his skills. Defying his mother’s command, he followed behind Reggie and Duane, away from the sprawling property and into the neighborhood. Kids—horsing around and being kids.

  ***

  Wacka sat in a stolen blue Hyundai and smoked his cigarette. He had his goons watching the house in a minivan decorated like a cable van, parked nearby. Wacka watched three boys on bikes exit the gated property. He couldn’t believe his luck. Nine-year-old Gotti was leaving the premises with his friends. Wacka knew it was him, from the pictures Max had mailed him.

  Gotti pedaled feverishly with his friends and soon passed the cable van and the Hyundai.

  Wacka extinguished his cigarette, put the car in drive, and made a quick U-turn. He followed behind Gotti and his friends. The kids were moving steadily and having their fun. Wacka drove at a moderate speed a few clicks behind the boys. He was waiting for the right moment to strike.

  The area was posh and quiet, and the driveways were long. Each home was worth a million dollars or more. There wasn’t a noticeable police presence, and traffic was light on the streets.

  Soon they’d ridden three miles from his home. The boys were on a long, isolated stretch of road that traveled several miles. The road cut right through the swampy wilderness.

  Gotti pedaled zealously, leaving his friends behind and moving in the distance. He worked the mountain bike adeptly and did another wheelie in the middle of the street. Wacka eyed Gotti from the car, ready to make his move.

  The Hyundai sped up behind him. Gotti heard the car and glanced back, but he didn’t see it as a threat. He figured it would pass him by.

  Wacka pushed his foot on the gas, and the car accelerated to 60 mph. He had Gotti dead in his sights.

  Gotti continuously glanced back at the car, which was coming at him fast. He got nervous. He pedaled faster and felt the urge to look for safety, but on the remote road, there was nowhere safe.

  The Hyundai reached 70 mph, and Gotti tried to swerve out of the way, but Wacka turned sharply toward the boy and mowed him down in broad daylight. The impact lifted Gotti and his bicycle at least twenty feet into the air, and he came crashing down on the concrete violently, his bike broken and twisted from the impact.

  Wacka kept moving, speeding away from the scene. He left the boy dead on the road for his friends to find.

  Wacka met up with his two goons in the van. He ditched the Hyundai somewhere remote, set the car on fire, and watched it burn for a moment. The heat was intense, and the fire quickly engulfed the entire car. He climbed into the van and left.

  ***

  Gotti’s friends were shocked. Their friend was dead. They didn’t know what to do. They panicked, with Reggie screaming, “He’s dead! He’s dead!”

  They were frightened kids in shock. They hurried away from the body in pure terror and rushed back home, scared to tell anyone what happened to their friend.

  Reggie and Duane felt they had done something wrong because Mrs. Layla told Gotti not to leave the house, but he did it anyway. They were scared they would get blamed for everything.

  ***

  Half the day went by, and Layla was still asleep in her bedroom. Bonnie and Clyde were off doing their own thing, and the house was extra quiet. She awakened a little after four p.m., and the first thing she did was light a blunt and step out onto the balcony to get some air. The sun shined brightly, and her property looked like a ghost town. The quietness was needed.

  She went back into her bedroom and picked up her cell phone. She had several missed calls. She would call them back later. She thought about Lucky, Meyer, and Bugsy. The last time she’d heard from them, they were in Delaware. Scott had her babies away from New York. She wasn’t too worried about them, since they knew how to handle themselves. Besides, they were protected. Their organization was a large machine with many moving parts. While Scott and the older children were handling business up north, she was taking care of business in the south, securing her family’s longevity.

  Layla finished her blunt and relaxed in her bedroom. She needed a drink and some good gossip. She poured herself some white wine and called a few friends to talk.

  Two hours went by, and the house was still quiet. It was getting late, and yet, no Gotti. She walked around the house, which was vast and easy to get lost in, but no one was home, not even Bonnie and Clyde. She called Gotti’s cell phone, but there was no answer. She moved through the house calling out her son’s name, but nothing.

  In Gotti’s bedroom were the remnants o
f his two friends sleeping over the night before. There was trash and junk food left on the floor, toys and video games spread out everywhere, his bed was unmade, and his clothes were piled messily in the corner. The place was a pigsty. Gotti had lied to her. Layla was ready to curse his ass out and beat him.

  She went into the front room and saw Bonnie was coming through the front door. The first thing out of Layla’s mouth was, “Have you seen your little brother?”

  “I haven’t seen him all day,” Bonnie said.

  Layla sighed. She tried not to worry. He was probably somewhere upset and hiding from her because she wouldn’t allow him to go bike-riding with his friends. She called his cell phone again but soon heard it ringing inside the house. She found it in the great room, near his video games. She worried that he didn’t have his phone with him.

  “Where’s Clyde?” Layla asked.

  Bonnie shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Y’all fuckin’ kids are gonna give me a fuckin’ heart attack!” She got on her phone and dialed Clyde’s phone.

  “What, Ma?”

  “Have you seen your brother?”

  “No, I don’t know where Gotti’s at. He’s not home?”

  “If he was home, would I be fuckin’ asking you?”

  “He got friends, right? They spent the night, so why don’t you call them? He probably over one of their houses.”