Blood of a Boss III Page 12

  “So how did you link up wit’ Sonny?”

  “One day, Mook called me and asked me to meet with his young bul to show him a house in Cheltenham. I already knew who Sontino was, but he didn’t know me. Now, don’t get me wrong, Sonny’s a fly ass nigga, but I never wanted him. The only nigga I ever wanted was Mook, but Mook was on some bullshit. Anyway, I started fucking with Sonny just to make Mook jealous, but then he got killed and I found out that I was pregnant with Keyonti. And at the end of the day, I really did fall in love with Sontino, but now...” her voice trailed off and she took a deep breath.

  “I’m sayin’, though,” Egypt looked at her with a confused expression. “What does any of this have to do wit’ me?”

  Daphney looked at him through squinted eyes. “You wanna be your own boss and I can make that happen for you. But first, you gotta do something for me.”

  “And what’s that?” Egypt asked, folding his arms across his chest.

  Daphney sat back in her bucket seat and casually placed her left hand back on her pistol. Attentively reading his body language, she said, “You gotta help me kill Sontino.”

  Egypt went quiet and Daphney continued to watch him like a hawk. All he had to do was utter the wrong words and he was finished. His eyes searched around the front seat, looking for a hidden camera. This shit had to be a set up. “Yo, Daph, stop fuckin’ around.”

  “I’m dead ass serious,” she replied without batting an eye.

  “How I’m ‘posed to know this ain’t a set up? For all I know, you coulda told Sonny what I said and he sent you to line me up.”

  She leaned over the center console and used her tongue to part his lips. He was rigid at first, but after a couple of seconds, he began to kiss her back. She removed her left hand from her jacket pocket and gently caressed his dick through his jeans.

  “Do you still think I’m fuckin’ around?” she asked in a passionate voice, still stroking his meat through his jeans.

  “I don’t know,” he breathed heavily. “You’re gonna have to do a lil’ more to convince me.”

  She squinted her eyes and seductively bit down on her bottom lip. Without saying another word, she unbuckled his jeans and then used her tongue to make his toes curl.

  ***

  A Half an Hour Later

  “You wanna run that by me again?” Carmine asked, looking at Fat Petey with a raised eyebrow. He, Fat Petey, and Anthony Marco, his war capo from South Jersey, were sitting in the living room of a small row home in South Philly.

  “His name’s Egypt, and he’s connected to Sontino,” Fat Petey repeated his last statement. “He’s a major coke dealer from North Philly, and the other guy that we seen in the video, the one that looks just like him, that’s his twin brother, Zaire.”

  Carmine got up from the couch and stood in front of the window. A glass of Bourbon was clutched in his right hand and a Marlboro Menthol was dangling from the right side of his mouth. He took a drag on the Marlboro, removed it from his lips, and exhaled the smoke. Was this a set up? He wondered. Did Grip kidnap and whack Roberto, just to have me take the blame?

  He looked to his right where Anthony was sitting in a rocking chair. He was slowly rocking back and forth, and taking short pulls on the Cohiba that was nestled in between his left thumb and index finger. The slim, gray haired Italian reminded Carmine of George Clooney, but unlike Mr. Clooney, he was a stone-cold killer, and Carmine was glad to have him on his team.

  “Alright, Anthony, now tell me again what you know about this kid, Sontino.”

  “Well, as you already know, I used to get my coke and heroin from Mook, and Sontino was his second in command. There was a couple of times when Mook couldn’t bring me my monthly shipment, so he sent Sontino instead. From what I could tell, he was a good kid. He never gave me any problems.”

  “When was the last time you seen him?”

  “A couple of years ago. A little after Mook got whacked.”

  “Did he ever mention Grip?”

  Anthony rubbed the stubble on his chin and slowly nodded his head. “You know what, Carmy, he did. Right after Mook got whacked, he drove down to Jersey to pick up the money that I owed Mook for my last shipment. We had a few drinks and ended up reminiscing about Mook. He told me that Mook was like a father to him.”

  “Come on, Anthony, get to Grip,” Carmine said, gesturing for Anthony to speed up his story. “What did he say about Grip?”

  “He told me he was gonna do to Grip what Grip did to Mook, chop his fuckin’ head off.”

  “And that’s the piece that doesn’t fit,” Carmine added. “If Sontino hates Grip, and he’s lookin’ to whack him, why in the hell would he help Grip set me up? We’ve gotta be missin’ somethin’.”

  Fat Petey knocked down his double-shot of Vodka, and then looked over at Carmine. “You know what I’m thinkin’, Carmy, I’m thinkin’ Roberto got whacked behind somethin’ personal, a broad, maybe.”

  “Oh yeah, Petey, and what makes you say that?”

  “Because, if they wanted to whack him and make it seem like we did it, they would have whacked him at the club. They wouldn’t have kidnapped and tortured him. They would have caught him leavin’ the club, slid up behind him, and put two in his friggin’ head. Boda Boom. Boda Bing.”

  Carmine didn’t respond, but he realized that Fat Petey was on to something. He whipped out is cell phone and dialed Chatchi’s number. The phone rang a couple of times, and then Chatchi’s voice eased through the phone.

  “Whatever you have to say, mijo, it better be good,” he threatened.

  “Did you receive the video that I uploaded to your phone?”

  “Yeah,” Chatchi confirmed. “But I need more. I need names and locations.”

  “The guy who followed Roberto and Chino out of my club, his name’s Egypt and he’s connected to The Moreno Family,” Carmine snitched.

  “The Morenos?” Chatchi questioned. “Now is not the time for you to be fucking around, mijo. I know that you and The Morenos are having problems. And aside from that, me and Gervin are tight, so why would he harm my nephew? You must really think I’m stupid, mijo.”

  “Chatchi, I’m tellin’ you the truth. These guys are connected to The Morenos,” Carmine insisted.

  “So, lemme guess, now I’m supposed to send the devil knocking on your enemy’s door, and only because you say so?”

  “Listen, you border-hoppin’, wet-back motherfucker. I’m sick of this fuckin’ shit,” Carmine shouted into the phone. He was sick and tired of playing games and was ready to let his nuts hang. “You want a war, motherfucker? I’ll take you to fuckin’ war.”

  Chatchi laughed at him. “Your twenty-four hours to live just went down to twenty-four seconds.”

  Click.

  Enraged, Carmine bashed his cell phone against the wall. “Fuck those motherfuckers,” he shouted. Fat Petey and Anthony were looking at him like he was crazy, and then looked at one another with terrified expressions.

  “Carmy, are you friggin’ crazy?” Fat Petey asked with his arms stretched out wide. “You’re gonna get us all killed.”

  “Rally the fuckin’ troops,” Carmine demanded while pacing back and forth. “I don’t give a fuck if we gotta drive down to Texas in a fifty car caravan. I want those sons-of-bitches dead.”

  Crash.

  A Molotov cocktail crashed through the living room window and exploded just a couple of feet away from Carmine’s feet.

  Ba-Boom.

  Large flames and thick black smoke instantly filled the living room. The left sleeve on Carmine’s Versace sweater caught fire and he frantically tried to pat it out. Fat Petey and Anthony hopped out of their seats, but before they had the chance to do anything, rapid gunfire ripped through the living room wall.

  Bdddddoc. Bdddddoc. Bdddddoc. Bdddddoc.

  Ba-Boom.

  Another cocktail was tossed into the house and the flaming kerosene-filled bottle instantly bolstered the raging inferno. The smoke was thick, the flame
s were scorching, and the bullets were flying indiscriminately.

  Bdddddoc. Bdddddoc. Bdddddoc. Bdddddoc.

  Carmine was crawling on all fours, heading towards the back door. Anthony was crouched down behind the china cabinet in the dining room. And Fat Petey was shuffling from right to left like a headless chicken.

  “Petey, get down,” Anthony yelled over the gunfire.

  Bdddddoc. Bdddddoc. Bdddddoc.

  Bullets danced up Fat Petey’s chest, lifting his rotund body off of the floor. After twisting in the air, he landed on top of the dining room table and the oak wood frame toppled over.

  The smoke was so thick that Carmine could barely see what lie ahead of him. Still crawling on all fours, a bullet ripped through his left leg, and he fell on the carpet, spread eagle.

  “Stay down, Carmy, I’ve got you covered,” Anthony yelled. He let off a couple of shots, and then grabbed his boss by the back of his collar and drug him into the kitchen. The bright-orange flames were spreading throughout the house and Carmine could feel the heat seeping up his right pants leg.

  “Anthony, get me outta here,” he shouted.

  “Just stay down, Carmy. I’ve got you.”

  When they finally made it to the back door at the back of the kitchen, they were coughing uncontrollably, desperately in need of fresh air. Anthony turned the door knob and pulled it open.

  Boom.

  The colossal blast of a riot-pump at point blank range hollowed out his chest and he flew backwards, clean across the kitchen.

  Carmine looked up and the last thing he saw was the three dimensional horns that protruded from Diablo’s forehead.

  Boom.

  Chapter Twelve

  Back At La Casa Moreno

  “Damn, bro, that’s some gangsta ass shit,” Rahmello acknowledged. He was referring to Sonny’s narration of Grip’s life story, and the fact that his grandfather came to America as a Cuban immigrant and hustled his way to the top was the illest shit in the world to him.

  Sonny smiled at him. “I know, right? And this is the legacy that’s being handed down to us.”

  The bedroom door opened up wide and Grip stepped through the threshold. He was comfortably attired in a navy-blue track suit and a fresh pair of white Nikes. A tall glass of V8 vegetable juice was clutched in his right hand, and his eyes went from Rahmello to Sonny, and then back to Rahmello. Approaching the California king-sized bed, he smiled at his grandsons. “How’s everything coming along, fellas? And why is that young lady sleeping outside in the hallway? There’s a total of twenty-five bedrooms throughout this house. Certainly, she could have used one.”

  “We good,” Sonny assured him. “And as far as Oli, she stepped outside so me and Rahmello could talk. She must have fell asleep while she was waiting.”

  Grip nodded his understanding, and then fixed his gaze on the young man who was the spitting image of himself. They had the same light complexion, the same grade of wavy hair, and the same blue eyes. “And as for you, Rahmello, are you feeling any better?”

  Rahmello was speechless. His respect for the old man was so profound that he was afraid to say something stupid.

  Grip laughed at him. “Well damn, boy, say something.”

  Rahmello stared into his blue eyes and said, “I look just like you.”

  “That’s for damn sure,” Sonny interjected, making his grandfather and little brother laugh.

  “Damn, I wish y’all father was here,” Grip said. “I missed out on so much when it comes to y’all that I really don’t know what to say or do to make things right.”

  “I don’t know about Sonny, but I’m good,” Rahmello said. “I always knew I had that gangsta shit up in me, and now I know why. I’ve got the blood of a boss.”

  Grip nodded his head, and then looked at Sonny. “What about you?”

  “I can’t even front, it’s a part of me that wanted to get at you, but I’m puttin’ that shit behind me. We’re family, and at the end of the day, that’s the only thing that matters.”

  Grip smiled and extended his hand to give Sonny a pound. “Respect.”

  “Respect,” Sonny repeated and then solidified their truce with a pound.

  “So, what we gon’ do about the Italians?” Rahmello asked, even though he already knew they had nothing to do with Easy’s murder. He figured that somebody had to pay for what happened, and if he kept the focus on the Italians, he could keep Olivia safe.

  Grip took a swig of his vegetable juice and wiped his mouth with the back of his left hand. “Little Angolo’s a done deal, and if I had to bet my last dollar, I’d say that Carmine won’t live to see tomorrow.”

  “And what makes you say that?” Sonny asked.

  “Just trust me,” Grip replied. As he knocked down the rest of his vegetable juice, his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. After grabbing the phone and seeing that Chatchi was the caller, he quickly accepted. “Chatchi, what’s goin’ on, my brother?”

  “Gervin, we have a major problem, homes.”

  “A problem?” Grip asked. “What type of problem? Is it Joaquin?”

  “No,” Chatchi replied. “It’s his son, Roberto. He was kidnapped and murdered a couple of weeks ago while partying in your city. Initially, I suspected Little Angolo and Carmine, the both of them are dead by the way, but before Carmine crossed over, he provided me with information that connects your family to the situation with my nephew, eh.”

  “Information?” Grip inquired. “What type of information?”

  “The video of the actual kidnapping, mijo. I have it, and just so you know, Carmine identified two of the culprits as members of your organization.” Confused, Grip looked back and forth between Sonny and Rahmello, hoping they weren’t the two culprits that Chatchi was talking about. “Send me the video so I can see it for myself. I’m pretty sure this is a misunderstanding, but whatever the case, I fully intend to get to the bottom of it.”

  “As you should,” Chatchi replied with a threatening undertone. “We’ve come too far to have a misunderstanding of this magnitude, so I sincerely hope that this information was incorrect.”

  “I totally agree,” said Grip. “The alliance between our families is greatly valued by me and my grandsons.” He cut his eyes at Sonny and Rahmello who were sitting there looking at him skeptically.

  “And me and Joaquin feel the same way, mijo. In any event, we really need to sit down and talk. Aside from this situation with Roberto, we need to go over the final details pertaining to Joaquin’s escape.”

  “Absolutely,” Grip concurred. “In fact, my plane for Cuba is taking off in a couple of hours. I’m going to be over there for the next few months, and Joaquin’s asylum status is one of the things I’ll be working out with the Castros.”

  “Cuba? In a couple of hours?” Chatchi questioned. “This is unacceptable, mijo. I’ve called for a mandatory meeting with The Conglomerate, tomorrow at midnight. Everyone is expected to attend, so your trip to Cuba is gonna have to wait.”

  Grip sighed and gently rubbed the hair on his chin. “What’s the location?”

  “The Waldorf Astoria,” Chatchi answered. “In New York City. And Gervin,” he paused for a couple of seconds, “I’ll be expecting you to have answers pertaining to my nephew.”

  Click.

  “Yo, what happened?” Sonny asked. “You look madder than a mutha’fucka.”

  Grip didn’t answer. He was too busy uploading the video footage that Chatchi sent to his phone. As the video began to play, he gritted his teeth and slowly shook his head from left to right. “Goddamnit,” he complained, and then handed the phone to Sonny. “What the hell was this about?”

  “What was what about?” Rahmello asked, feeling left out of the loop. He was hanging halfway off of the bed, trying his hardest to see the phone for himself. “Yo, Sonny, what is it?”

  “A major goddamned problem,” Grip stated with a salty voice.

  Sonny was quiet, borderline stuck on stupid. The last thing he was expectin
g to see was a video of Breeze and the twins kidnapping Mexican Bobby. “Yo, Sonny, lemme see that shit,” Rahmello demanded, and then snatched the phone away from Sonny’s hand. He watched the video for a couple of seconds, scratched his head, and then looked up at his grandfather. “Who sent this to you?”

  “A very good friend of mines,” Grip informed him. “And he’s claiming that we had something to do with the kidnapping and murder of his nephew. Initially, I didn’t understand why. But after watching that fuckin’ video, it’s pretty goddamned obvious.”

  “No disrespect to this friend of yours,” Rahmello said, “but his nephew was a mutha’fuckin’ rat. This nut ass nigga even had the nerve to have the shit tatted on his mutha’fuckin’ neck.”

  “A rat?” Grip looked at him with a creased brow. “Who told you that?”

  Rahmello got quiet. He looked at Sonny, and Sonny answered the question for him. “Our connect told us.”

  Grip folded his arms across his chest. “And who in the hell is your connect?”

  “Columbian Poncho and his brother, Juan.”

  “Poncho and Juan?” Grip repeated with a sour face. “You mean the Nunez Brothers? Them mutha’fuckas from Medellin, Columbia?”

  “Yeah,” Sonny confirmed. “What’s the big deal? The Mexican nigga was a rat, and we put him down. He testified against some niggas down in Mexico, and to get even, Poncho and Juan paid a hunnid blocks to rock his stupid ass.”

  Grip took a deep breath and vigorously massaged the back of his neck. “Do the two of you even realize what you’ve done?” He looked back and forth between the two brothers, eagerly waiting for an answer.

  “Listen, dawg, it is what it is,” Sonny said as he got up from the leather recliner. “It’s not like we can bring the nigga back, so fuck him. His ass shouldn’t have told.”

  Grip was blown away by the arrogance that rolled of the tip of his tongue. “Sontino,” he said his name in a low, but stern voice, “that boy was a somebody.”

  “Oh, I know,” Sonny quickly shot back. “He was a fuckin’ rat.”