Blood of a Boss III Page 13

  “Stop saying that shit,” Grip snapped at him. “He wasn’t a rat. His name was Roberto Alverez. He was the son of Joaquin Alverez, the boss of the Sinaloa Cartel, and these mutha’fuckas want answers.”

  Far from impressed, Sonny shrugged his shoulders. “A’ight, and?”

  “Goddamnit,” Grip shouted, and then violently threw his empty bottle of V8 against the wall, smashing it to pieces. “Joaquin is one of the most powerful men in North America. Even behind bars that little mutha’fucka’s a goddamned giant, and furthermore, he’s our strongest ally in The Conglomerate.”

  “Nigga, who the fuck is you talkin’ to?” Sonny matched his intensity, and then got up in his grill. Deep seeded feelings of hatred shot throughout his body and he was seconds away from jellying the old man’s biscuit.

  Grip took a step backwards and quickly rolled up his sleeves. “Boy, I’ma tell you right now, this ain’t the tree you wanna be climbin’. Grandson or not, I ain’t got no problems cruisin’ over yo’ monkey ass.”

  “Sonny, chill out,” Rahmello said as he grabbed the back of his shirt tail. He looked at his grandfather and conveyed the same message. “Hey, yo, cool out, ol’ head. Y’all niggas is buggin’ right now.”

  Sonny calmed down and Grip did the same. Muhammad, who was walking down the second story hallway, appeared in the doorway and looked at Grip. He started to say something, but Sonny didn’t give him the chance. “Nigga, mind ya fuckin’ business,” he snarled at the old man. “This a family issue and ya mutha’fuckin’ ass ain’t family. So, either keep it the fuck pushin’, or I swear to God I’ma pop ya fuckin’ top.”

  Muhammad was fuming. He looked at Grip, and Grip signaled for him to keep it moving. As he left the room, Grip cracked his knuckles and returned his gaze to Sonny. In a calm voice, he said, “You’re not going to like this, but in order for us to make things right and avoid a full blown war, we’re going to have to give up the twins.”

  “Give up the twins?” Sonny asked, looking at him like he was outside of his mind. “Nigga, you trippin’, I ain’t throwin’ my young buls under the bus. Fuck them taco-eatin’ ass niggas.”

  “Sontino, you just don’t get it,” Grip tried to reason with him. “It’s either them or us.”

  “Well, I guess it’s gonna have to be them,” Sonny declared. “And by them, I’m talking ‘bout the Cinnamon Bagel Cartel, or whateva them niggas call they’self. ‘Cause I ain’t givin’ up my young buls. Them Mexicans will have to kill me first.”

  “And believe you, me,” Grip assured him, “they’ll have no qualms about adhering to your request.”

  Sonny couldn’t believe his ears. After all of the Black Mafia stories that he heard about his grandfather, he was starting to smell the bitch in his blood. Yo, this nigga’s a fuckin’ turkey, he thought to himself. My nigga, Mook, woulda told them Mexicans to suck his dick.

  Pacing back and forth, Grip searched his mind for a diplomatic resolution. “Alright, so you’re telling me that the Nunez Brothers were the ones who put you up to this shit?”

  “Yeah,” Sonny replied in a nonchalant manner. As far as he was concerned, the Mexicans bled like he bled and breathed the same air, so bitching up wasn’t an option. “It was only business,” he continued ever so casually. “They told me that Mexican Bobby snitched on some of their peoples down in Mexico, and they cut me a check to get him outta here.”

  “Those slimy sons-of-bitches,” Grip snarled through clenched teeth. “They fuckin’ played you. Roberto wasn’t a rat. He wasn’t even connected to the cartel. He was a goddamned boxer.”

  “But what about his neck?” Sonny asked with his arms stretched out. “This nigga had the tattoo of a rat eatin’ a piece of cheese, and directly above the rat it said ‘La Ratta’.”

  Grip scowled at him and did everything in his power to refrain from smacking his face off. Attempting to calm himself down, he took a deep breath and exhaled. “La Ratta was his nickname,” he explained in a low voice, “The name was given to him for his boxing style. He was known for trapping himself in a corner of the ring and then viciously fighting his way out like a caged rat. He was far from a government witness. He was good fucking kid, and whether you like it or not, somebody’s gonna have to pay for what happened to him.”

  “La Ratta,” Rahmello said aloud, thinking about Mexican Bobby’s tattoo. He flexed his jaw muscles and cracked his knuckles as images of the little Mexican strapped down to the workshop table flooded his mind. He looked at Sonny and slowly shook his head. “Yo, I think we might’ve fucked up, bro.”

  “You’re goddamned right y’all fucked up,” Grip admonished them. He sat at the foot of Rahmello’s bed and rested his face in the palms of his hands.

  “Yo, somethin’ ain’t right,” Sonny insisted. A confused look covered his light skinned face and his body temperature was slowly escalating. “If main man wasn’t a rat, then why the fuck did Poncho and Juan pay us to kill him?” His question elicited an uneasy silence. And for a brief moment, they just sat there staring at one another.

  “They paid y’all to kill him because of me,” a feminine voice stated. Completely caught off guard, the three men looked at the bed room door and saw Olivia standing in the threshold.

  ***

  “So, you still think I’m bullshittin’?” Daphney asked in a husky voice. She was down on all fours, positioned on top of Egypt’s bed, and popping her fat ass against his pelvis.

  “Ahn ahn,” Egypt replied with a lustful undertone, loving the way her ass was twerking against his body one cheek at a time. Her pussy was gobbling up his dick and he was stretching her walls with every stroke.

  “Ummmm,” Daphney expressed her pleasure. She was so wet that her creamy white nectar was caked up at the base of his dick and slowly dripping down her inner thighs. “Goddamnit, nigga, fuck this pussy,” she demanded, and then rocked backwards to meet his oncoming thrust.

  Egypt gripped her by the waist and forcefully rammed his eleven inches deep inside of her, causing her body to jolt forward. “Nizzaw, where you going?” He breathed heavily and gripped her waist even tighter. “Don’t run. I’m givin’ you whatchu asked for.” His dick was so big and his stroke was so strong that she was cumming for the third time in fifteen minutes.

  “Ahhhhh,” she cried out as she continued to pop her ass against his pelvis. “Murder this pussy,” she panted. “Nigga, murder this shit. Ahhhnnnnn.”

  In total compliance, he pounded her box like a jack-hammer and she collapsed on the bed. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was wide open.

  He felt so good that she wanted to scream, and scream she did. With her face buried in the pillow and her ass tooted in the air, he squatted over top of her and placed his hands on both of her shoulders.

  “Yes, baby, yes,” she continued to purr. “Fuck me like a boss. Shit.”

  Her words drove him crazy and he started going ham. Pinning her down to the bed, he fucked her pussy with fast, long, hard strokes. “Bitch, you like this dick, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she screamed. “Fuck yes.”

  Her pussy was so tight and wet that every other stroke he had to pull out to keep his composure. “Damn, Daph, you got that juice box, fa’real. Sheesh.” He slipped back inside of her and continued to punish her slippery womb. Her ass was jiggling like Jell-O, and every time he looked at her left butt cheek and saw the tattoo of Sonny’s name, he pumped harder and faster. “That nigga don’t be fuckin’ you like this, do he?”

  “No,” she cried out “This... This shit is somethin’ different, somethin’ special. Damn.”

  His manhood was so long and thick that her walls were stretching like elastic and she could feel herself about to cum for the fourth time

  ***

  It was 11:15 p.m. when Zaire walked through the front door of the trap house that he shared with his twin. After a long hectic day, he was dead tired and the only thing he cared about was getting some much needed rest. He punched in the code to their Brink
’s home security system, slipped out of his Timbs, and tossed them aside. As he removed the fur coat that Daphney let him borrow from Sonny’s closet, he looked around the living room and noticed that bricks of cocaine were scattered all around. There had to be at least two hundred in total.

  “Yo, what the fuck is this nigga thinkin’?” he said to himself, knowing that Egypt stole the work from Sonny’s stash house in Cheltenham.

  “Hey, yo, Egypt,” he shouted from the bottom of the stairs. He knew that his twin was upstairs getting some pussy because he could hear the headboard banging against the wall and the lustful moans of a woman.

  Looking at the bricks piled up on the coffee table, Zaire shook his head in contempt. Not only was Egypt out of pocket for stealing the work from Sonny’s stash house, his stupid ass had the audacity to have a chick inside of the spot with incriminating evidence laying around in plain view. Enraged, he darted up the stairs and approached Egypt’s bedroom door. He started to knock, but instead he gently pushed it open.

  Daphney was lying on her back with both of her legs propped up on Egypt’s shoulders. Her left hand was gripping the base of his dick like a dildo, and he was slowly dipping his shaft in and out of her honey pot.

  “Ahhhhnnnnn. Shit. Fuck me slow, daddy. Just like that, like that. Ummmmm!”

  His slow strokes became harder and faster, and his shoulder-length dreads began to bounce around wildly. The pressure from her hand gripping the base of his dick was increasing the blood flow to his plum-sized head, making his massive member larger than it already was. Pushing her legs away from his shoulders, he slipped out of her and stood to his feet. “Get on ya knees and eat this dick up,” he commanded as beads of sweat dripped down his face and cascaded down his muscular chest.

  Kneeling before him, Daphney spat on his dick and stroked him with both hands. She then kissed the tip of his juicy bulb, opened up wide, and brought him to the back of her throat. “Ummm,” she moaned with a mouthful of dick and gently caressed him with the base of her tongue.

  “You gon’ let me cum in ya mouth?” Egypt asked her with a devilish grin.

  Stroking him with both hands and making over-exaggerated slurping noises, she looked him in the eyes and nodded her consent. She kissed the tip of his head one last time, then removed her hands and tilted her head back, patiently waiting for his creamy load.

  “Ssss. Damn,” Egypt groaned as he stroked himself at top speed. His toes began to curl, gripping up the satin bed sheets, and he looked up at the ceiling.

  “Hurry up and gimmie that shit,” Daphney demanded as she finger popped her pussy. “I earned it, so give it to me. I wanna taste every fuckin’ drop.” He looked down and the sight of her beautiful face drove him over the edge. His dick began to throb like a beating heart and a thick stream of cum sprang from the depths of his balls and splashed against her forehead. He hunched forward and another gush of creamy jizz shot from his pistol and landed on her left cheek.

  “Ummmm,” Daphney moaned as she stuck out her tongue, fishing for every single drop.

  Zaire was standing in the doorway, stuck on stupid, with his jaw hanging to the floor. His twin brother was balls deep in his big homie’s bitch, and he couldn’t believe it. He shook his head and wiped his eyes, hoping that his peepers were playing tricks on him, but they weren’t. This shit was real. Tears welled up in his eyes and goosebumps covered his dark brown skin. The man in violation was the same man who came into the world two minutes and twenty seconds before he did, and the man being violated was without a doubt one of the men he was willing to die for.

  He gently closed the door and wiped away the lone tear that dripped from his left eye. “Damn, Eyg, what the fuck you done got us into, dawg? Damn.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Back At La Casa Moreno

  “Oli, whatchu talking ‘bout?” Rahmello asked, shooting her a funny look. “Whatchu mean they had him killed because of you?”

  “Roberto,” she spoke in a cracked voice. “He was… He was my boyfriend.”

  “Your what?” Rahmello snapped. He was looking at her like he wanted to split her wig to the banana meat. “Your boyfriend? Fuck you mean that nigga was your boyfriend? You was steppin’ out on me?”

  “No,” she quickly replied as the tears began to fall from her eyes. “This was before I even met you,” she clarified. “Me and Roberto was together for almost two years. I met him back in 2012 when me and my girls went to Cancun for spring break. Roberto was my first love, my everything, but when Papi found out, he demanded that I break it off with him. He also threatened that if Roberto ever came looking for me, he would have him killed.”

  Feeling what he perceived to be betrayal, and hurt beyond words, Rahmello asked her the million dollar question, even though the answer was obvious. “So, lemme guess, he came lookin’ for you, huh?”

  She nodded her head and wiped away the snot that dripped from her nose.

  “How long ago?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “How long ago, I said?”

  “A couple of months ago,” she revealed, and then shamefully lowered her head.

  “You fucked that nigga, didn’t you?”

  When she looked away and refused to answer, Rahmello could feel the core of his heart ripping at the seams. “Is that his baby?”

  “I don’t know,” she sobbed. “I mean, I don’t think so. I hope not.”

  “Oli, you outta pocket, yo, straight up.” Not only was he embarrassed, he felt stupid. The love that he had for her was so strong that he was willing to deceive his own brother just to protect her, and now he realized that he couldn’t even trust her. “You’s a grimy ass bitch, Oli. Straight up, shorty, you grimy as shit.”

  “Baby, I’m sorry,” she pleaded. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” She approached the bed and tried to hug him, but he forcefully pushed her away. “But Mello,” she sobbed, still trying to wrap her arms around him, “I’m sorry. I swear to God, I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

  “Oli, don’t fuckin’ touch me,” he snarled at her, then pushed her in the chest and she fell to the floor, just a couple of feet away from Grip. “Get ya thotty ass outta here.”

  “Young lady,” Grip said as he helped her to her feet, “which one of the Nunez Brothers is your father? Juan or Poncho?”

  “Poncho,” she answered. She was rubbing her baby bump and looking at Rahmello, but he refused to make eye contact.

  “Do you know where I can find him?” he continued in a soothing voice. “You know, so we can sit down and straighten everything out.”

  “I think they went back to Columbia, but I’m not sure.”

  “Back to Columbia?” Grip asked. “For what reason?”

  She folded her arms across her chest and defiantly looked away.

  “Young lady, I need you to help me,” Grip said in a smooth, condescending voice. “Our safety depends on your cooperation, so please, if you have any information pertaining to your father’s whereabouts, I need you to tell me. I only want to talk to him.”

  Olivia looked him in the eyes and took a deep breath. “After everything that happened at the funeral,” she began, then stopped abruptly when Rahmello shot her a look that said, Bitch, you doin’ too much. Shut ya stupid ass up.

  Sonny noticed the look and it instantly raised a red flag. He looked back and forth between her and Rahmello, and then stepped in between their line of eye sight. Folding his arms across his chest, he looked at Olivia with a raised brow. “After everything that happened at the funeral?” he inquired. “You mean my pop’s funeral?”

  Slowly, she nodded her head in the affirmative and then wiped the tears from her eyes. “When they found out about the cop lady being killed, they panicked, and my Uncle Juan told them to come back to Medellin.”

  Sonny positioned himself in front of her, and his eyes became dark, thin slits. “Fuck is that supposed to mean? Are you tellin’ me that Poncho and Juan had somethin’ to do wit’ my pops gettin’ killed?�
��

  “Umm hmm,” she replied, looking at him with doe-like eyes and silently praying that he acknowledged her innocence. Unfortunately, his body language exuded the opposite. His chest was slowly rising up and down, his nostrils were flaring, and he was anxiously biting down on his bottom lip.

  “Young lady,” Grip interjected, “how do you know all of this?”

  Completely terrified, her petite body began to tremble. “I was... I was there when it... When it happened,” she managed to say through her sniffles. “They killed him in the back… In the back of the bodega, in my Papi’s office.”

  “They?” Sonny vehemently questioned. “Who the fuck is they?”

  “Papi, Chee-Chee, and my brother, Estaban,” she snitched them out.

  “Chee-Chee?” Sonny screwed up his face. “The lil’ scruffy lookin’ mutha’fucka who was at the bodega the last time I was over there?”

  “Umm hmm, that was him,” she confirmed, then instinctively took a step backwards.

  “What the fuck did they kill him for?” Sonny tweaked out. “What the fuck did he do?” His words embodied so much anger that Olivia was flinching like a battered housewife.

  “Estaban,” she sobbed. “I heard him tell Papi dat ju papa was de one who killed our brother, Angelo.” She was so afraid that her Columbian accent was seeping into her English.

  “Angelo,” Sonny repeated. He searched his mind and quickly remembered the name. Poncho had mentioned his son, Angelo, when they were talking outside of the funeral home, just minutes before the shooting started. He also remembered the sarcastic remarks that rolled off of Poncho’s lips as they stood beside his father’s hearse. Ju papa was a fine man, Sontino. It’s a shame dat he died so violently.

  Sonny was heated. Images of Easy being gunned down and stuffed in the trunk of his Jaguar played inside of his mind like a horror movie, and he completely lost it. Enraged, he whipped out his Glock .40 and snatched Olivia by the back of her head. She attempted to scream, but the sound was cut short when he forcefully shoved the barrel between her lips and separated the teeth from her gums.