Blood of a Boss III Read online

  “My file?” Sonny inquired. “What file?”

  Gangsta sparked up a Newport and took a couple of drags. “Remember Diamondz and Shiz?” he asked while exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Them niggas from Frankford?”

  “Yeah,” Sonny quickly replied. “Diamondz, that’s my mutha’fuckin’ man. Why? What’s up?”

  “Your so-called man, that’s what’s up. That bitch ass nigga was settin’ you up.”

  “Settin’ me up,” Sonny shot back, looking at him with a confused expression. “I was showin’ him and his homies crazy love, so why would he try to line me up?”

  “Because Shiz lined him up first,” Gangsta said, wondering how Sonny could be so naive. He tossed his cigarette to the ground, and then gently caressed his goatee. “Lemme give you a quick rundown on how the federal government operates. They make a list of all the short term offenders who they believe have the propensity to continue selling drugs when they’re released from prison. Each potential target is assigned an undercover agent. The agent, playing the role of a major drug distributor, is housed in a cell with their target for a specified amount of time.”

  “Yo, ain’t that entrapment?” Sonny interrupted him.

  “Not at all,” Gangsta replied, shaking his head. “The undercover agent walks a very thin line, carefully avoiding anything that would invite his target to engage in criminal activity. At the most, he’ll spark up a conversation that glamorizes his drug operation, hoping that his target will express his desire to do business with him. Now, the second that actually happens, it’s hook, line, and sinker. A deal is established where the target, upon his release, will link up with someone from the drug organization, who by all intents and purposes is another undercover agent. And the second he attempts to make a buy or receive a package on consignment, he’s arrested and charged with conspiracy.”

  “This,” Gangsta continued while sparking up another Newport, “was the method that was used against Shiz. His stupid ass led us to Diamondz, and ultimately, Diamondz led us to you.”

  Sonny held up his hands and signaled for Gangsta to slow down. “Yo, lemme get this straight. You’re tellin’ me that Shiz lined up Diamondz, and then Diamondz tried to throw me under the bus?”

  “Correct.”

  “A’ight,” Sonny continued to make his point. “The last time we kicked it, you told me that Diamondz and Shiz was locked up in Cleveland for a body. So, which one is it,” he folded his arms across his chest, “are they locked up in Cleveland, or are they locked up in the feds?”

  “Neither,” Gangsta confirmed in a stern voice. “Both of those Chucky Cheese, provolone-eating rat mutha’fuckas are dead. It’s just like I told you, my only mission is to protect this family. And whether you like it or not, you are a part of this family.”

  “Thar’s enough for now,” Grip interjected. “It’s time to get down to business.” He stepped inside of the diner and looked around. “Gangsta, where is he?”

  “I’ve got his punk ass downstairs in the basement,” Gangsta revealed. He put a little pep in his step, shot pass Grip, and led them towards the kitchen.

  “Yo, who are y’all talkin’ about?” Sonny asked his grandfather.

  “A pain in my goddamned ass.”

  As they followed Gangsta to the kitchen, they heard a man screaming for help, and when Gangsta opened the basement door and flicked on the light switch, the man screamed even louder.

  “Aaaaggggghhhhhh. Get me the fuck out of here.”

  As they stepped through the door and descended the stairs, the pungent odor of feces and fresh blood invaded their nostrils. Halfway down, Sonny noticed that a fat white man was stretched out in a pool of blood. A congregation of rats was feasting on his bloody corpse, and off to the side, his eyes settled on the screaming white man. His shrieking cries were nothing short of soul piercing, and his physical appearance gut-wrenching. He was seated on the basement floor with his back propped against a rusted septic tank. His head was swollen to obscene proportions and the whites of his eyes were filled with tomato-red blood. The buttons on his dress shirt were unfastened and his right hand was pressed against the gunshot wound to his abdomen.

  The rats hopped off the corpse and scampered towards Clavenski. The largest in the pack climbed on his right leg and crawled towards his stomach. Hungrily, it sniffed his blood-covered fingers.

  “Oh, my God,” Clavenski shouted at the top of his lungs. “Not like this. Please.”

  As the large rodent nibbled on his fingers, Gangsta whipped out his P89 handgun and aimed the barrel at Clavenski. He finger fucked the trigger and squeezed off a round.

  Boc.

  Instantly, the rat exploded. He was suddenly no more. His friends scattered and quickly disappeared through the cracks in the walls. The wounded prosecutor cried like a baby as the rat’s warm blood dripped down his swollen face. Itty bitty pieces of fur-covered flesh clung to his chest and shoulders, and he was beginning to feel nauseous.

  Grip reached inside of his trench coat and pulled out a black .22 semi-automatic that was equipped with a silencer. He towered over his prey, and then looked at his grandson.

  “Sontino, I want you to meet United States Attorney, Andy Clavenski. This no good, dick-sucking, son of a bitch has been sniffing up my ass since the late eighties, and I never understood why. But now,” he aimed the barrel at Clavenski’s right knee, “I over-stand.”

  Pfft. Pfft.

  “Ummm,” Clavenski grunted as he desperately tried to fight through the blazing hot pain. “Fuck me so bad, you bastard of a bitch.”

  Grip handled the pistol with ease, making it appear as if the .22 was an extension of himself. Swiftly, he aimed the barrel at Clavenski’s left knee and let off a few more rounds.

  Pfft. Pfft. Pfft.

  Hopelessly, Clavenski rolled over on his side and squirmed around like a fish out of water. “Please,” he begged in a soft, dry voice. “Just fuckin’ kill me and get it over with.”

  Pfft.

  Grip shot him in the ass, and then returned his gaze to Sonny. His blue eyes were cold and deadly, and his light complexion had a burgundy hue.

  “This pussy mutha’fucka…”

  Pfft!

  “Had been working for The Gervino Family.”

  Pfft. Pfft. Pfft.

  “You’re talking ‘bout your brother, Angolo, and his grandson, Carmine?” Sonny asked.

  “Precisely. And when those cowards realized that they couldn’t handle me in the streets, they tried to use his punk ass take me down.” He pressed the bottom of his wing-tipped Stacy Adams to the back of Clavenski’s neck and applied pressure. “Obviously, I’m far too advanced to succumb to such nonsense. So, in the alternative, them mutha’fuckas came after you.”

  “But why?” Sonny asked him. “Me and the Italians ain’t never bump heads. We’ve never even crossed paths, so why the fuck is they comin’ at me?”

  “Honestly, it’s not even about you,” Grip explained. “It’s about the blood that’s running through your veins, my blood. And this is something that you’ll never be able to escape. My enemies,” he applied more pressure to the back of Clavenski’s neck, “will always be your enemies. But on the flip side, as the boss of my family, you’ll reap the benefits that come along with it.”

  Sonny looked down at the wounded prosecutor, and then returned his gaze to Grip. “What kind of benefits are you talking ‘bout?”

  “Political connections,” Grip stated like a true boss. “You’ll receive a percentage of the local unions, and a profitable stake in national and international commerce, including, but not limited to, the mining of natural gas in the Poconos and the mining of diamonds along the coast of West Africa. But most importantly,” he placed his hand on Sonny’s shoulder, “as the boss of this family, you’ll join me as a co-chairman of The Conglomerate.”

  “The Conglomerate?” Sonny asked, gently pushing Grip’s hand away from his shoulder. “What the fuck is that?”

  “It’s a secret
society consisting of the major crime families and drug cartels from the Americas to Asia. It is,” he theatrically paused, “the motivating force that indirectly runs the world.”

  Grip returned the .22 to his holster, and removed the diamond ring that adorned his right pinky. “Now,” he held the ring in front of Sonny’s face, “will you accept this and take your rightful place as the boss of this family?”

  Damn, Sonny thought to himself as he silently weighed his options. This nigga’s grimy as shit. He left my grandmom for dead when she was pregnant wit’ my pops. He killed Mook and Nasty, and if it wasn’t for him and his bullshit, I’d still have Riri and the baby. They’re dead, and it’s all because of him. And on top of that, for all I know, he had my pops killed and sicked the feds on me just to put my back against the wall. But at the same time, if it wasn’t for him and his peoples, my entire family would be dead right now. Damn!

  “Sontino,” Grip continued in his deep voice. “It’s time for this family to turn the page and begin a new chapter. I’ve been running these streets for over fifty years now. I’m burnt out. It’s time for some new blood.”

  Sonny took a deep breath and anxiously bit down on his bottom lip. He’d hate to admit it, but his grandfather was right. The Moreno bloodline was something that he couldn’t escape. My enemies, he heard Grip’s voice in the back of his mind, will always be your enemies.

  Slowly, he nodded his head in the affirmative and held up his right hand, embracing what he perceived to be his destiny. My enemies will always be your enemies.

  Grip looked at Gangsta and smiled. The first phase of his master plan was finally complete. He grasped Sonny’s hand and carefully slid the diamond ring on his pinky. The younger Moreno stared at it. The diamonds were so clear and precisely cut that he was momentarily blinded.

  “A’ight,” Sonny sighed. “Now, what’s poppin’ wit’ the Italians? They bodied my pops and tried to kill my whole family. Them bitch ass niggas gotta go.”

  “Most certainly,” Grip agreed. “What’s understood doesn’t need to be explained. This is something that I take very seriously, and just so you know, I already placed a hit on Little Angolo. He’ll be dead by the morning.”

  “What about Carmine?”

  “We’re going to let him breathe for now. As you can see from the attention that we received back at the hospital, we’re hotter than fish grease. We’ll get him eventually. But after we take care of Little Angolo, we’ll have to fall back for a couple of months.”

  “And after that?” Sonny asked.

  “We crush him,” Grip confirmed.

  “More or less.” Sonny nodded his head, and then pointed at Clavenski. “And what about him?”

  “Whatchu think?” Gangsta replied. “I’ma send his ass to the place mutha’fuckas go whenever they cross this family, the depths of hell.” He aimed his P89 at the back of Clavenski’s head, but Sonny waved him off.

  “Nizzaw,” he looked at his cousin. “I’ma park his stupid ass myself.” He crouched down and motioned for Grip to move his shoe from the back of Clavenski’s neck. He then snatched him by the back of his hair and pulled his head back

  “Agh,” Clavenski groaned.

  “Pussy, shut up,” Sonny snarled at him through clenched teeth. He held his left hand in front of his mouth and spat out the straight razor that was concealed beneath his tongue. As he dug the tip of the razor in Clavenski’s neck, he leaned forward and whispered in his ear. His words were so low that only Clavenski could hear them. “When you get to the next life, tell my niggas that I send my unconditional. And don’t worry about Grip, I’ll be sendin’ him to you real soon.”

  Slit.

  ***

  “Oh shit, baby, yes,” Simone, a beautiful brown skinned woman, cried out as Carmine dipped his thick meat in and out of her pussy. “Hit that shit. Fuck.”

  “You like this Sicilian sausage, don’t you?” Carmine asked while busting her ass from the back.

  “Hell yeah,” Simone panted with her head buried in the pillow. “Ummm.” The young crime boss couldn’t get enough of black women. Their beautiful skin and shapely figures killed him every time. And just like any other Friday evening, he was staying at the Presidential Suite in the Marriot Hotel with one of his chocolate bunnies.

  “Oh my fuckin’ stars,” he shouted, mesmerized by the sight of her fat pussy swallowing his dick. He snatched her pony tail and pulled her head back while violently thrusting his hips. “You like gettin’ fucked by a gangster?”

  “Yeah,” Simone whined. “I love this fucking gangster shit.”

  “Oh yeah,” Carmine challenged her. He grabbed his .10mm from the nightstand and pressed the barrel against her right cheek. “How ‘bout now?”

  “Ummmm. Fuck yeah,” Simone shouted. She was instantly turned on by the sight of the large pistol. “Whatchu think a bitch can’t handle two cocks at the same time?”

  “I don’t know,” Carmine said, and then smacked her on the ass. “Show me.”

  Simone didn’t hesitate. She turned her head sideways and deep-throated the barrel while making her ass twerk. Carmine was no more good. His toes began to curl and he grinded his teeth together. “Ummmm,” he groaned as cum shot from his balls and filled up the tip of his condom. “Damn it.”

  The feeling of his fat dick throbbing inside of her pussy made Simone go crazy. She moved her head away from the pistol, and then reached back with both hands and gripped his ass cheeks. “Uhhhnnnnn,” she cried out as thick, creamy cum erupted from her pussy and slid down her inner thighs.

  Exhausted, they both collapsed on the bed and wiped the sweat from their faces.

  Vrrrrrm. Vrrrrrm. Vrrrrrm.

  Carmine’s cell phone vibrated on the nightstand. He’d been receiving incoming calls off and on for the past thirty minutes, but he was balls deep in Simone, and refused to answer.

  “What the fuck,” he complained while reaching for the phone. “It’s like every motherfucker who knows my number is callin’ at the same goddamned time.”

  Sitting up and resting his back against the headboard, he looked at the screen. “Yeah fuckin’ right,” he mumbled to himself, referring to the text message that he’d just received from his underboss, Alphonso Picatti.

  Carmy, somebody broke into the fuckin’ club! Drop whatever you’re doin’ and get here ASAP!

  “It’s gotta be that fuckin’ Grip,” Carmine surmised. Although he had no involvement whatsoever with the ambush at Easy’s funeral, the six o’clock news indicated that his family was responsible for the gangland hit. His soldier, Paulie Rizzo, was pronounced dead at the scene. His bullet riddled body was stretched out in the middle of Broad Street and a black Uzi sub-machine gun was clutched in his right hand.

  “This is some fuckin’ bullshit,” Carmine said aloud.

  “Baby, what’s the matter?” Simone asked him.

  “Nothin’.”

  After sending a text message to his war capo, Peter ‘Fat Petey’ Cappazola, telling him to meet him at Club Spontaneous, he hopped off of the bed and quickly threw on his clothes.

  Chapter Two

  Sonny’s Montgomery County Estate

  Zaire was standing outside the west wing of Sonny’s mansion, just a couple of feet away from his six-car garage. The December weather was windy and brisk, but the gray Dennis Basso wolf-fur coat that Daphney let him borrow from Sonny’s closet was cozy and warm. A burning Backwoods was nestled in between his right thumb and index finger, and thoughts of resentment and confusion clouded his mind.

  “This nigga’s bugged the fuck out,” he said to himself with Kush smoke rolling off of his lips as he said it. For the past hour, he’d been receiving text messages from niggas all over the city. Evidently, everybody and their momma were watching the six o’clock news when Sonny and Grip emerged from the Temple University Hospital and climbed inside of Grip’s Maybach.

  Yo, what the fuck is up wit’ sonny?

  Y’all niggas fuckin’ wit’ grip? Smh!
>
  Yo, how sonny gon’ do Mook like that?

  Those were the main questions that flooded his inbox. Zaire was baffled, to say the least. After everything that happened between them and Grip, how could Sonny even consider fucking with the enemy? Disappointed, he shook his head from side to side. “Damn, Big Homie. What the fuck is you thinking ‘bout, bro?”

  “That’s the problem,” his twin brother, Egypt, stated while walking up beside him, “he wasn’t thinking. Not about us, anyway.”

  “Yo, Eyg, this shit is bananas, bro,” Zaire said while turning his head to face him. “After all of the shit that happened between us and them, how Sonny gon’ call his’self fuckin’ wit’ the ol’ head? Mad niggas is blowin’ up my jack talkin’ shit, and everybody’s feelin’ the need to express their mutha’fuckin’ opinion. This shit is embarrassin’, bro.”

  “Shit, how the fuck you think I feel?” Egypt replied as he zipped up his Polo coat. He grabbed the Backwoods from his twin and placed it between his lips, carefully keeping the cherry away from the wolf-fur that lined the rim of his hood. “I still got bullet fragments in my body from when them niggas clapped me up.” He took a nice long pull on the spliff and inhaled deeply. “And fa’real, fa’real,” he exhaled the smoke, “fuck what happened to me, I’m still alive. But what about the big homie, Mook? What about my nigga, Nasty? What about Riri?”

  “I’m sayin’, though,” Zaire replied, “it’s gotta be a logical explanation behind this shit. I’m not gonna front like I know what it is, but it’s gotta be somethin’. Sonny wouldn’t be fuckin’ wit’ this nigga if he didn’t have a reason.”

  “Oh, this nigga’s got a reason a’ight,” Egypt accused, nodding his head up and down. “It’s money.”