Blood of a Boss III Page 8

  Intrigued, the white woman just sat there shaking her head. In a weird way, it felt as though she were playing a minor role in their crime syndicate and her pussy muscles clenched together.

  “All I need you to do is page Dr. Levy, and tell him I’m here. He’s expecting me.”

  “Right away, Mr. Moreno.” She picked up the telephone receiver, hit a button on the keypad, and her voice boomed over the intercom. “Dr. Levy to the emergency room receptionist’s stand. Dr. Levy to the emergency room receptionist’s stand.”

  “Thank you,” he mouthed the words and then took a seat in the first row of chairs.

  Damn, Grip wasn’t bullshittin’, he thought to himself, referring to the news break that came across the radio while he was driving to the hospital. According to Power 99, Little Angolo and his capo, Tony Bruno, were executed in front of his South Philly row home. The radio station also mentioned that two Spanish women, who were believed to be the shooters, were killed by the police as they attempted to flee the scene. Yo, that had to be Murder and Malice they was talking ‘bout. Damn, after everything we went through, this nigga’s really out there ridin’ wit’ me.

  The double-doors that led to the back of the emergency room swung open and Dr. Levy strolled into the lobby with a cup of coffee in his right hand. Sonny stood to his feet and waved him over.

  “Yo, doc, I got the word from my brother’s lady. What’s good? She told me that Mello came up outta that thing.”

  “He did,” Dr. Levy said with a smile. “Come on, I’ll take you to him.”

  He led Sonny down the hallway and up to the third floor where Rahmello’s room was located. “We had to sedate him, so technically, he’s knocked back out. But he should wake up in another hour or so.”

  “A’ight,” Sonny replied while taking in his surroundings. The walls were a bright white and the checkered linoleum floor had a polished glow. The atmosphere was nice and cool, and the aroma of fresh disinfect permeated the air. As they continued walking down the long hallway, Sonny couldn’t help but to peek inside of the rooms as they passed by. Up ahead, he spotted two of the bodyguards from earlier. They were standing in front of a room that he assumed was Rahmello’s. When they saw him approaching, they nodded their heads respectfully, and he returned the gesture.

  When they finally reached the room, Olivia got up from the rocking-chair and wrapped her arms around Sonny.

  “Sontino, he woke up and went crazy,” she told him. “He ripped the heart monitor out of the wall and threw it at the bodyguards, and the doctors had to give him a needle to calm him down.”

  “Yeah, Sontino, it was bad,” Dr. Levy added as he approached Rahmello’s Craftmatic bed. “We actually had to move him into another room.”

  “A’ight,” Sonny said with his arm wrapped around Olivia’s shoulder, “but other than that, everything’s good?”

  “It certainly appears that way,” Dr. Levy replied. He picked up the chart from the foot of Rahmello’s bed and flipped it open. “Based on the report from the neurologist, he didn’t suffer any brain damage, so he should be up and running in no time at all.”

  “Brain damage?” Sonny asked. “Why would he have brain damage?”

  “Well, that would have been a result of his severe blood loss. The femoral artery is responsible for a large percentage of the body’s blood flow, and as we all know, the body’s blood flow carries oxygen to the brain. Rahmello was quite lucky. Usually, when a patient has suffered from severe blood loss, the result is minor brain damage. Actually, in some cases the damage is major,” Dr. Levy explained. He closed the chart and returned it to its holder.

  “So, my brother’s good then?”

  “Yes, Sontino, your brother’s going to be fine.”

  Upon hearing this, Olivia broke down crying and rushed to Rahmello’s side.

  Sonny shook the doctor’s hand and said, “Thanks for everything, doc.”

  “Just doing my job,” Dr. Levy replied with a smile. He started to leave the room, but stopped when Sonny called him.

  “Hey, yo, doc, is there a time frame as to when I can get him out of here?”

  Dr. Levy glanced at his watch, and then looked at Rahmello. “We’ll probably be releasing him in the morning. His condition is stable, so there’s really no need for him to hang around.”

  “Well, what if I wanted to get him out of here tonight?” Sonny asked with a pleading undertone.

  “Ah, that wouldn’t really be a problem, but hospital protocol mandates that we keep him for at least twenty-four hours.”

  “A’ight, doc, thanks.”

  As soon as Dr. Levy left the room, Sonny got the attention of the two bodyguards. “You,” he pointed at the tall light skinned man, “get my grandfather on the phone. And you,” he directed his attention to the dark skinned man, “I need you to help me carry my little brother out to the car.”

  ***

  La Casa Moreno

  Grip was seated at the marble island in the center of his kitchen. The roasted lamb that he was feasting on tasted like butter, and was topped off with wild rice and beans. It was a meal fit for a king. A tall glass of iced tea with lemon was cradled in his left hand and his cell phone was loosely positioned in his right.

  “So, what time is your flight leaving for Cuba?” his personal advisor and best friend, Judge Gregory Johnson, asked him.

  Grip swallowed the piece of lamb he was chewing and then took a sip of his iced tea. “Four a.m.,” he replied before wolfing down another forkful of lamb shoulder. “Heldga’s upstairs packing our luggage. I’ve decide to bring Muhammad and Gangsta along for the trip,” he continued with a mouth full of food.

  “All right, Gervin, now please don’t take this the wrong way,” Judge Johnson cautioned. “Do you really think we can trust Sontino?”

  Grip dropped his fork and then knocked down the rest of his iced tea. “Come again.”

  “Do you think we can trust him?” Judge Johnson repeated his question. “You know, after everything that’s happened between you two.”

  Grip tossed the question around in his mind, sifting through the pros and cons. “Trust will come later,” he said. “It might be a little rocky at first, but he’ll come around eventually.”

  “But what if he doesn’t?” Judge Johnson countered.

  “He will,” Grip replied, raising his voice a few octaves. “He has to.”

  Judge Johnson sighed. “Listen, my brother, all I ask is that you think it over a little more. By investing everything into Sontino’s acquiescing to his new role as the boss of the family, you’re neglecting the two things that made you the biggest boss that Philadelphia has ever seen.”

  “Oh yeah, and what would that be?” Grip asked with a slight attitude.

  “Your ability to anticipate future problems, and making the necessary adjustments to have them obliterated before they even materialize.”

  Grip flexed his jaw muscles. He knew that his old friend had spoken the truth, but so much was already invested in Sonny. There was absolutely no way he could move forward without his grandson at the helm.

  An incoming call illuminated his touch-screen. “G.J., I’ve got an incoming call. It’s Brother Aziz. Him and Brother Shabazz are at the hospital with Rahmello.”

  Rahmello. Rahmello. Rahmello.

  The name bounced around his brain like a loud scream in a dark deserted cave. Rahmello. That’s it. Instantly, he realized that his younger grandson was a much better candidate than his older brother. There wasn’t any bad blood between them and, therefore, he didn’t have to worry about any future retaliation.

  “Grip?” Judge Johnson’s voice boomed through the phone, interrupting his thoughts. “You still there?”

  “Yes, G.J., I’m still here. But I really need to take this call.”

  “All right, my brother. Just make sure you give me a call when you touch down in Cuba,” Judge Johnson said before disconnecting the call.

  Grip swiped his right index finger across th
e screen, accepting Brother Aziz’s call. “As salaamu alaikum,” he gave the Islamic greeting. “May peace be upon you, my brother?”

  “Wa alaikum salaam,” Brother Aziz returned the greeting.

  “How’s my grandson?” Grip quickly inquired.

  “All praises are due to Allah. The little brother has awakened from his coma.”

  “Is he with you right now?” Grip asked. “Does he know what’s going on?”

  “It was rocky at first,” Brother Aziz informed him. “When he awakened, he completely lost it. He was screaming for Sontino, and when me and Brother Shabazz tried to calm him down, he yanked his heart monitor out of the wall and threw it at us. It got so crazy that the doctors had to sedate him.”

  “Has anyone contacted Sontino?”

  “Yes,” Brother Aziz confirmed. “Rahmello’s fiancée, the little Columbian sister, she was the one who called him.”

  “And what happened?”

  “He arrived a couple of minutes ago. He spoke to the doctor, then the next thing I know, he told me to get you on the phone, and he told Brother Shabazz to help him carry Rahmello outside to his car. And Brother Gervin,” he continued in a voice that was all business, “you made an excellent decision. Everything about that little brother is boss.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He just finished strapping Rahmello in the back of Brother Shabazz’s Tahoe. Hold on, lemme call him over.”

  Brother Aziz honked the horn and waved Sonny over to his Suburban. “Here he comes,” he spoke into the phone before handing it to Sonny through the passenger’s side window.

  “The doctor said that Rahmello’s going to be fine,” Sonny informed his grandfather. It didn’t make any sense for me to leave him here, so I snuck him out.”

  “Okay,” Grip replied. “And where do you plan on taking him?”

  “Back to my block,” Sonny said. “I’ma be in the hood for a little while.”

  “In the hood? What about your estate?”

  “My estate?” Sonny asked with a raised eyebrow, wondering how Grip knew about his house. “Yo, who the fuck told you about my crib?”

  “I own it,” Grip revealed.

  Sonny went dead quiet.

  “I think it would be best if you came to see me,” Grip continued in his deep voice. “Tell Brother Aziz I said to bring you to me.”

  Click.

  ***

  Back At Club Spontaneous

  “We’re fuckin’ closed tonight,” Fat Petey shouted at the crowd of exotic dancers. He was posted in front of the entrance with his flabby arms folded across his chest.

  “But Carmine said that I could work in V.I.P. tonight,” a beautiful Persian woman complained.

  “That ain’t my problem,” Fat Petey shot back.

  “Petey, y’all on that bullshit,” a curvy Latina in a black waist-length mink snarled at him.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Keep it movin’, toots.”

  Jonathan “Jon-Jon” Veasy pulled up in a white Ram truck and hopped out looking like the stereotypical white rapper that he was. His Gucci parka was unzipped and the diamond pendent that hung from his platinum chain was swinging back and forth with his every step.

  “Yo, Petey, what’s good?” he asked with his arms stretched out wide. “My party’s tonight and everybody’s textin’ me sayin’ that you won’t let ‘em inside. Yo, what’s up wit’ dat?”

  Fat Petey shot him a look that said, Who gives a fuck? Jon-Jon was connected to the family, but he wasn’t a “made” man, and therefore Fat Petey couldn’t have cared less.

  “Well, whoever told you that, they were tellin’ the truth,” Fat Petey told him flat out. “We’re closed for the weekend, so call Carmy and reschedule.”

  Jon-Jon looked around the parking lot and was vexed to see everyone leaving. “Yo, Petey, this is bullshit. Straight up.”

  Fat Petey scowled at the fake ass Paulie D, and then smacked the dog shit out of him. “I said we’re fuckin’ closed,” he snapped at him. “Now, get your Jersey Shore lookin’ ass outta here.”

  After the crowd of strippers and patrons left, Fat Petey stepped inside of the club and locked the door behind him. Michael “Little Mikey” Castello and Peter “Pap-Pap” Clamenza were down on their hands and knees cleaning the blood off of the floor. And Fat Petey’s nephew, Anthony Deluca, was down in the basement chopping up Alphonso’s body.

  “We gotta get rid of him,” Carmine had said when they’d returned to the club. “The last thing we need is the fuckin’ cops snoopin’ around.”

  As he approached the door to Carmine’s office, he knocked softly and said, “Carmy, you okay?”

  The door opened and Carmine ushered him inside. Fat Petey could tell that Carmine had just finished crying, but he didn’t say anything about it. Instead, he closed the door behind him and looked around the office.

  “Little Mikey and Pap-Pap did a good job of cleanin’ the place up, huh, Carmy?”

  “Yeah, they did alright,” Carmine replied in a low voice. He positioned himself in front of the television and aimed his remote control at the Blue Ray machine. Pressing the rewind button, he looked at Fat Petey and said, “I was watching the footage from the night Roberto went missin’ and I got the three motherfuckers on camera who did it.” He released his finger from the rewind button and pressed play.

  The video didn’t have any audio, but the picture was crystal clear. Chico was carrying Roberto back to his Lamborghini when a dark skinned black man with shoulder-length dreads approached them from behind. Chico spun around as if the dark skinned man said something to get his attention. As the dark skinned man got closer to Chico and Roberto, he pulled out a stun-gun and shot Chico, causing the large man to drop Roberto. As Chico staggered towards his attacker, reaching out to snatch away the stun-gun, another black man with shoulder-length dreads emerged from the black Hummer that was parked beside Roberto’s Lamborghini, and jumped on Chico’s back. Chico slammed him into the chrome grill of the Hummer, and then another black man climbed out of the SUV. He whipped out a gun and aimed it at the back of Chico’s head. But before he had the chance to let off a shot, the hydrodynamics of the stun-gun took its toll and Chico crashed to the pavement. When all was said and done, Chico was stretched out in the parking lot, and Roberto was handcuffed and tossed in the back of the Hummer.

  “Petey, have you seen these niggers before?” Carmine asked while pressing the stop button.

  “No,” Fat Petey said, shaking his head from side to side. “But rewind the footage back a little further. It looks like the first kid, the one who crept up behind them.” He pointed at the screen. “There, him right there. It looks like he followed them out of the club.”

  Carmine checked the time of the video, then switched over to the security cameras that covered the stage, bar, and dance floor. He punched in the date and time, and then pressed the rewind button for a couple of seconds.

  “Hold up,” Fat Petey blurted. “Right there,” he pointed at the bottom of the screen. “Press the zoom button.”

  The camera zoomed in on a dark skinned man sitting at the bar. He was sipping on a Corona and watching Roberto like a hawk. A petite, light skinned woman in a baby-blue thong walked by, and he grabbed her by the arm. After talking for a couple of minutes, he pulled out a wad of money and tried to hand her a few bills, but she turned him down.

  “Hey, Petey, isn’t that the Asian-lookin’ broad that you was stickin’ the sausage to?” asked Carmine.

  “Yeah,” Fat Petey confirmed. “That’s Jasmyn. I been bangin’ the broad for a while now.”

  “Doesn’t it seem like the two of them know one another?”

  “Yeah, it does,” Fat Petey nodded his head. “It’s possible, anyway.”

  Carmine pressed the pause button. “I want you to print out this screen-shot, and show it to her. This broad knows somethin’, and whatever it is, you’s better get it out of her. Capisce?”

  “I’m on it, Carmy.”

 
“All right, now leave me alone for a while. I need to call my great-grandfather.”

  Fat Petey nodded his understanding, and then headed for the door. As he gripped the door knob, he looked back at Carmine. “Hey, Carmy, I’m sorry about what happened to your grandfather.”

  Carmine sighed, “Thanks, Petey.”

  As Fat Petey left the office, he pulled out his cell phone and called the original don of South Philly, his great-grandfather, Angolo “Big Angolo” Gervino.

  Chapter Eight

  “This nigga owns my house?” Sonny questioned himself as he followed behind the two SUVs. Their destination was Grip’s estate in Bala Cynwyd, Pennsylvania. Brother Aziz was leading the convoy in his black, 2015 Chevy Suburban, and Brother Shabazz was right behind him in a forest-green Tahoe, with Rahmello and Olivia safely strapped in the back seat. As they drove up City Line Avenue, Sonny activated his Bluetooth and said, “Call Daphney.”

  The phone rang about ten times and then went to voicemail. Frustrated, he repeated the process for two minutes straight, and the same thing happened every time, no answer. “Yo, this some nut ass shit,” he complained aloud. As far as he knew, the mansion, the house in Cheltenham, the nightclub and sports bar was owned by M&R Real Estate, the company that Alvin left to Daphney. So, what the fuck was Grip talking about?

  Brother Aziz turned off of City Line Avenue and led the convoy down a long hilly road that cut through a grove of willow trees. The naturally dark road was fairly lit by towering light posts, and up ahead, atop a steep hill, Sonny could see a wide range of burgundy shingles. Elegantly placed, the large shingles were layered down the slopes of a cream-colored roof. As they ascended the steep hill and slowly cruised down the other side, Sonny was blown away by the sight of Grip’s mansion. It was hands down the most beautiful piece of property that he had ever seen. Surrounded by a ten-foot-high, Roman stonewall, the 25,000 square foot mansion was more akin to a small gated community rather than a single house.