Mafioso part 3, p.1

Mafioso [Part 3], page 1

 part  #3 of  Mafioso Series

 

Mafioso [Part 3]
 


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Mafioso [Part 3]


  Mafioso

  Part Three

  by

  Nisa Santiago

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Mafioso - Part Three. Copyright © 2018 by Melodrama Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address info@melodramabooks.com.

  www.melodramapublishing.com

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017909508

  Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1620780961

  Ebook Edition: April 2018

  1

  January 2015

  The pearl white Benz S63 AMG was the perfect gift from Scottie, and Maxine flaunted the car through the streets of Brooklyn with a broad smile. Her Benz was a start to a new life and a new beginning. After all the years she’d spent in prison, it felt good—damn good—to be on the winning team again. The look on Layla’s face when Scott curbed her ass was priceless to Maxine. Layla had been outsmarted and replaced. That bitch was canceled. Maxine wished she had it all recorded.

  Maxine felt her revenge had just begun. It takes time to kill a person and keep them alive. Maxine wanted Layla’s days to be filled with misery and angst. She wanted Layla to mourn her murdered children and long for the strong embrace from a husband who would never again be hers. Maxine wanted Layla to kill herself because the pain was too great.

  Maxine knew that kind of suffering. When she was found guilty and sentenced to prison for a murder she didn’t commit, she remembered going numb and then her body began to shake uncontrollably from fear. Her heart felt as though it would implode. Although Maxine made it through those dark days, she still couldn’t find it in her heart to forgive Layla.

  No, Maxine wanted Layla to continue to suffer and to lose her remaining kids, financial support, and her sanity. Layla was the type of heartless bitch who deserved to live in public housing and drink forties for breakfast. Maxine was the type of bitch to make that happen.

  Though it was a cold, windy day in Brooklyn, the sun was rising in clear skies. It was a new year, and that meant new things. A fresh start. And things couldn’t get any more new and fresh than the Benz Scott had bought her. It felt like old times again—like when she was nineteen years old, living her life and doing big things as a hustler’s wifey.

  With Mary J. Blige blaring inside the car, Maxine sang the lyrics to “Be Without You.” She navigated the Benz onto her mother’s silent and still block with the sun still rising. Most of the neighborhood was still asleep on the cold Sunday morning. When the Mary track ended, the only sound Maxine could hear was the January wind tapping at her window.

  Maxine took a deep breath. Reluctantly, she had put her mother on the backburner since she had returned from the cruise. She knew she should have come to see her sooner, but her new lifestyle had her caught up. She had been gone for several weeks running around with Scott, celebrating Christmas together and then the New Year. Maxine was there to help him deal with his business and family issues. There was no way she could leave his side and allow Layla or any other bitch to weasel in. Too much was at stake, and no matter how good it felt to snatch Scott back from Layla’s conniving fingers, her work was far from done.

  Maxine had something important to discuss with her mother. The woman was getting older and more fragile, and Maxine was worried about her. She felt she couldn’t live on her own for too much longer. During telephone conversations Maxine noticed that her mother was increasingly confused about how to complete simple tasks. She was showing signs of memory loss and found it hard to concentrate. Mrs. Shirley had noticed the behavior changes first while they were on the cruise, and as soon as they got back she called Maxine and voiced her opinion. At first, Maxine was in denial because her mother would have a lot of good days. But now, Maxine could no longer deny that her mother’s mental health was declining.

  She wanted to convince her mother to put her house on the market and tell her about the excellent assisted living home on Long Island she and Scott found for her. Lots of wealthy widows and notable retirees lived at the high-end facility. It was expensive, but Scott could afford it. The grounds were lush, and it boasted five-star amenities in their lavish rooms, great food, regular entertainment, and social events and trips for the senior residents. Everything was set. The only thing her mother was to do was move in.

  Maxine climbed out of the car looking flawless. Her SJP over-the-knee boots hit the pavement as she approached the home dressed in slimming jeggings and a mink coat over her sweater. Her clothing was ridiculously priced from head to toe—a far cry from the prison garb she’d once sported.

  Maxine used her key to enter and put on coffee. Everything was quiet and neat downstairs, but the place still smelled like mothballs. She had gotten used to it. It was home, and it would always be home until she put the place on the market. With the coffee brewing in the kitchen, Maxine made her way upstairs and walked toward her mother’s bedroom. The door was ajar, and the hallway was silent. She didn’t even hear the TV on. Maxine assumed her mother was sleeping.

  When she walked into the bedroom, she received the shock of her life. Maxine immediately stood frozen with terror when she saw a man standing over her sleeping mother’s bed with a .50 Cal in his left hand. He was wearing black latex gloves, a disturbing sign of bad things to come. He scowled at her, and she returned his scowl with a hard glare. Her eyes shot down at her mother lying underneath the blanket; she was still—was she dead? Thankfully Maxine noticed her mother’s chest rise and fall. She was still alive—for now.

  “What do you want?” Maxine asked the stranger quietly.

  The man put his index finger to his lips, signaling he wanted her to be silent. He was now in control. Maxine was terrified. That was a big gun near her mother’s head, and he was an intimidating looking figure—black and scary with cold, dark eyes, looking like he’d been through some insane things. He was dressed in all black, wearing a hoodie over his head, black jeans, and combat boots. His eyes were burning a hole into Maxine.

  He pointed toward the hallway, directing her to exit the room. She hesitated for a moment. There was no way she would leave her mother in the bedroom with this crazed looking stranger. He didn’t like it. He put the gun to her mother’s head and scowled heavier. Everything about him said that he wasn’t bluffing.

  Maxine backpedaled toward the bedroom door, her eyes shifting back and forth from him to her sleeping mother. She was begging with her eyes for this stranger not to do anything stupid. He removed his gun from the old woman’s head and followed Maxine out the bedroom door. Now his gun was trained on her. Quietly, he followed her downstairs and into the living room. Maxine felt powerless. What did he want? And who was he?

  With it now just the two of them downstairs, the man tucked his gun into his waistband and lunged at Maxine, striking her with a staggering blow to her face. The hard bash sent Maxine flying into the wall. However, she didn’t scream. Her face tightened with anger, and she wanted to react, but she was at a disadvantage.

  A million things went through her mind. Was this an assassination? Was it set up by Layla? It was possible. Layla had become enemy number-one, and she had her resources. Maxine was suddenly filled with regret. Scott had warned her to always travel with his security detail and not take any chances, but she hadn’t listened. Sneaking away from his bedside to visit her mother alone might have been a fatal mistake.

  Maxine looked at him defiantly and said, “Tell Layla tha
t Scott will kill everything she loves for this. She knows how he feels about me.”

  He looked puzzled by her statement. “What the fuck you talkin’ ’bout, bitch? Who the fuck is Layla?” He had heard the name before, but he couldn’t place it. A lot of time had passed.

  Now she looked puzzled. “Who sent you?” she asked him.

  He smirked and growled, “You did . . . you sent me.”

  Fed up, she shouted, “Who are you?!”

  “Wacka, bitch!”

  Suddenly, it felt like the blood had drained from her body and her heart had stopped. The name sent chills down her spine. He was her hired gun. She had only heard about him through Shiniquia. They had never met. She had never seen his face. Wacka was so elusive that he didn’t want his mother sending any pictures of him to Shiniquia while she was locked up. He didn’t want his image circulating through the correctional facilities. He wanted no one to know his face.

  How he was still alive and how he’d found her was a mystery to Maxine. But the biggest mystery was why he was suddenly mad at her. What did she do to him? He had been paid in cash for each hit he had carried out, and if he or his family got caught slipping, then their deaths were due to his murderous occupation. He took the money and provided his service, and whatever madness and darkness followed was on him. She was innocent of any wrongdoing toward him and his family. She didn’t ask Layla to kill his whole family. Layla had sanctioned the hit on her own.

  “I’m sorry for what happened to Shiniquia and your family . . . your sister was cool, and I liked her,” she said.

  He frowned. Fuck her apologies. He wanted her to suffer and feel the same pain he had felt, but before the blood-spattered get-together was to begin, it was interrupted. Scott and his goons arrived onto the block in two black SUVs, thick with manpower.

  Wacka wasn’t expecting this, but he wasn’t going out like a bitch. He was a killer who refused to be the one in front of the gun.

  2

  Scott woke to find Maxine gone. He got out of bed naked and donned a long black robe and lit a cigar. Not seeing Maxine in the room worried him. He called her cell phone a few times, but it went straight to voicemail. Scott figured she must have forgotten to turn it on. It irked him how unattached she was to her phone, even after he’d continually explained how valuable a cell phone is in case of an emergency. The pit of his stomach felt queasy; something was off. He knew she was stubborn and had gone off to visit her mother while they were in New York. She didn’t leave with her security detail, and that upset him. She was in Brooklyn alone while he was in a Manhattan penthouse suite.

  No matter how many times he warned her about Layla’s thirst for vengeance, Maxine would just shrug it off. What would it take for Maxine to see just how cunning Layla was? Layla always got her revenge; she just couldn’t rest without it. If twenty-plus years in prison didn’t make that crystal clear to Maxine, then Scott wasn’t sure what it would take.

  Scott didn’t want to lose Maxine a second time, so he called down to his goons and told them to ready themselves and bring the vehicles around. He would meet them downstairs in ten minutes.

  He opened the closet door and got dressed. He had so much to worry about—but last night with Maxine—that was incredible. The sex seemed to get better every week. The way she made him come was mind-blowing. The intimacy with Maxine was taking him places he had long forgotten. Their chemistry was off the charts, and they had sex almost every night. Once again, Maxine had captured his heart.

  This morning, he had something special planned for Maxine—another reason he was upset about her leaving. Maxine had her ways, but how had she slipped by his men without them knowing? Were his men that incompetent? If so, then they all would be dealt with.

  Scott hurried to get dressed and put his Glock 19 in his shoulder holster. Before he exited the room, he reached into the drawer and removed a small item. He held the black velvet box in the palm of his hand and opened it. Inside was a multi-million-dollar, nine-carat pink diamond solitaire ring. It was exquisite. He was planning to ask Maxine to marry him. He didn’t care he was married already. Layla had become irrelevant in his life, and he would soon divorce her. He felt that Maxine was always the one he should have been with.

  The plan was to have breakfast and champagne, and he would subtly place the diamond ring into the champagne glass and surprise her. It was a corny move, but then again, Maxine liked corny things. The ring in the champagne glass was once implemented long ago by him when he’d proposed to Layla. But this time it would be done during breakfast instead of dinner. Unfortunately, his romantic surprise was put on hold. He had to find Maxine first.

  He climbed into the backseat of the black Escalade, and the two-vehicle caravan headed toward the Brooklyn Bridge to Brooklyn. His security detail was heavily armed and alert, and every move they made was cautious. The man in the front seat carried a Heckler & Koch G36C. His goons traveling in the other truck were each armed with 9mms and .45s. Scott wanted no more risks with his life. Deuce had gotten close to him twice, and he would not allow a third time.

  With Whistler and Deuce still alive, Scott had changed all his residences, stash houses, and routines. What was night, he turned into day—what was left became right. He switched it all up to protect the organization and his family.

  The drive to Brooklyn was an easy one on an early Sunday morning. During the ride, Scott felt the engagement ring in his pocket and thought about his future with Maxine. He was making the right choice with her, right? He loved her. He always had. So why did he allow her to take the fall for Layla twenty something years ago? He was young back then; foolish and unwise.

  There were things about Maxine that had changed, and he admired that. Her newfound temperament was a turn on, but it also was becoming a pain in the ass for him. Once he found her, he would drill into her head that what he says goes! There would be no more traveling without her security detail. He was at war, and she could become a casualty, just like his three children had.

  Scott and his security team arrived at Maxine’s mother’s place, and he saw her pearl white Benz parked out front. Quietness engulfed the narrow street, and Sunday morning brought out the church folks and weekend employees. Everyone else was into their third dream or hung over from last night.

  Scott and his men exited the vehicles, and he approached the front door flanked by a few goons.

  ***

  “Fuck. We got company, I see,” Wacka growled as he glanced out the front window and saw the barrage of goons walking toward the house. He kept his cool and removed the pistol from his waistband. If he had to die today, then he wasn’t going out without a fight.

  Quickly, he grabbed Maxine and placed her into a chokehold and put the gun to her head. He was outnumbered, and he needed another way out of the house. He dragged Maxine to the back door to see if there was another exit. She struggled slightly, and his chokehold tightened around her, causing her to gasp somewhat. He was strong—stronger than the average man—and he was ready to blow her brains out and make his getaway if necessary.

  Unfortunately for Wacka, the fenced-in yard had only one way out, and it was through the front. On the other side of the fence was a brick tenement building. Fuck, he wasn’t able to climb walls! He had only one option—one way out, but he had leverage. He had Maxine as a hostage.

  Fuck it!

  Just as Scott was approaching the door, it swung open, and he and his men caught the shock of their lives. Wacka glared their way, holding Maxine in a tight chokehold with his gun pressed against her temple. Immediately, everyone’s weapons lifted in his direction, but Scott stood in the middle of the standoff, looking at Maxine caught up in a murderer’s grip. The two locked eyes and she was trying to keep her cool, but she was in a perilous predicament.

  “Just do what he says,” Maxine pleaded in a feeble voice.

  Scott wanted to reach for his gun, but Wac
ka quickly threw out demands. “Y’all niggas back da fuck up!”

  “Chill, playboy. We can talk like men here,” Scott replied calmly, taking a few steps back from them. He wanted to rip the man’s throat out, but he had to keep his cool. The man had the upper hand.

  “We ain’t got shit to talk about!” Wacka shouted. “I’m walkin’ out the front door wit’ this bitch in my arms.”

  All eyes were on Wacka, and things were heating up. He gripped Maxine tightly, his finger was on the trigger, and the barrel of the .50 Cal was a dulling pain against her temple. She knew it all could go wrong in so many ways. Her primary concern was her mother and her safety. The last thing she wanted was bullet holes riddling her mother’s front door and turning the home she grew up in into a war zone.

  “Let her go, and there’s some hope for you,” Scott said.

  Wacka chuckled at the order. “You a funny nigga, but I ain’t fuckin’ laughing or playin’ wit’ y’all niggas. One of y’all niggas flinch wrong, and I’m blowin’ her fuckin’ brains out!”

  Wacka stepped farther out the door, still in complete control over Maxine. Scott and his goons could only glare with their weapons on standby and wait for an opportunity to strike. Wacka wasn’t leaving them much of an open window.

  “Nigga, I’m ready to die today and go out for mine,” said Wacka. “Y’all niggas feel the same way?”

  If he had to, he’d join his family and go out in a blaze of glory. How could he survive this? Could he kill Maxine and still get off a shot at Scott and make his escape? The odds weren’t in his favor. Wacka knew he would be riddled with bullets after the first shot. He didn’t want to die with unfinished business. He wanted to slaughter the entire West family, including Maxine.

  “I want y’all muthafuckas to put y’all guns on the ground and step back,” he ordered them.

  They hesitated. It wasn’t happening unless Scott told them to. They were taking too long, so Wacka started counting, “Three, two . . .”

 
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