Mafioso part 2, p.1

Mafioso [Part 2], page 1

 part  #2 of  Mafioso Series


Mafioso [Part 2]

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Mafioso [Part 2]


  Part TWO

  by Nisa Santiago

  Melodrama Publishing

  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 Two. 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 [email protected]

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017909508

  EBook ISBN-13: 978-1620780947

  EBook Edition: January 2018

  Books By Nisa Santiago

  Cartier Cartel: Part 1

  Return of the Cartier Cartel: Part 2

  Cartier Cartel - South Beach Slaughter: Part 3

  Bad Apple: The Baddest Chick Part 1

  Coca Kola: The Baddest Chick Part 2

  Checkmate: The Baddest Chick Part 3

  Face Off: The Baddest Chick Part 4

  South Beach Cartel

  On the Run: The Baddest Chick Part 5

  Unfinished Business: The Baddest Chick Part 6

  Guard the Throne

  Dirty Money Honey


  Murdergram 2

  The House That Hustle Built

  The House That Hustle Built 2

  The House That Hustle Built 3

  Killer Dolls

  Killer Dolls 2

  Killer Dolls 3

  Mafioso - Part 1

  Mafioso - Part 2

  Mafioso - Part 3

  Mafioso - Part 4


  Max stepped off the bus at the Port Authority and merged with the masses of people coming off buses from across the country. She immediately felt out of place, even though this was her hometown. While following the crowd to the exits, she gazed at the ads plastered all over the tunnel. NYPD cops were situated everywhere. Max noticed a change in their uniforms. Back in ’94, their holstered weapons were less threatening, and they wore a lighter blue with a softer look. Now, they were geared up in dark blue or black and walked around with assault rifles and gas masks, looking like soldiers at war. September 11th had changed a lot of things.

  The tunnel she was in was hot and congested with throngs of people journeying in different directions. It felt like a crowded maze. Though the signs were in English, they were still confusing to her. It all became overwhelming. She needed to take a timeout and a deep breath, but she had to keep it moving. She planned on meeting Miguel outside the Port Authority. From Nadia’s description, she knew what he looked like. He was to pick her up in a black Honda Accord.

  Making it outside onto 8th Avenue and 42nd Street, she scanned the area for Miguel. The streets were swamped with cars, taxis, buses, and trucks all trying to get to their destinations. The street look like a clogged artery. Horns were blowing loudly, as a wall of folks crossed 8th Avenue and moved toward Times Square, where towering city buildings appeared to touch the blue sky.

  Max looked around, feeling out of place. She was ready to find Miguel and leave. She didn’t want to be seen like this—looking like one of the city’s homeless. For a moment, her eyes darted everywhere, frantically looking for her ride to Brooklyn. Her cash was limited, and she was hungry and tired and needed a bath. She wanted to shred her shabby clothing and be alone.

  Where was Miguel?

  Max didn’t move. She stood on the corner of 8th Avenue and 42nd Street and watched everyone and everything. New York City didn’t bring about a welcoming feeling. People passed by her, even bumped into her accidentally without apology. They walked briskly and went on with their lives. But it was expected. No one knew who she was. They didn’t care about her.

  She noticed a few Honda Accords in the area that fit the description of the one Miguel should be driving, but they were occupied with families, females, or older men. She sighed, becoming frustrated. What if Miguel wasn’t coming? What if Nadia had double-crossed her? Now that she was free, and over a thousand miles away from the prison, maybe Nadia didn’t see her as a threat anymore. Max could see that happening. But she was still a threat, and she still had contacts inside the Louisiana state prison. If Nadia crossed her, then Max would put that bitch on her hit list too.

  “You Max?” she heard a voice say from behind.

  Max turned around and caught an eyeful of Miguel, who stood there deadpan. She locked eyes with him. He was pure eye candy. He stood five nine with an olive complexion, short dark hair, and intriguing eyes. He was wearing a black tank top that highlighted his muscular build and black cargo shorts with white Nikes. A few tattoos decorated his arms, from his biceps down to his forearms.

  For the first time in twenty-plus years, Max felt something between her legs. She felt her pussy smile. “Yes, I’m Max,” she replied.

  Miguel had that murderous edge to him. He still looked military—Marines. Maybe he did a few tours overseas, took enemy lives, and created hell. His eyes looked like they could tell a story. “I’m parked across the street. I don’t want to get a ticket,” he said indifferently, walking off and leaving Max to follow him.

  Max could feel his apathy toward her.

  Miguel found nothing attractive about Max. He assumed that she was a dyke, with her long cornrows and her rough appearance. She was a hard-looking bitch with cold eyes.

  Miguel didn’t want to be there, but he felt he didn’t have a choice. That she’d threatened the love of his life didn’t sit too well with him. If he could, he would have broken her neck with his bare hands, but he couldn’t touch her. He was smart enough to know the influence she had over Nadia, who was scared to death of Max. He hated that Nadia’s life was in danger. He couldn’t chance something happening to the mother of his three small children.

  Nadia had told him all about Max and how things worked in Louisiana. They’d tried to move Nadia into protective custody, but the warden wouldn’t allow it. PC was only entertained at the prison if you were testifying against someone or after you had testified in a high-profile trial. But what about inmates like Nadia—new and scared? Where did they fit it? It angered Miguel that his woman was a pawn in someone’s plan.

  Miguel climbed into the driver’s seat of his Accord with the rusted bottom and aging tires. The car had seen better days. The interior had cracked leather seats and worn mats. He would have preferred if Max got into the back seat of the car, but she climbed into the passenger seat next to him and closed the door.

  Without saying a word to her, Miguel drove off, navigating the vehicle into the thick city traffic. For a few blocks, there was no conversation, just plain silence. Max stared out the window, still taking in the city, observing new styles with the women and the men, and watching life happen in Manhattan.

  After a few minutes of quiet time, she looked at Miguel. “When will you make it happen?”

  He knew what she was talking about. He refused to look at her while driving toward the Brooklyn Bridge. He came to a red light and stopped. He stared out the windshield, eyeing the sea of red brake lights ahead of him. “Soon.”

  “The ten grand—I want Bugsy and Lucky dead.”

  Miguel quickly replied, “No, for ten grand, that’s one murder. If you want a second person dead, then that’s another ten grand. And I’m only doing this because of Nadia.”

  “You love her, don’t you?”

  Miguel didn’t reply.
He didn’t want to talk about his relationship to this bitch extorting his woman. He despised her. She was poison to him and his relationship.

  “I was just making conversation,” Max said.

  She was testing him, trying to outsmart him. She wanted to see where his head was at, and how loyal he was to Nadia. From her viewpoint, he seemed sharp, and he was deeply in love. He wasn’t a fool, and she would not lowball him or intimidate him like she had done to Nadia. He stuck to his guns and was assertive. Max respected that. She wanted to know more about him, but he seemed reluctant to converse with her, keeping things simple and professional, if you can call it that.

  “I need a name—Lucky or Bugsy—and I need some time,” he said.

  “I’ll have a name for you soon,” she said. “And you have some time.”

  They crossed over the Brooklyn Bridge into Downtown Brooklyn. To some extent, Max was elated to be back in Brooklyn. Her eyes were out the window again and fixed on everything. The area was inundated with residential and office buildings, heavy traffic, and a lot of pedestrians. She remembered the shopping sprees on Fulton Street and dining with Scottie at the famous Junior’s Restaurant. Max loved their cheesecake. She yearned for a delicious meal and a slice of that cheesecake, but those days of luxury seemed long gone.

  Moving through downtown Brooklyn via Flatbush Avenue and then Atlantic Avenue, they arrived in East New York sooner than later. Miguel parked in front of her mother’s home on Blake Avenue in East New York.

  “We’ll talk,” he said, the car idling.

  “Indeed, we will,” she said.

  Max noticed the new neighbors, the new young faces lingering on the corner, and a few new businesses. A local bar around the corner had been turned into a community church, and new homes had been constructed. Gentrification was in full effect. Her parents’ place still looked the same. The brick home surrounded by a weathered iron fence and with its own driveway was a sight for sore eyes. She was happy to be home, but there was also sadness. The place wouldn’t feel the same without her father around.

  She climbed out of the Accord and stood on the sidewalk for a moment. She stared at the house, hesitant to approach and walk inside. She hadn’t seen her mother in so many years. She knew there would be changes, but was she ready for these changes?

  Miguel drove off. Max watched the back of the car turn the corner. Another deep sigh escaped her, and she placed one foot forward and approached the front entrance. This was it, her adjustment to life on the outside after twenty-something years.

  She wondered if her mother would recognize her. Who would she see? It definitely wouldn’t be her little girl. Max didn’t feel like that same young girl chasing a law degree and in love with a drug dealer. Time inside had hardened her, leaving nothing of the old Maxine.


  Scott sat back in the high-back leather chair and eyed every soul in the room. His platinum watch peeked from his shirt cuffs, and his diamond ring sparkled brilliantly in the room. Everyone was quiet, waiting for him to speak.

  First things first, he needed to smoke. Scott rolled the long cigar between his fingers, feeling out its smooth texture. It was perfect, having no lumps or soft spots. He removed a platinum cigar cutter from the inner pocket of his Armani suit jacket and snipped the end of the cigar with a quick, sharp motion. A poorly cut cigar wouldn’t do for him. Scott believed in quality and taste.

  Using a torch lighter, he held the cigar in his hand and placed the tip above the flame; sticking it directly in the fire would ruin the flavor. Before he placed it into his mouth, he wanted to burn the end to sort of “prime” the tobacco. He spun it around as he continued to light it to make sure there was an even burn. Once he saw an orange glow, he placed it into his mouth and puffed. He filled his mouth up with smoke and then blew it out. He did this a few times, producing a thick, white smoke that hung in the air. The flavor of the cigar lingered between his jaws.

  After a few puffs, he said, “Is there any new information on this muthafucka, Deuce?”

  The complete silence amongst everyone around the table—Layla, Whistler, Meyer, Bugsy, and Lucky—aggravated him.

  “No one has anything to say?”

  Bugsy said, “He went off the radar. No one has heard from him in weeks, Pop.”

  “So you’re telling me this muthafucka just fell off the face of the earth—did a disappearing act like David Blaine? Deuce, a common street thug? We put over three dozen men on this man, and nothing came up.”

  “He’s smarter than we thought,” Bugsy replied.

  The more Bugsy spoke, the angrier Scott became.

  Scott had called a meeting to regroup, go over operations, and to strategize, since things had gotten way out of hand. Deuce had hit them where it hurt, killing three of his kids, and someone had violently beaten his daughter. The bloodshed was staggering. The man was making them all look like simpletons.

  “How do we look, not being able to find one man? He’s out there living and hiding, and we’re looking like the gang that can’t shoot straight,” Scott exclaimed.

  He stood up from the table with his lit cigar. His composure faded. He eyed his wife, Layla. Now that the Florida homes were completed, she was back in on operations. As far as she was concerned, she was co-owner of everything Scott had built. With three children murdered, and her only remaining daughter facing a lengthy prison sentence, she needed answers. She wanted to be in the trenches. She was ready to become a pistol-packing bitch and protect her three remaining babies at any cost.

  She and Scott weren’t taking any chances. Security was tight. A half dozen armed soldiers and lieutenants sat in the room adjacent to where the family met.

  “We already got to his sister, and he doesn’t have any family left,” Meyer chimed.

  “I want a ten-million-dollar bounty on his head,” Scott said. “That should motivate these killers out there.”

  “I’ll find him myself, Pop, and put a fuckin’ bullet in his head. I promise you that,” Meyer said with a clenched fist.

  Scott looked at Meyer; he still was displeased with Meyer’s previous actions and his hot temper. Meyer’s recklessness had cost him money and favors. Beating down Sergeant McAuliffe put them in hot water with a few other officers, since McAuliffe was respected and liked by his peers. They wanted to take matters into their own hands and deal with Meyer, but Scott and Whistler were able to come to an agreement with them. And it wasn’t cheap.

  Scott had no words for Meyer. If he succeeded, then it would be a bonus for him. But he doubted that Meyer was that skilled in hunting down a man that even Whistler had trouble finding.

  Whistler sat at the other end of the table quiet like a mouse. But his silence spoke loudly, especially to Scott.

  Scott said, “Whistler, you have nothing to say over there? What the fuck is on your mind? I need a friend’s opinion. I need some kind of information from you. I need this issue to go away and go away fast. I thought you put Maze on him. He can’t find this nigga?”

  All eyes were on Whistler. He sat straight-faced and was dressed similarly to Scott, wearing a dark blue Tom Ford suit.

  Lucky looked at him intently. She was still sour about his aloofness toward her. For now, she kept her cool, choosing to not lash out at her former lover, a man for whom she still had a strong desire. The man she was still in love with.

  “Maze got knocked on a warrant. I thought I told you about that.”

  Scott furrowed his brows. His jaw got tight and he had to compose himself. “If you told me, would I be asking!”

  Whistler exhaled. “My bad, Scott. A lot’s been going on lately that it may have slipped my mind.”

  “You got a lot on your mind, huh?”

  Whistler didn’t answer.

  “Nigga, did you lose three kids? Are your three seeds six feet deep! I rely on you to stay on point as my right-hand. You n
eed to tell me something.”

  “It doesn’t make sense, Scott,” Whistler said.

  “What don’t make sense?”


  “Muthafucka, stop with the equivocation and talk to me directly!” Scott exclaimed. “Truth to power, right?”

  “It all feels too personal to come from Deuce. I began feeling this way while Lucky was in the hospital.”

  Meyer said, “What you sayin’—Deuce ain’t do this shit? I think you delusional, nigga.”

  “You asked for my outlook, right?”

  “Nigga, fuck your outlook! It all makes sense on our end. When did this shit start happening? Right after we took over Deuce’s territory. Why wouldn’t he come at us hard like that? We fucked his shit up, nigga, so now he tryin’ to fuck our shit up,” Meyer said.

  “I hear Deuce is smart, but to garner access to family and places so quickly and react in that time doesn’t add up to me,” Whistler explained.

  “Then who you think is comin’ at us like this? Huh, nigga?”

  “Youngblood, you need to chill.”

  Meyer stood up. “Man, fuck that chill shit! And I ain’t your youngblood! You think you got this shit figured out? You don’t, nigga!”

  Scott didn’t intervene yet. He continued to stand and frown, listening to the bickering. Layla was looking to her son, believing him over Whistler.

  Whistler would not be disrespected by a child, even though Meyer was Scott’s son. He stood up and glared at Meyer. He was ready to knock the young boy’s head off, show him how he got down back in the days. Meyer had heard the stories, but he’d never personally experienced Whistler’s lethal set of skills or ever been on the other side of his rage.

  “I don’t see any other adversary coming at us like that, Whistler,” Bugsy said.

  “Y’all actually believe that Gotti, Bonnie, and Clyde were killed over a drug beef by a street thug named Deuce? A man who had no idea we existed until a few months ago?” Whistler argued.

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