Mafioso--Part 6, page 1
part #6 of Mafioso Series
MAFIOSO
PART 6: Who Shot Ya?
NISA SANTIAGO
Copyright © 2020 Melodrama Publishing
All rights reserved.
ISBN:978-1620780855
This is a work of fiction. The characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
Mafioso 6: Who Shot Ya? Copyright © 2020 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
ISBN: 978-1620780855
LCCN: 2020917263
First Edition: April 2022
Biggie said,
“Niggas are actors.
they deserve oscars.”
Chapter 1
The unknown assailant walked through the ritzy high-rise building with impunity. The polished imported marble floors led past a doorman, concierge and finally arrived at three mirrored elevators. Stepping into the lift, he scoffed when he pushed the top floor; the penthouse wasn’t in his foreseeable future. The doors opened, and he stepped onto a tightly woven, plush carpet bordered with silk stitching in a Greek geometric design. This was fucking luxury. His keys opened a door where he didn’t live—his code deactivated an alarm he shouldn’t know.
Once inside, the décor gave him pause. He stood silent and just stared—no, he actually glared at the furnishings, amenities, and tchotchkes. The walls prominently displayed authentic Picasso, Basquiat, Banksy, and Warhol paintings; bookshelves had first edition rare collectibles—most notable, The Brothers Grimm fairytales, and cocktail tables held exquisite statues. The expansive foyer’s overhead lighting was punctuated with a tasteful crystal chandelier. There were two woven silk couches in the living room area, positioned parallel, just like the White House. A buffet of custom Hermès pillows was strategically placed, giving the room an Architectural Digest vibe. This was the type of home you took your shoes off at the front door.
Eventually, he allowed himself to tour her whole condo, but not before removing his Glock from his shoulder holster just in case something popped off. Each space he entered competed with the room he’d just left; five-star everything was an understatement. He couldn’t believe that a thuggish, gangster bitch was living this high up on the hog. Once he swept the apartment and confirmed that he was, as he had known, alone—he veered away from his agenda because the lure of her wealth was too enticing to just ignore.
On Lucky’s dresser, he spotted a wad of cash. He counted just over nine thousand dollars haphazardly left in plain sight like it was lunch money. Although he wanted to take it all, he couldn’t. He was a ghost and needed to be inconspicuous because he was creeping. Twenty crisp one hundred dollar bills were stuffed into his sweatpants pocket, but he couldn’t stop there. Lucky’s walk-in closet was opened, and it resembled an upscale boutique. She had installed three lighting levels; ambient was for the glass shelving, soft light was for her shoe collection, and daylight was for her clothing. A traditional crystal chandelier with smoke gray glass anchored the space. She had more clothes than she could wear in two lifetimes—gluttonous hoarding was this spoiled bitch’s favorite pastime.
Glass display shelves held pricey $30,000 handbags—too many to count. Her clothing was color and season coordinated, most with price tags still on. Lucky’s shoes and boots collection was every woman’s dream, including his wife and mistress. His eyes scanned labels: Balmain, Balenciaga, Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Prada, Christian Louboutin’s, Fendi, YSL, Versace, and a slew of others. There had to be over a million dollars worth of shoes and clothing there. His jaw tightened so aggressively his clenched teeth trickled blood. He opened a custom-built watch drawer and saw the obligatory staples of a drug hustling queenpin—Rolexes, Cartier, Chopard, and Bvlgari. His eyes were mesmerized by the Chopard watch with dangling pink diamonds on the dial. It had to cost at least six figures. He flipped it over, and it was engraved. It read: To baby girl, my Luck…from me….
Whoever had bought this gift wanted to remain a secret.
Another drawer held several sets of diamond earrings, diamond chains from dainty to gaudy, and platinum ring sets. He saw all the trappings of wealth, and then he noticed what every hood nigger or hood bitch did who thought they were clever—the hidden safe in the wall, behind a picture with a stash presumably inside. If all these items were in plain sight, his mind expanded to the possibilities of what was inside the safe.
Again, he hadn’t come there for this, but it is what it is. The default plan was now to come up off this bitches wealth. He wanted it all; to clean her out because he felt she didn’t deserve these things. He tried for nearly two hours—ear to steel, fingers twisting the spinning biometric lock—to open the safe, and although he knew he was almost there—he wasn’t, and he couldn’t risk getting caught. He knew Lucky and Bugsy were laid up in New-York Presbyterian, but there was always Meyer—the loose cannon.
Reluctantly, he had to give up on the safe and refocus. He grabbed one of the three Louis Vuitton garment bags and stuffed it with expensive outfits he knew his wife would kill for. He noticed his heart had accelerated, and he’d started to perspire. It wasn’t a heavy sweat, just enough dampness around his hairline and armpits to quicken his steps. He raced into the kitchen, grabbed several trash bags, and focused on her heels. He loved a woman in stilettos, and Lucky had the sexiest array of five and six-inch pieces of art he had laid his eyes on. Lucky wore a size six shoe—his wife, a size nine, so no Red Bottoms for her. However, his mistress and Lucky were nearly identical; height, weight, shoes. He couldn’t wait to see her naked with only Lucky’s shoes on.
Great care was taken to not take any items in display cases because it would make the theft obvious, and he pulled a small amount of clothing from each section and a few shoeboxes from the numerous stacks. All this thievery didn’t barely make a dent in Lucky’s wardrobe when he stood back, even though he had a designer garment and nine full trash bags worth of merchandise. Several trips had to be made to his car, and on each visit, he told himself that he was done robbing the place; but he wasn’t. Greed kept calling his name. The familiar voice was loud, succinct, and persuasive, telling him that his life needed these upgrades to feel like new money. The thirst for her shit was real; like an addict, he was addicted to Lucky’s drip.
There was a pair of diamond earrings that he felt he had to have. An exquisite, 10-carat pair of platinum VVS diamonds was off-limits because he knew she’d eventually miss something so ornate. However, the temptation was more than he could resist, and the pink diamond earrings were stuffed into his $40 sweatpants pocket. His heart raced, feeling unusually giddy as he continued to rummage through Lucky’s belongings. He was turned on when he stumbled upon three drawers of her lingerie—silk and lace panties, thongs, and bras. The drawers smelled of vanilla, and each item was neatly folded Marie Condo style. His masculine hands rummaged through her nipple pasties, his index finger outlined the opening of her ‘eat me out’ panties, and his thumb clicked on the huge vibrator that was in plain sight. Instinctually he picked up the object, which had weight and girth, and gave it a sniff to see if it had her scent—it didn’t. He shut the drawer after fumbling over her rabbit toy, pussy, and nipple clamps. So Miss Lucky was a little freak, he thought.
The assailant circled back to Lucchese’s room and briefly wondered about her fate. The streets said she was murdered over a kilo of cocaine; some said it was a botched ransom. He looked around at the custom crib set, tasteful cream, pale green, and dusty rose interior colors—and felt a fleeting moment of empathy for the kid. Fate had teased Lucchese West, dangling privilege and wealth before her; to have her born an heir to such lux and snuff her out before she could live to enjoy it was intentionally cruel.
He walked over to a baby hutch and dresser combination decorated with family photos, books, and teddy bears. Three African American dolls were strategically placed in the center—as a message, maybe? One doll’s eyes were covered, the middle had her ears covered, and the last doll covered her mouth. It was clear that Lucky wanted to teach her daughter the rules of the family business early—to sum it up, don’t snitch. You don’t see, hear, or say shit in the drug game.
Before he left Lucchese’s room, something caught his attention. At the very top of the hutch was a large mason jar. He picked it up and felt the weight in the palm of his hand. On its lid, he read: To my big sister on her 16th birthday from your favorite and only sister, Bonnie. The glass jar had sixteen painted messages of love and adoration for Lucky from her now-deceased sister. There was also a picture inside of Lucky with her arm around Bonnie, broad smiles, and deceivingly innocent eyes. It was clear that Bonnie had gone through a lot of thought into making this special gift for Lucky, and it was evident that this jar held sentimental value. It was a love letter to Lucky that he would use. With tremendous and unnecessary force, his arm raised, and in one swift movement, he smashed the jar on the imported marble flooring—pieces scattered like he wanted to do her sanity. He would break her just as he did this glass.
As the sun lowered in the sky, and his thieving had to end, he still wasn’t done shopping. He picked up a Dyson vacuum for his mother, a Viking refrigerator filter for his mother-in-law, a new pack of double-A batteries, a box of T-bone steaks from her freezer, and several Calphalon nonstick pans. It was petty, but it was free. He took her Beats by Dre headphones, an iPad, a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses, and wireless earbuds. He wanted her espresso coffee maker, vintage turntable set, and classic album collection, but it was too risky. He stole things that someone with their cup running over wouldn’t readily miss; he was sure of that. And by the time she did look for something that wasn’t there, she’d think that it’s just misplaced. Her arrogance wouldn’t allow her to assume someone would be bold enough to steal from her home. He wanted it all, not to leave her with a fucking morsel to nibble on.
Except for the conspicuously missing earrings, he had left Lucky’s home without a trace that someone had ever entered. Moving forward, he would come and go as he pleased. Who the fuck was gonna stop him?
Angel was irate when he heard that Lucky had pulled through surgery and was in critical but stable condition in the Intensive Care Unit. The doctors had given Lucky a blood transfusion, and the little bitch was holding onto life by the slimmest of margins. Angel had sacrificed a good soldier for her execution, and he had failed the drug lord. Although he had carried out his order and will undoubtedly keep his mouth shut, he wouldn’t last long in lockup. The Juarez cartel—the soldiers housed in American prisons will do the hit for their boss. Angel had given Emmanuel Vega one job, and he had failed. In his line of business, you don’t get rewarded for failure. If he allowed Emmanuel to live, his subordinates would think it was okay to try being a sicario. Or attempt to move and distribute his kilos.
Angel stood over the infant’s crib that all this fuss was made over. He didn’t know her date of birth; it was still a mystery. Angel wanted to know her born date so he could throw her lavish parties. He wanted to know her zodiac sign to understand why she was fussy or moody. Angel wanted to know all these things because, through DNA testing, he just received the confirmation late last night she was his child. He had suspected when Layla had shown him her pictures, but now it was official, Lucchese Lily West was also a Morales—an heir to his throne.
Angel was a hardened gangster, a killer who murdered without remorse. He could tear a man or woman to shreds with a chainsaw and have lunch a few feet from the carnage, but he felt only love when he looked down at his child. He didn’t understand the connection he felt toward her. Lucchese wasn’t his first child. She wasn’t even his first daughter. And he loved his children by his wife, Dahlia, and would readily give his life for theirs. But they felt more like Dahlia’s children, her responsibility. And his job was as the protector and provider. With Lulu, he was the nurturer, provider, and protector—father and mother; she made him feel needed. And for Lucky to choose her life over Lucchese’s had him baffled. This was her first child, and she had done so much to conceal her pregnancy; it was disturbing how she placed no value on Lulu’s life when challenged to choose.
Angel remembered the conversation he had with his cousin. He looked at Louis and said, “Bring me back a baby’s finger of Lucchese’s age and complexion.”
Louis looked at Angel, confused. “Jefe, where am I to get a baby’s finger of the same age and complexion? That is difficult, is it not?”
Angel was adamant. He yelled, “Either you get me what I just asked for, or I will take your finger instead, cabrón!”
Angel recalled Lucky’s screams as she opened the box with the severed finger, yet she wouldn’t acquiesce. Lucky was a stubborn bitch, so much so that apparently, she was refusing to die until she was ready.
He exhaled, and Lulu’s eyes popped open. As soon as she saw her father, her tiny mouth spread wide into a grin. She had all of her incisors, but her molars hadn’t come in yet. Instantly she reached up for him, and he scooped her up into his arms. Angel showered her with kisses as he held her firmly.
“Buenos dias,” he said. “Lulu say, ‘buenos’ for Papí.” All his children were bilingual, and she would be too.
Lulu smiled and said, “Bu-no-no-no-no,” and puckered her lips for a kiss. “Um-ma!” she said after their lips touched and giggled.
“Say, Papí,” he encouraged again. He desperately wanted to hear his baby girl acknowledge who he was.
“Ma…ma…ma…ma…,” she babbled.
“No, mama!” he corrected. “Mama is locá. Say, Papí.”
Lucchese just nodded and smiled, making her father work for his title.
Angel traveled through the large mansion carrying his now spoiled child, heading toward the kitchen so he could fix her breakfast. He had nannies and servants but rarely used them for her. They were for his other children, and his wife was the overseer.
Lucchese was placed in a highchair, and Angel quickly warmed up organic apples and oats. As it cooled down, he opened a kitchen drawer and pulled out one of the fifteen burner and satellite phones. Angel sat in front of his daughter and said, “Open,” and she did. Lucchese opened her small mouth wide for the spoonful of warm cereal and nodded her delight.
“Good, sí?” Angel asked as she devoured her morning meal. Simultaneously he reached Louis on speed dial. He instructed, “We end this with the Wests while two are down, and their parents are out of the country. Hire no less than a thousand soldiers from Juarez, Sinaloa, and Tijuana. Speak with Félix. He runs a militia group out of Mexico City. Those men are always looking for work. I want every stash, trap, and warehouse obliterated. Bring me back their heroin, cocá, and cash.”
Louis asked, “And what about the young Wests? Do you want me to send men to the hospital and finish what we started?”
Angel thought for a second and then replied, “For now, they live. I will allow them life as beggars to know how it feels to be poor as we were, Louis. Remember when we had no shoes on our feet and ate only rice and beans for nourishment?”
“But that was so long ago, Angel. We were just kids.”
“And I can still recall the hunger pains. Imagine how devastating it will be to fall from grace as an adult.”
It wasn’t Louis’s job to imagine, hope, long for the past, or make decisions. His only job was to keep his boss alive and follow orders. He said, “As you wish,” and hung up.
Dahlia came into the kitchen in her silk robe and heeled slippers. She looked like one of the exotic beauties from a 1960s film: Sophia Loren or Rita Moreno. He knew his wife was only up this early to fuck with him. Lucchese had been in his custody for weeks, and he hadn’t given a definitive answer to why she was there or to whom she belonged. Haphazardly, Angel had said that the infant was the catalyst that had launched his current war but refused to go into more detail.
Dahlia had a sickening feeling in her stomach but didn’t want to believe her lying eyes. She stared at the baby her husband had been doting upon and refused to see his eyes, nose, and mouth. She said, “We have staff to handle her feeding.”
“I know what we have because I pay them,” he said and continued spoon-feeding Lulu.
“Then why don’t you let them feed her pendejo! Who is this baby? Why is she in our home! Is she the heir to a Queen?”—Dahlia twirled her hands above her head, signifying royalty. “Because you’re treating her like Mexican monarchy!”
“Stop it, Dahlia.”
“Is she the child of an enemy?” She walked aggressively toward her husband. “Then kill her already and be done with this!”
Angel stood up and grabbed Dahlia’s forearm, “She won’t ever be touched, do you hear me? Ever!”
His wife yanked her arm from his grasp, her eyes storms of rage. She called, “Rosalina, fix me a large breakfast and bring it to my room. This kitchen needs to be exterminated before I’ll ever eat in here again!”
Their chef, Rosalina, came rushing into the kitchen, adjusting her apron. “Yes, Mrs. Morales. Right away.”
Angel didn’t acknowledge her departure, and Lucchese was unfazed by Dahlia’s outburst. The two were in their own world.
Rewind: Week one after Scott and Layla’s acquittals
The horizontal pull-up bar was mounted on the bathroom’s doorway of the shabby, two-bedroom home he was squatting in. The veins bulged in his neck, his triceps and biceps flexed as he rapidly pulled his body weight up and down. Naked, beads of sweat traveled down his dark chocolate-colored skin, his perspiration a reminder he was putting in work. His firm physique was sculpted through battle wounds and muscles. He was turning his body into a weapon—solid and impenetrable, it would never fail him again. This morning, rage would allow him to surpass his average one hundred reps as he stared at the newspaper clipping he had taped to a wall of Scott and Layla’s acquittal. The couple had beat the gospel of the streets, which said that in the game, you either ended up dead or in jail. Scott and Layla weren’t either.
