Mafioso--Part 7, page 1
part #7 of Mafioso Series
MAFIOSO
PART 7: And Then There Were None.
NISA SANTIAGO
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 7: And Then There Were None. Copyright © 2022 by Melodrama Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address info@melodramabooks.com
ISBN: 978-1620781296
LCCN: 2022916590
First Edition: April 2023
MAFIOSO – And Then There Were None!
One MAFIOSO
Who’s about that life
Went roaming through his hood
Looking for his wife
But low and behold
Scott found three
Ignited a lifelong beef
A tangled web he weaved
Four MAFIOSOS
All seemingly in love
Three with the same man
So, push came to shove
Four MAFIOSOS
And things get loud
They slap and punch
Because four’s a crowd
Four MAFIOSOS
And Sandy got knocked up
Layla murders Sandy
But Maxine got locked up
Four MAFIOSOS
Now we’re down to two
Sandy is buried
And trial Maxine blew
Two MAFIOSOS
Dem babies make eight
Maxine is now Max
Controlling her enemy’s fate
Eight MAFIOSOS
Until there were five
Max is seeking revenge
She wants no one alive
Five MAFIOSOS
Now here comes the feds
Franklin shows no mercy
Lucky’s presumed dead
Two MAFIOSOS
Maybe two shall survive
Scott, Layla, Bugsy, Meyer
Or is no one left alive?
CHAPTER 1
Layla tossed and turned before sitting up in bed. She removed her face mask and stared down at her husband. Scott slept face-up, a position she hated because it reminded her of a dead body in a casket. He was a sound sleeper, didn’t snore, and always got his full eight hours. As her eyes adjusted in the dark, she wondered why she couldn’t sleep. Something was off—she could feel it. An eerie, ominous feeling had seeped into her psyche, and her heart was beating irregularly.
Was she having a stroke? Whatever this was—she didn’t like it. Layla didn’t bother putting slippers on her bare feet as she walked through her home. Her mother’s intuition was pulling her to her children’s rooms. Of course, her first stop was Meyer. Without knocking, she opened his door and was shocked to see a female’s ass crack. The unknown woman was naked, body draped over her sons, and both were asleep.
Layla made a mental note to curse his ass out in the morning for bringing one of his hood rats to her home. That’s what hotels were used for. In this game, you never let outsiders know where you rest your head. Meyer knew better. Something was going on with her son that was fucking up his brain cells, and since she’s only caught him smoking weed, with no signs of cocaine or intravenous drug use—she was stumped.
Bugsy’s room was next to Meyer’s. She went to push it open, but the lil’ nigga had it locked like he paid bills around this bitch. It took a few minutes to retrieve the key, and she walked in. He, too, slept face-up like his father. His hand gripped a 9mm, clearly implying he still didn’t trust his parents. Layla smiled. He was the smart one. She and her husband were capable of anything—but now all she wanted was peace.
The last room was Lucky’s. Layla twisted the doorknob, and it was unlocked. So why hadn’t she walked in? Layla’s whole body was involuntarily shaking, and a cold chill washed over her. What was she afraid of? Was she not Layla West? Killer. Queenpin. A street legend in her own right. Her name had been circulating for decades; she’s put in work. Layla inhaled the air and held it briefly before taking a long breath. She called “Lucky” in a low whisper before pushing the solid wood door open. And there it was—a perfectly made bed and nothing more.
Lucky was gone.
She repeated, “Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!!” The chant started as a whisper and escalated to full-blown hysteria. Martha looked at the crimson-colored blood pooling around Lucky’s head and lost it.
“My god! What have you done?!” she shrieked, her face awash with tears. “You killed her!”
Her accusations were directed at her thirteen-year-old son, Junior. The smoking pistol still gripped tightly in his teenaged hand. Neither father nor son could take their eyes off the dead female lying face-up on the kitchen floor; her face was frozen. The copper smell of blood permeated their nostrils and lungs before Martha yelped again— “Do something!”—and snapped Franklin out of his daze.
“Both of you, take all your clothes off and leave them in a pile. And then go and take a shower. Don’t come back downstairs until I say so. Understand?”
“What do you mean?” she asked. “You’re not going to call this in?”
Franklin stood to his feet to look his wife squarely in her eyes. She was always cunning, thinking six moves ahead. Martha knew what this was, and, more telling, what he had done to Lucky. The only person who completely walks is her, and she was ready to sacrifice her son. Martha would gamble with their son’s future if it exposed her husband. Her calculating brain had probably deduced that Junior wouldn’t be charged as this was a clear case of self-defense. The trending tagline was, I felt threatened.
Franklin—on the other hand—wouldn’t be as lucky. Since the early nineties, he had been robbing drug dealers and stashing his ill-gotten gains in a shed at his in-laws. And his wife knew all about it. And his numerous affairs.
With Lucky West murdered on their floor, his hands’ prints painted around her throat, the sex tape and baby would open an investigation. The bureau wouldn’t protect him. And if she gave testimony against him, he would lose everything. Martha had that Beautiful Mind brain; the only caveat was that her husband knew this.
Eye to eye, he said, “Let’s focus on Junior. When he’s squared away, we’ll discuss calling authorities—you and I, together. This should fall on the parent, not the child. It’s not his fault. Do you agree?”
She nodded.
Franklin, careful not to step in Lucky’s blood, walked to the sink and grabbed a dish towel. He then took the smoking gun from his son’s grip and wiped his fingerprints. He said, “Junior. Take off all your clothes where you stand.”
“Right here, dad?”
Franklin nodded.
“But mom’s here.”
“Don’t worry about mom. She won’t look.”
Martha and Franklin’s eyes met again as their son began removing articles of clothing. What was he thinking? She wanted to know. What did this should fall on the parent mean? Was he really going to call the cops and confess to murder? That would be interesting.
When Junior was entirely naked, he hurriedly exited the kitchen to his room to shower.
“We have to get our stories straight,” Franklin coached as soon as they were alone. “Junior’s not getting wrapped up in our mess.”
“Our mess?” she spat. “As long as I’ve known you, you’ve never taken full responsibility for your actions. It’s always someone else’s fault for why you do things. If criminals didn’t sell drugs, then you wouldn’t rob them. You’re the good guy, right Franklin?”
Franklin was calm. He said, “Look. It’s been a traumatic afternoon. Emotions are high right now—”
“Ya think?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “Your pregnant, drug-dealing mistress is dead on my kitchen floor, and it’s your fault! Not our goddamn fault. Yours! Am I making myself clear?!”
His head moved in agreement.
She continued, “And I never asked you to steal any of that money over the years or anything else. That was all you!”
Again, Franklin nodded. Martha continued her rant, and mid-sentence, her husband said, “Hold this for a second.”
Instinctively, Martha reached for the pistol he held with the rag; but paused. A huge grin swept across her thinly shaped lips. She was nobody’s fool. Their eyes locked aggressively.
“You tried it,” she accused. “You may get away with your antics when going up against the underworld but remember who used to cheat off whom in university. My mother taught me that if I can’t marry rich and established, then I should marry less intelligent than me but ambitious. I did the latter.”
The smug look on this bitch’s face had pressed all Franklin’s buttons. Martha continued, “What? You thought I was the only one being used? That I was your token white woman to help you get into social circles and climb the success ladder. I used your Black ass too!” She boasted. Her words felt like Lingchi. It’s Chinese torture, a slow death, where you’re sliced with a thousand cuts until you bleed out.
“Look at me, Franklin!” Martha laughed like she was at a dinner party and heard something funny. “I’m a solid three, possibly a four in everybody’s eyes except a Black man. You made me feel like a ten. Do you think I could get a rich white man going against the Gisele’s of the world? I had to get what I could, and that was you!”
If Martha felt like she was venturing into dangerous territory, she didn’t show it. She just kept digging the hole that was sinking their marriage.
“You’re an eight unilaterally. That crossover, Barack Obama eight, and you settled for a three. You snatched up the first white girl you could and never looked back. And I went along for the ride for more than half my life. I have a beautiful home, two luxury vehicles, half your pension, and let’s not forget that blood money is also half mine. I want you out, Franklin! Pack your shit tonight.” Martha’s eyes quickly scanned the rooms, taking inventory of the home she’d finally have for herself. She would even be willing to have Junior live with Franklin once he was settled. A boy needs a man, and father and son are practically twins. Apparently, Franklin had strong African American genes—she saw very little of herself in her son.
Martha’s eyes swept over her open-concept kitchen and landed on Lucky. “And get this bitch off my kitchen floor!”
After hearing all that, Franklin had to quiet the rage that was bubbling inside. She hadn’t said anything he didn’t already know. Yet hearing the truth spoken so casually had raised his blood pressure.
“You want me to leave now…shortly after our son murdered someone. Do you know how selfish and irrational you sound? And let’s not forget while you’re up on your culpability tour—you were screaming, ‘kill her!’ And our son did. So, like I said, our mess.”
“I wanted you to kill her. And since you couldn’t do that, you just killed our marriage. I’m done!”
Franklin lunged at his wife, and she shrieked in horror before she turned to run. But he was too quick, tackling her to the ground. His knee pressed firmly into her back—an arrest maneuver, while he bent her wrists behind her. His total body weight controlled her, and she felt fucked.
“Please don’t hurt me,” she began. “We can work something out. I’m your wife, Franklin! And the mother of your only child.”
He said nothing.
Martha began to whimper. She could no longer separate the man she married from the man he’d become—sadistic, greedy, merciless. Martha could see her husband’s dead mistress from her peripheral and wondered if she was moments away from the same fate.
“Please, no, Franklin. I’m sorry! I’m so-o-o sorry, honey. You know how much I love you. I would never speak of this to anyone, ever. I was jealous of…her! And acting emotionally.”
Franklin was on a mission, which didn’t include listening to her bullshit. He took her fingers and wrapped them around the gun handle and trigger. Once he had enough of her prints on the murder weapon, he stood up, releasing her. Martha gasped for air in an overly dramatic way, flipping on her back, clutching her throat.
Franklin placed the gun in a Ziploc and spat, “We got shit to do.”
The Four Seasons luxury hotel on E. Delaware Place with the doorman, concierge, and valet was an upgrade she could get used to. The three-hour flight—in first class—was just the beginning of what he promised would be an exceptional trip. Elliot, her new beat, had shown her more love in the brief moment they were together than the whole time she’d spent with Meyer.
They’d met when he and his friends drunkenly stumbled into Chaos, where she was dancing, and when she finished her set on stage, he’d instantly sobered up. Their eyes locked, and Lollipop sauntered over and asked if he wanted a private dance in the Champagne room.
“How much for your time?” he asked.
Her eyes rolled — “Goodbye!”— and she spun around.
Elliot stepped forward and gripped her forearm. The nasty look she shot over her shoulder told him that was a bad idea. Releasing his grip, he explained, “I meant to talk. I know you’re working…and this is a strip club.” He smiled sheepishly. “By the way, I’m Elliot. Elliot McDonald.”
Lollipop’s night was almost over, having worked an eight-hour stretch, but she charged the stranger $700 for a two-hour cap. He impressed her when he pulled out ten large and said, “Let’s go.”
The two walked the city, stopping in eateries for tapas or drinks, window shopping on 5th avenue, and then strolling through Central Park. That was four months ago, and they were seemingly inseparable.
Now they were here. Elliot had flown her into The Windy City to meet his parents; she was sure he would propose this weekend.
Riley, her government, was the only name she now answered to. With Elliot’s encouragement, she quit stripping and was opening a shoe boutique. He helped her with all the paperwork, branding, and incorporation while covering all her bills for the past couple of months. His entrance into her life had prompted Meyer’s exit. Riley sent Meyer to voicemail, didn’t return his missed calls, and deleted countless messages. Yes, she missed her dude, but Elliot had made offers she couldn’t refuse.
Truth be told, Riley wasn’t in love with Elliot. She could have easily changed her cell number, but that would make things final. Her heart still belonged to Meyer, but she’d say yes if Elliot proposed this weekend. She had to. Riley needed to move on, and Meyer made it clear that she wasn’t good enough for him. He wanted classy when she was sassy; he wanted a good girl, and she was a bad gal; Meyer wanted a fling, which she wanted forever.
“So. How do I look?” she asked. Riley had squeezed into a lemonade-colored Marchesa dress with black Manolo Blahniks and a matching clutch. She had a shape women nowadays bought—that homegrown cornbread and collard green curves. Of course, she got it from her mama, but she maintained it in the gym four times a week.
Elliot’s grin was broad. He whistled, then said, “You lookin’ too cute, Riley. I don’t know if I should let you meet the homies.”
“You so silly,” she grinned.
Elliot slapped her on her phat ass before enveloping her from behind. He inhaled her perfume and then planted a couple of wet kisses on her neck.
He said, “You ready?”
Riley glanced into the mirror and replied, “I am.”
The weekend was planned. Tonight, Riley would meet his childhood friends for dinner. Elliot would take her to his parent’s home tomorrow for brunch and sightseeing. And finally, dinner at the Four Seasons with friends and family on Sunday, where she suspected he would propose.
The two slid into the back seat of the car service the concierge had called for them, and Elliot gave the address to Momma Luigi’s. Riley rambled on about her new business, her excitement over meeting his peoples, and how nervous she was to meet his parents.
All he kept repeating was that they would love her. After nearly half an hour on the highway, she asked, “Where are we going? West Bublefuck?”
“No. It’s not that much farther.”
“They should have just come to us. There are a million places to eat by the hotel.”
Elliot nodded. “I know. But I wanted this trip to be special. The place we’re going is where my friends and I always went after each football game we played in high school, and the food is so good.”
Riley shrugged.
The Italian restaurant didn’t look like much and wasn’t in the greatest part of town. It looked mom-and-pop-ish, but Riley tried not to judge. She was a little miffed that she’d wasted this dress and heels just to come here when jeans and a sexy shirt would have worked.
When they walked in, his friends were already seated; both stood to greet Riley.
“Hi, I’m Malcolm.”
She nodded. “Riley.”
Malcolm looked to be in his late fifties but said he was thirty-two. To Riley, he had that older man trying to hold onto their youth vibe. Malcolm wore an Adidas sweat suit with matching sneakers, an expensive watch, and a chain. She would bet her life that his hair was dyed a store-bought black, and he had the man-weave fade you could now get at any local barbershop—dyed mustache and beard completed his look. Malcolm looked old enough to be her daddy’s daddy. Perhaps he had a hard childhood, most likely harder than most if it aged him. Malcolm’s features were straight from the Motherland and not in a good way. His eyes and smile felt disconnected, as if the windows to his soul had betrayed what he was trying to convey.
