Gods & Gangsters 2 Read online

  Benny figured right then, had he made the wrong decision, he would’ve been a dead man.

  Othello’s slight nod of the head confirmed his mental theory.

  “We about to do big things,” Othello told him.

  Benny didn’t get lucky, but he did find Don, which was not exactly the next best thing, but it was something.

  They pulled up driver’s door to driver’s door in a darkened parking lot. It was late, and the sky was black. Venus was in the passenger’s seat.

  “I got somebody here who wanna meet you,” Benny introduced.

  Don took one look at her and said, “Damn mami, Butter Pecan Rican is my favorite flavor.”

  “I’m Cuban,” Venus corrected

  “Then make it Butter Cuban Rican,” Don joked, “Come holler at a nigga.”

  Venus got out and walked around to the driver’s side of Don’s two-seater Porsche 918 Spyder. In the passenger’s seat was a big black bodyguard. Venus leaned on the door, her pretty, perfectly round titties sitting up like cantaloupes in her cleavage. Don was mesmerized. He never saw her drop the penny-sized GPS tracker down inside the car.

  “Damn baby, unfortunately I ain’t got room for you right now.”

  “There’s always room for me. I could just sit on your lap.”

  “Yeah, and I’d end up killing us all, you’d get me so distracted. Just give your number to Benny and we’ll get together soon,” Don suggested, thinking he was being extra cautious. He was well aware of the tactics niggas might use to get at him. He was no fool, so he wasn’t about to bring the bitch with him so she could set him up.

  But, he had already been set up.

  Othello could have had him gunned down on the spot easily, but he wanted to make a point with the way he killed Don—a point The Commission would never forget.

  “Okay papi, just call my name and I’ll come running.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Venus,” she smiled.

  He chuckled, but his eyes told a different story.

  “Venus huh? Like the flytrap?”

  “Nah,” she lied, smiled and added, “Like the goddess on a mountain top.”

  As Don pulled away, she thought to herself: and goddess of war.

  Mona glanced in her rearview mirror and smiled to herself as she noticed the car following her. It was only a few car lengths back. Amateurs. She wasn’t worried about it. Over the years, she’d gotten used to her father’s overprotective ways. Sometimes she even welcomed them, like the time she’d been seconds away from getting car-jacked, but the jackers got a deadly surprise. Most of the time, she allowed them to think they were being discreet, because it was in her best interest for them to report to Joe Hamlet how good his babygirl was behaving.

  But there were times, times like right now, when she wanted to be alone because she was gearing up to do what Daddy’s Little Girls do when Daddy ain’t around to stop ’em. And as the situation demanded, she already had a plan.

  Mona picked up her phone and speed-dialed Celeste.

  “What?” Celeste answered, with playful aggression.

  “Please bitch, you are not busy, so don’t even stunt.”

  Celeste laughed. “How you know I ain’t about to get my groove on?”

  “You wouldn’t have answered the phone.”

  “Forreal.”

  “I need you.”

  “To make a move?” Celeste asked, using their code word for the strategy.

  “Yep.”

  “Let me guess, Othello?”

  “Bitch stop being nosy and put on a red skirt and white tank top.”

  “Bye, bitch.”

  Several minutes later, Mona pulled up outside Celeste’s apartment and started the switch. It wasn’t all that complicated. She was out of the car and in the foyer as the tail pulled up, side by side with Celeste as they waited out a few minutes. Then Celeste emerged, as if she were Mona, got into her car and pulled off, taking the tail with her. Mona watched them follow Celeste to the corner and away.

  Too easy.

  She got into Celeste’s car and hurried toward her first date with Othello.

  Ironically, she didn’t know it at the time, but she had saved Othello’s life with that little subterfuge, because had they tailed her all the way to the restaurant and seen him, they would’ve pulled the trigger on the spot. Such was the war she'd stumbled into.

  Death was never more than a breath away…

  Mona fancied she was fast becoming a master of disguise.

  By the time she had reached the restaurant, she changed from her skirt and tank top into a purple silk wraparound Donna Karan dress that hugged her shapely frame tastefully, without being crass or sluttish.

  It was a cozy little Italian spot that Mona had never been to.

  Othello had offered to pick her up, but not wanting him to know who her family truly was, or her family to know who he was, she told him that she’d meet him at the restaurant.

  When she walked in, Othello was already there, sitting at a table with his seat facing the door. She didn’t flatter herself into thinking it was so he didn’t miss one sexy stride of her entrance. It was all about not showing your enemies your back. She got that from her old man. Always be watching. She walked in, the ambiance of the restaurant becoming the backdrop for her beauty. Everything else blurred while her radiance stood out in full blaze to Othello’s every sense. He had never met a woman so beautiful, so graceful and oozing so much class all at the same time.

  It was as if she had been born a Queen.

  He was a man on the way up, with sexy women all through the game ready to give him whatever he asked, but this was different. The minute he laid eyes on Mona right up until the day she was killed, she would be the only woman for him.

  Othello stood to greet her.

  “Hello, Mona. Looking beautiful as always,” Othello charmed, kissing her hand.

  Mona smiled that slow sweet smile that was nowhere near as innocent as it pretended, taking him all in. For a big man he moved gracefully. He looked good in his Steve Harvey burgundy suit and cocked Stetson Ace-Deuce hat.

  “Thank you. You don’t look so bad yourself.”

  They sat, they ate, they drank, they laughed.

  It was easy.

  Their conversation flowed smoothly, naturally.

  They had similar interests and perspectives.

  By the end of the night, they were at that finishing each other’s sentences stage, so in tune. It was a new experience for both of them. They ended the night in a small jazz club, slow dragging and enjoying the music.

  “I had a real good time tonight,” Mona told him.

  “Me, too. So, million dollar question, ma, when will I see you again?”

  “When do you want to see me again?”

  “Now, tomorrow and forever,” he said, smoothly.

  “Just three more times?”

  Othello couldn’t help but kiss her. It was the type of kiss that most nights ended in a hotel room, up against the railing of the balcony, and the shadow of the beast with two backs. And Mona was perfectly willing to let it go where it led, but Othello wanted more. He had his queen and he wanted everything about their new relationship to be special, so he broke the kiss, looked into her eyes and said, “Until tomorrow, sweetness. It’s getting late. Let me walk you to your car.”

  Mona wasn’t used to the gentleman in the ‘hood.

  She really liked the feeling.

  It didn’t take long for Othello and Mona’s relationship to grow its wings, taking both of their feelings and emotions to new, dizzying heights. They spent hours on the phone and sneaking away to secret rendezvouses, just the two of them and to hell with the world.

  It was their own heaven, a place between their two worlds.

  And tragically, neither of them were remotely aware of how close the other’s world really was.

  Because in their heaven, Othello was the loving, gentle and considerate man she always wanted, but in
the real world, he was the beast the streets feared.

  The Commission pulled out all the stops, but it didn't matter.

  Othello seemed to have their every moved figured out. Truth was, he did, and it was all because of his own secret weapon.

  Things came to a head when Othello made his move on Don.

  It was always going to happen.

  Written in the stars, like fated lovers or whatever the mortal enemy equivalent was.

  Don, unaware of the GPS under his driver’s seat, laid out a pattern of his most secretive moves for Othello to map. Othello knew where he laid his head, where his baby mothers laid their heads, even where his stash houses were and where his connect would meet him. His whole empire was laid in the palm of Othello’s hand.

  All Othello had to do was make a fist…

  “Tonight, we crush that nigga Don,” Othello began, looking around the room at the inner circle of his trusted souls.

  Mac, Cash, Venus, Milk and Benny sat around, some smoking blunts, some with drinks, all focused on the task at hand.

  “Mac, you take his safe house. Get every fuckin dime,” Mac nodded with a crazy grin.

  Mac kicks in the door of the safe house with his five-man team of stragglers and expendables rushing in behind him. They pound the place. Three dudes inside return fire, killing one of Mac’s goons as soon as his first foot crosses the threshold. It ain't enough to save them. Three more of Mac’s men kick in the backdoor and end the three dudes in a barrage of bullets. Mac looks around at the dead bodies twitching on the floor, tucks his gun away as he steps over them and heads towards the back room. Inside, sitting on a long table are stacks and stacks of money, a money machine ready to count and several kilos of cocaine. Mac smiles.

  Mission accomplished…

  “Cash, you and Benny take a team and go take care of his connect. Murder everything moving,” Cash smiled demonically.

  It’s a birthday party. A child’s birthday party. Ten little kids, boys and girls, jump and play merrily, screeching and hollering, and it’s just fucking beautiful, like the Salma Hayek-esque piece carrying out the cake, six little candles dancing on the sugar icing.

  Miguel, Don’s connect, a man who looks more like a pitbull terrier than a human sits back proudly, enjoying the sheer joy on his daughter’s face.

  This is what he works for.

  Sure, he kills, but this is why he kills. These moments are why he is so ruthless in everything else he does… It is all so he can show his family mercy.

  “Daddy, Daddy! Look at me! I’m a ballerina!” his daughter calls out in heavily-accented English. He’ll have to pay to get that straightened out. He doesn’t want her sounding like a dumb immigrant.

  Miguel watches her spin like an unbalanced top.

  “Hello boys and girls!” A big, pink bunny rabbit calls out happily, as it hops in alongside a big red tiger.

  Miguel sees his daughter’s face light up with glee.

  She loves this type of shit.

  The bunny and the tiger begin to dance around. It isn’t long before the kids join them, living inside their innocent imagination… until reality screams a wake-up call they will never wake up from.

  BBBBBRRRRRRRRAAAAAAPPPPP!

  The bunny and the tiger ain’t cute little fury party guests. They are murderous marauders bearing automatic weapons concealed inside their costumes. They let loose a swarm of bullets, worse than Biblical locusts, that eat through the flesh of any and all in their way.

  Miguel never has a chance to react. He’s frozen. A failure.

  He watches helplessly as his children, nephews, nieces and the children of close friends are torn to shreds like living piñatas, only they aren’t alive as their blood sprays across the yard.

  When death finds him, he thanks God.

  It is a mercy-killing.

  The bunny and the tiger survey their handiwork.

  The only thing moving in the absolute still of the yard are the flames flickering on the short candles, all six, still burning down on the birthday cake with no birthday girl to blow them out and make a wish…

  “Milk and Venus, you two go get his baby mother and daughter,” Othello told them.

  “Kill them, too?” Milk asked, with all the enthusiasm of someone asked to swat a fly.

  “No. Bring them to the rendezvous spot.”

  Milk and Venus, carrying Bibles and wearing dresses fit for church revival, cover their voluptuousness as they ring the doorbell of a brownstone at dusk, all holy roller smiles plastered on their peachy fine faces.

  “Who is it?”

  “Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

  Vanessa opens the door, wearing only a robe wrapped tightly around her.

  “Can I ask, have you made your peace with God and accepted the Lord into your life? Because if you haven’t you are going to hell,” Venus asked and answered. She might have been going for the Oscar, she was that convincing in the role of holy-roller.

  “Look, I got no beef with your God, but he ain’t mine, and I don’t got time to jaw, so why don’t you run along?” Vanessa replies.

  From under the bibles, Milk and Venus pull out twin chrome 9mm pistols.

  “Hell it is, then,” Venus snickers devilishly.

  “Oh Jesus!” Vanessa cries out, praying to the very God she just denied.

  He isn’t listening.

  “I’m going to take the rest of the team and see to Don myself. The next time we see each other, we’ll be in a position to take over this city,” Othello vowed. “Go make some noise.”

  7.

  * * *

  Don sat back in his brand new Porsche, top down, allowing the worries of the city to wisp away in the wind as he raced toward the countryside. There was a metaphor for life in these seconds, rubber burning away on the road, wind battering his face, music pounding out beats only he could hear.

  He lived twenty miles outside of the city, deep in seclusion, isolated. No one knew the exact location. A man like him needed a retreat, a fortress away from the grind of the streets. It was a safe house.

  Or so he thought.

  Don took every precaution. Fuck, he was paranoid when it came to protecting his family from his street life. He took the whole two worlds must never collide idea to heart. He never drove straight home, never took exactly the same route. Some nights he’d go the opposite direction for several miles, switching lanes, taking detours through half a dozen slices of pastoral America, before finally making the turn that would send him in the right direction.

  He was beyond cautious.

  But he still made mistakes, because he was human, and every fucker makes mistakes. It’s the unwritten law. His was not vacuuming his Porsche. The GPS still pulsed out its signal that pinned his whereabouts on Google Maps for all to see, so it really didn’t matter how many twists and turns he took. Big Brother was still watching.

  Don pulled into his sprawling estate, following the driveway as it wound its way up to the six-car garage. He parked and got out.

  He slammed the door behind him.

  First thing hit him—not oil, not garage smells—the whiff of a man’s cologne. It wasn't his smell.

  But just like that, it was gone again, and maybe he hadn’t smelled it after all. Maybe it was his imagination. It wasn’t like his girl would step out on him.

  Had he been in his other life, he would’ve been more alert, but the problem with building your fortress of solitude is that right along with it you build complacency. Those walls of ice will rock you to sleep.

  Don learned this the moment he set foot inside the kitchen.

  Six dudes stood around his kitchen island, eating sandwiches, cooking, drinking and laughing, their guns on the counter as if they didn’t have a care in the world. It took a split second for the scene to register in Don’s mind.

  “What the fuck?” He spazzed, reaching for his gun.

  The men eating just stopped and looked at him.

  None even went for their guns.
r />   That should have triggered a thousand alarms, but he was off his game.

  CLICK!

  He felt the steel against his temple a second before he heard the silky smooth words tell him, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  Don stopped, his hand on the butt of his .45.

  “Okay, you got it. Easy, man. This don’t have to go to Hell,” Don said, compliant, calm, and conciliatory.

  The gunman took his pistol. “I got somebody here who wants to meet you,” he said, pushing Don into the living room.

  When he entered the living room, his world fell away from him, the ground opening up beneath his feet.

  He saw his wife, Angela, sitting on the couch. She looked a mess. Tear stains on her cheeks, skin pink and puffy.

  Across from her, in his own armchair, was the man he had been looking for. The man sat cross-legged, his gun resting on his thigh.

  “I’m Othello. I heard you were looking for me,” he smirked, as if to say: Well, here I am.

  Seeing the terror in his wife’s eyes, impotent rage washed over him.

  “Have a seat. We need to talk. Best we do it like men, eh?” Othello said, keeping his tone light. He didn’t need to waste swagger, the gun on his lap did all that for him.

  Don sat next to his wife.

  He took her hand.

  “The safe’s in the bedroom. There’s money in there. Take it. I won’t stop you. It’s a lot of money. It’s yours, but you better use it to get you to the other side of the world,” Don said, still thinking he had some sort of power in this negotiation.

  Othello chuckled, like he really didn’t have a care in the world and wasn’t about to waste good money running when he’d just made himself at home. He said to one of his goons, “Take the wife up there, open the safe. Bring all that lovely money out here.”

  Don squeezed his wife’s hand. “You’re not taking her anywhere.”

  “Donny, Donny, Donny, I know you’re used to giving the orders, but tonight, you’re the bitch, comprende?” Othello growled, looking Don dead in the eyes. “Now, there’s something you should know about me. I’m a man of my word. If you don’t have that, you got nothin’, right? So, believe me when I tell you, you have my word. You play fair, we’ll play fair. Nothing’s going to happen to her. Nobody will touch her. But we’re going to do this my way. Understood?”