Unbeautifully (Undeniable, #2)(23)
“Not this time,” she said. “You been chin-checked. Think of it as a good faith payment.”
“Fuck that!” Cox shouted. “We don’t gotta to listen to some f*ckin’ hood rat—”
“No,” Ripper interrupted before Cox got himself killed. “We’re not interested.”
“You sure about that?” Mama Vi asked sweetly, her dark eyes on him. Appraising. Assessing. Scaring the ever-loving shit out of him. The stories he’d heard about her… Her skills and finely honed specialties were right up there with Frankie’s sick and twisted bullshit.
“I’m sure,” he said, already knowing Deuce wouldn’t play ball with street gangs, no matter how high up on the food chain they were. Most of them were unorganized, their distribution messy, full of snitches and junkies, making it too easy for the law to get the drop on them.
“You’re makin’ a mistake.”
Tap’s jaw clenched. “You threatenin’ us?”
Mama Vi smiled nastily. “I am. You don’t play it our way, Deuce is gonna have a war on his hands.”
Fuck. Deuce was going to be pissed. First, because he was in New York and not able to deal with this bitch himself, and second, for threatening the club. No one threatened the club and got away with it. Deuce was going to want blood. And speaking of wanting blood…
“You want a war, bitch, you f*ckin’ got one. Now, where’s our boy?” he asked.
“White boy, you are makin’ a mistake.”
He pulled his piece mere moments before she pulled hers. Half a second later both Cox and Tap had their guns trained on her, but he wasn’t under the false impression that any of them were safe. The bitch had deadly reflexes and was more than likely armed with an entire arsenal.
“Bitch,” he growled. “First, you’re gonna learn right the f*ck now that no one is gonna threaten my prez, my club, or any of my brothers and get away with it. Second, I ain’t white, I’m motherf*ckin’ tan. Third, you tell me where our f*ckin’ boy is or I’m puttin’ a bullet in your big black ass.”
For several heart-pounding moments, no one moved until Mama Vi tucked her gun back inside her jacket.
“Scarface,” she drawled. “First, if Deuce don’t think Jay can take him down, he’s one sad, sorry mothaf*cker.”
She glanced toward the condos. “Second, your boy’s tied up inside.”
Then her dark gaze turned back to him and she smiled just a little too sweetly. “Third, honey, ain’t no man ever pulled a gun on me and lived happily ever after.”
She leaned in a few inches. “I will hurt you,” she whispered. “Count on it.”
As they stared at each other, it took every ounce of his willpower not to pull the trigger and blow this bitch straight to hell.
“Lookin’ forward to it,” he growled softly.
No one said a word as she walked off.
“Tap,” he barked. “Stay out here in case she comes back.” Glancing at Cox, he jerked his chin in the direction of the condos. “Let’s go, chief.”
“This is f*cked,” Cox muttered, stepping in line beside him.
“Yeah.”
“You think Prez is gonna go to war?”
“Yeah.” Deuce didn’t mess around. It was how the man had gotten where he was today. That and most people were scared shitless of him. Had been for a long time now. Ripper hadn’t been around when Deuce had his old man, Reaper, offed, but the circuit still buzzed about it. Fuckers were still whispering about how Deuce had posted the hit with the explicit instructions to make Reaper’s death as long and as painful as possible.
Ripper couldn’t picture wanting to kill his own father, but then again, his old man had been a good guy. Both his parents had been quality stock. He often wondered where he’d be if he hadn’t lost them at such a young age. Still surfing? Skating? Beach bumming it with his friends and an endless supply of blonde-haired, blue-eyed hotties?
A wave of longing hit him, a homesickness he hadn’t felt in years, and suddenly he found himself thinking about home, eating his mom’s pot roast and apple pie, watching TV with his old man, listening to him bitch and moan about the declining morals of modern society. Both of them constantly complaining that his hair was too long, that skating was too dangerous, but he saw the secret smiles when they’d thought he wasn’t looking. They’d been proud of him.
He was fairly certain if they were still alive, they wouldn’t be proud anymore.
Jesus Christ, what the f*ck was wrong with him lately?
He needed to find a way to turn off this all of a sudden “give a shit” switch that had been turned on inside of him.
“Shit’s gonna get messy,” Cox mused.
“Yeah.”
Reaching door number one, they pulled their pieces, glanced at one another, and Cox kicked open the door. There was Marcus. The dumb as shit, hairy, Italian motherf*cker was tied up in a corner. Dumbass.
“Please,” Marcus said hoarsely. “Please…”
“Please f*ckin’ what?” he yelled, stalking forward. “You lost an entire shipment! To one f*ckin’ woman!”
“The bitch jumped me,” Marcus rasped, struggling against the ropes. “Took everything, took the rest of the shit, took all the cash. Did you know she’s got throwing stars?”