The Cocaine Princess Part 4 (Cocaine Princess Series #4)

The Cocaine Princess Part 4 (Cocaine Princess Series #4)

by Rio


Chapter 1


Alexus felt her heart slamming against her ribcage. She was so nervous that her hands were shaking. As she strolled up the long hallway beside Blake, dressed in a white-sequined Dolce & Gabbana mini-dress with matching 5-inch Christian Louboutin heels under a full-length ninety thousand-dollar white fur coat, she took a couple of deep breaths and tried to settle her nerves.

They were inside the United Center, surrounded by bodyguards. Lil Mike and Young-D walked behind them. Although Alexus was still distraught over Blake’s infidelity, she was forcing herself to remain calm and appear emotionless. ‘Sure,’ she kept telling herself, ‘he cheated, but criticizing him about it won’t make things any better.’ She had a trick for his ass, though. Just thinking about it made her smile.

“Fuck is you smilin’ ‘bout?” Blake asked.

“Nothing,” she smiled sweetly.

“You’ smilin’ ‘bout somethin’. Don’t nobody smile without a reason.”

Alexus’ smile widened. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

After the shooting, she had met up with Blake at a Laundromat on Roosevelt Road and brought him a new set of clothes—he had pistol-slapped somebody and gotten blood on his Coogi outfit. She selected a white leather Gucci jacket with a skullcap, belt, and sneakers by the same designer, white True Religion jeans, and a matching T-shirt. Looking him up and down, Alexus silently cursed herself for choosing such a gaudy ensemble for him to wear. He looked good; especially with those diamonds. She thought about all the gold-digging bitches that were crammed into the sold-out stadium, and her smile vanished.

As they drew closer to a pair of big wooden doors marked Conference Room A, Alexus grabbed Blake’s elbow and squeezed it as tightly as she could. He stopped and looked over at her.

“Listen,” Alexus said through clenched teeth. “There’s gonna be a ton of groupies in there after the show. You can look at them all you want, but if you even attempt to lay a single cell on any ass that ain’t mine, I’m…” She paused, took in a deep breath, and exhaled. “Just keep your hands to yourself. I hope that’s not too much to ask.”

“Baby, I’m not on that. I told you it’ll never happen again.” Blake leaned toward her, pressed his lips against hers. “I love you, girl. Stop trippin’.” He kissed her again, this time adding a bit of tongue.

Then Big Mark, Alexus’ head of security, opened the wooden doors, and they entered the conference room.



A dense cloud of Kush smoke hung over the room. Baby and Lil’ Wayne were seated at one table with Drake, Nicki Minaj, and Rihanna. At another table, Rick Ross was chilling with his MMG team, as well as T.I., Young Jeezy, and Jeremih. In the back of the room, about twenty beautiful girls with small waists and big butts were practicing dance moves.

T.I. was the first to shake Blake’s hand. “The King of the Midwest himself,” he said. “We finally meet, pahtna. Heard you the man out here.”

“Somethin’ like that. Shit, we got them brick for the low, too, nigga,” Blake said, flicking his eyes around the room. “Come through and f*ck wit’ me.”

Alexus was overwhelmed with excitement as she started getting hugs from all the rappers. She was listening to Blake discuss cocaine prices with Baby, Rick Ross, and T.I. when her iPhone buzzed inside her coat pocket. The vibration indicated an incoming text message, so she slipped her hand into the pocket, intent to compose a hasty reply. However, Nicki Minaj darted over and embraced Alexus before she could even touch the phone.

“Oh, no, I am not looking at the Alexus Costilla,” Nicki cooed, pulling back to give Alexus a quick bottom-to-top glance over. “My twin Barbie! You know, people are always saying we look like twins, and now I see what they mean. It feels like I’m looking into a mirror.”

“Thanks.” All Alexus could do was smile. She had a million questions for both Nicki and Rihanna, but the words were caught in her throat.

They moved to the right corner of the room where another group of rappers—Bun B, 8Ball, and MJG—were seated; the three of them talked about how hip-hop legend Heavy D had killed it at the BET Hip Hop Awards.

The nervousness Alexus had been feeling before she entered the large room gradually faded as she began conversing with Rihanna and Nicki Minaj. She pulled out her phone while they were chatting. “Let’s take pictures,” she suggested.

So, they did. She took off her coat, handed MJG her phone, and had him take a bunch of pictures of them. It did not take long for Blake to stroll over and add his iced out frame to the photos.

“I gotta be luckiest nigga in the world,” he said as he wedged himself between Rihanna and Nicki.

Facing Blake, Alexus squatted down and looked back at her phone. MJG snapped the picture. Then everyone came together for a group photo.

Weezy took Blake over to his table where a laptop computer was set up, and for the next fifteen minutes or so, he played beat after beat until Blake found one he knew would go well with a song he had written titled “Lime-Green Bugatti.”

“This beat gon’ run you a hundred thousand,” Lil Wayne said.

“I got it,” Blake said.

“A’ight.” Lil Wayne looked at his watch. “It’s eight twenty-five. Show starts in thirty-five minutes. Think you’ll be ready by then?”

Blake nodded his head. “I want you to get on the remix: You, Ross, and Yo Gotti.”

“I gotchoo,” Weezy replied.





Chapter 2

There were nearly twenty-two thousand people packed into the stadium. Every single one of the massive monitors suspended above the stage had the same large, lime-green, blinking name stretched across their screens—“Blake.” The crowd was chanting his name.

“Got-damn… That’s a whole lot of muhf*ckin people out there.” Blake said as he peeked out from behind the stage curtain. “Ain’t no way in hell all of them know who I am.”

Alexus was standing next to Blake. She placed her hand on his shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t be silly. Your songs have already gotten close to forty million views on YouTube. Those people want to hear you. They paid to hear you. Now get out there and give them what they paid for.”

“We can do dis shit, bruh,” Young-D encouraged confidently.

A Kush-filled Swisher Sweets Cigarillo was burning slowly between Blake’s thumb and forefinger, sending curlicues of smoke twirling up into the air. Somebody shouted that he had ten seconds until show-time. He raised the blunt to his mouth and took one last pull. Then, gripping a microphone in one hand, he dropped the blunt, extinguished it with the heel of his Gucci sneaker and stepped out onto the stage.



“Born and raised Indian Boy

Got bricks o’dat Indiana girl and Indiana boy

Lime-green Bugatti, that’s my Indiana toy

AK-47’s make a lotta Indiana noise

King o’the Midwest, gon’ head and ask ‘round

From my town, to Nap-town, to Chit-own

I got pounds o’dat loud for the low

But if you want that otha smoke I’ll give you what cha ask fo’…”

The crowd was going ape shit. A dozen pairs of panties flew through the air and landed at Blake’s feet. He swaggered from the left side of the stage to the right side, pouring out his heart and soul through his lyrics. He and Young-D spit the chorus together. When Young-D started in on his verse, Blake took off the Gucci jacket and True Religion tee shirt and showed off his bulging muscles to the screaming ladies. He was immediately rewarded with a second barrage of panties.

Standing there in his bullet-proof vest, with $20,000 stuffed in each pocket of his baggy jeans and $7 million in platinum and diamonds shinning brilliantly on his neck, wrists, earlobes, and pinky fingers, Blake did not just feel like he was the shit. He knew it.

As the song ended, he took the bundles of cash out of his pockets, removed the rubber bands, and showered the crowd with hundred-dollar bills.

“Money Bags Management comin’ soon. My album “Bulletface” comin’ soon. Make sure y’all cop that muhf*cka,” Blake said.

Then he left the stage, feeling like five-hundred million bucks.



There were tears in Alexus’ eyes when Blake made it backstage to her. “Oh, my God, you are not going to believe it!” She said, waving her iPhone in his face. “I just talked to my mom. Brick House of Jupiter Island pulled in over forty-two million viewers!”

“Is that big for a TV show?” Blake asked as he nodded at T.I., who was on his way to the stage.

“Hell yeah, it’s big! That makes it the twelfth most watched television program of all time.

“So what the hell is you cryin’ for?”

“Because…Watching you shut it down out there… and then the news about Brick House—it’s a little overwhelming.”

Blake wrapped his arms around the waist of Alexus’ fur coat and kissed her softly. “Calm yo’ ass down baby.” He glanced around and saw Lil Mike and Young-D leaning back against a wooden fold-out table with a clique of bad bitches standing in front of them. He recognized one of the girls without even seeing her face; the short gray fur coat and tight black leather pants revealed her identity.

Clamping her hand on Blake’s chin, Alexus turned his face to hers, “I’m right here,” she hissed. “There’s no need for you to be looking over there at those gold-diggers.”

“That’s ol’ girl from your reality show,” Blake said.

“I don’t give a damn who she is. Just keep your eyes on me.” Alexus sucked her teeth crankily and crossed her arms over her chest. “Am I not enough woman for you? Seriously, I mean, it’s supposed to be me and you against the world. I can understand if you want a threesome with another woman every now and then, but the sneaking around behind my back has got to stop.”

Blake’s iPhone was on vibrate and it was buzzing away nonstop on his hip. His reply to Alexus was nearly drowned out by the music as T.I. began performing “Flexin”.

“I promise,” Blake said as he eased forward and kissed her again. “I’ll keep my dick in my pants from now on, okay?” Another kiss ensued. “Now let’s slide off into one of these restrooms and get it in real quick.”

Alexus smiled. “Alright. We can’t be long, though. I’m hitting the stage with Nicki for “Superbass,” and then you have to go out there with Ross and Meek for “I’mma Boss.””

Blake followed Alexus to a dressing room that had originally been designated for him. It was right next to Rihanna’s dressing room. Alexus shut the door on her bodyguards and draped her coat over the back of the chair. As she was taking a container of baby wipes out of her croc skin purse, Blake thought about asking her why women carried around wet wipes. He cancelled out the question before the obvious answer came to him. What if she asked who the other women were? What then?

Out of the blue, Alexus threw the flattish container at his head and cracked him an inch above his right brow. “Clean off your nasty little dick,” she said.

Grinding his teeth together, he crouched and picked up the container. “That’s what we on?” He locked the door, keeping an eye on his scornful bride-to-be. “You on your period or something?”

“I’d sit on your face if I was.”

“You got me f*cked up.” Blake stripped down to his boxers and socks and started rubbing a wet wipe back and forth along the length of his long black shaft.

Awestruck, Alexus could not stop her mouth from watering as she swept her green eyes up and down Blake’s powerful, dark body. All the weeks he spend exercising in the gym at her Matamoros mega-mansion had paid off. His physique was Herculean: hard, chiseled, and packed with muscles. His hair was cut low, with an impeccable line-up that accentuated his handsome black face. The four diamond necklaces he wore gave him the look of an ancient Egyptian king.

“You’re kind of like King Aahmes the First,” Alexus murmured, hiking up her mini-dress and pushing down her panties. “And I guess I’m Nefertari, the most respected figure of Egyptian history.”

“Don’t start with that black history shit. Come over here and get this dick.” Blake was stroking his erection with a hungry look in his eyes.

Alexus’ smile returned as she stepped out of her panties, tossed them atop her coat, and strolled slowly over to him, moistening her lips with her tongue. She turned her back to him and bent over. He grabbed her waist, guided his dick into her wet *, and f*cked her senseless until someone knocked on the dressing room door about ten minutes later.

“Nicki Minaj is about ready to perform,” said an unknown man. “They need you out here, Ms. Costilla.”

“Fuck,” Alexus said, pulling away from Blake and snatching up her panties. “I’ll be right out,” she half-yelled.

“Aww, hell naw,” Blake said with a brief chuckle. “Baby, you just gon’ leave me like this? What if I get blue balls?”

“You’d deserve it.” After swiping a wet wipe across her *, Alexus put her panties back on. “We’re all heading to The Wit after the show, anyway. I got us a penthouse suite. All he rappers will be across the hall from us. We can party with them for a while, then go right to our suite and get busy.”

“I hope you know you owe me for this.”

“I’ll pay whatever it is I owe,” Alexus wisecracked.



“Ain’t this about a bitch,” Blake muttered to himself the moment Alexus departed from the dressing room.

He pulled his pants on, stepped into his sneakers, then sat down on a cushioned bench in front of a row of lockers and scanned through the missed calls on his iPhone.

Janautica had called him twelve times already. He also missed three calls from Lakita, one from his mother Carolyn, and one from his daughter. He called Savaria first. She answered on the first ring.

“Hey, Daddy.” Her small, pretty brown face filled his phone screen. She was beaming. “Did you get my phone call? ‘Cause I called you, Daddy, and you didn’t answer the phone when I called you.”

“I was busy, baby girl. You okay?”

“Is you comin’ home before I go to sleep?”

“Nuh-uh. I’ll be there to pick up you and your brother first thing in the morning, though. We’re going to Disney World for the whole weekend.” He knew she’d like that.

“For real, Daddy? Is, um, Minnie Mouse gonna be there?”

“I believe so. You want me to call and ask her?”

Savaria bunched her eyebrows together. “You don’t got her phone number, Daddy. You can’t call her.”

“I might not have her number, but Goofy’s my nigga. He lives with her. I can call and tell him to make sure she’s there.”

Savaria hesitated. “No…you don’t have to do that, Daddy. Her might has a cold or something. If her not there, I’ll just ask somebody is her okay.”

“A’ight, baby, go to bed so you can be rested up and ready for tomorrow.”

“I’m already in bed.”

“You know what I mean. Go to sleep.”

“I love you, Daddy,” Savaria said, giggling groggily.

“I love you, too. Goodnight.

He ended the call and was just about to call Carolyn when a light knock came from the dressing room door.

“Blake? Are you in there?”

It was an exotic-sounding female’s voice.

‘Is that Rihanna?’ Blake asked himself.

“Yeah, I’m in here,” he said. “The door’s unlocked. Come on in.”





Chapter 3

Nat Turner was five feet, six inches tall, dark-skinned, with a neatly trimmed mustache and a sparse crop of hair on his chin. His demeanor was fearless and commanding, respectable and spiritual. At thirty-one, he was thirteen years younger than Rita Mae Bishop, who was sitting across the table from him.

He watched her eat a chicken salad while he devoured an appetizing Angus beef burger. She donned a fuchsia colored one-shoulder Gucci dress with a matching wide brim hat and snake skin Prada heels. The dress squeezed her thick figure in a snug embrace. The burn scars on the side of her head were mostly hidden by the long black hair of an expensive wig.

By contrast, Nat was short and robust. The black three-piece Niemann Elements suit he wore did not disguise his pronounced beer belly. But it had not been his physical attributes that attracted Rita Mae to him four months ago. Her interest had been piqued by Nat’s extensive knowledge of Black history, and his seemingly inherent way of teaching it to everyone he knew.

They were dining at Great-Aunt Micki’s, an upscale restaurant in downtown Chicago. The atmosphere was affluent. The private room they were in was red all over. “This place is beautiful, isn’t it?” Rita said.

“Not as beautiful as you are.”

Rita Mae lifted her eyes to her companion. “How did I know you were going to say something like that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you’re a psychic. Or maybe we’ve grown as close as George Jackson and Angela Davis were before those San Quentin pigs murdered him back in August of seventy-one.” Nat shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever the case may be, we’re close enough for you to read my mind. I think that says a lot about our relationship.”

“Yeah?” She eased back in her seat, eying him.

“Absolutely. It shows how compatible we are. Just think, if we were married, you’d be able to read your husband’s thoughts. Would that not be interesting? And the great thing about it is I would sign a prenup stating that I get nothing if we ever split.”

This was Nat’s seventh or eighth time broaching the subject of marriage, and Rita truly wanted to take him up on his offer. She knew deep down in her heart that his intentions were pure and genuine, that he wanted her for the strong, black woman she was and not for the fifty-billion dollar corporation she presided over. The only reason she had yet to take their relationship to the next level was because she feared for his safety. She wasn’t sure how Papi would take the news. She didn’t want Nat getting hurt.

“Speaking of George Jackson and Angela Davis,” she said, switching gears, I finally got a chance to finish reading Soledad Brothers last night. That man was a literary genius.”

“A revolutionary genius. He’d be the leader of the Occupy Wall Street movement if he were alive today. Wait until you read his second book, Blood In My Eye. It is going to blow you away.”

Rita pushed aside the plate and reached for her glass of red wine. She swished the first mouthful around before gulping it down. “I wish my daughter would pick up an Assata Shakur or George Jackson book. All she reads are those urban novels. I think that’s why she’s so into Blake; he pretty much embodies that whole street element.”

“There is nothing wrong with reading urban novels. A lot of those stories capture the essence of Black America. I mean, take Mario Bardlett’s Sweet Licks novel for example. Every week, over four million people tune in to watch that show. In fact, it’s not only one of the highest rated shows on MTN; it’s one of the highest rated shows on television period. And it all began with one well-written urban novel that he utilized to express his vision to the world. So what if he’s a bit long-winded when it comes to drugs and sex. That’s what he grew up around, you know? A Tyler Perry-like environment is about as real to him as Santa Claus is to us.”

“Still… I just don’t think it’s right to jot down wicked tales and publish them, but I see what you mean. It’s essentially a different facet of America, one that I’ve never really experienced.”

”Exactly. Only God can judge him. All he and other urban authors are doing is shedding light on the darkness of our ghetto streets in their own little ways. Personally, I admire their creative imaginations. Donald Goines, Eric Jerome Dickey, Mario Bardlett, K’Wan, Teri woods, Iceberg Slim—they’re some of my favorite writers of all time.”

Rita sipped her drink. “I suppose you’re right.” She paused for a couple of seconds. “Can you believe that Alexus actually had five-hundred million dollars transferred to Blake’s account earlier today?”

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

Nat was speechless.

“I’m just as astonished as you are,” Rita said. “That is entirely too much money to give to anybody, let alone a wild young thug like Blake. In my opinion, he’s far too immature to handle that kind of money. He’s going to blow right through it. Mark my words.”

“Don’t be so hard on him Rita. These kids nowadays are a heck of a lot smarter than we give them credit for. Mark Zuckerberg is only, what, twenty-seven? Facebook made him fifty billion dollars, but you don’t see him squandering away his wealth, do you?”

“Zuckerberg is a Harvard graduate. You cannot compare him to my son-in-law. Blake doesn’t even have a high school diploma.”

“You’re also a Harvard graduate, Rita, and Blake is your son-in-law. It is your responsibility to teach him whatever it is he needs to know. Show him how to manage that money. Teach him to be an entrepreneur. If you don’t show him the way, then who will?”

Rita Mae Bishop listened to Nat Turner’s prudent advice for another thirty minutes or so. She liked listening to him. He seemed to have an answer for every challenge. His soothing baritone drifted effortlessly from one subject to the next. With his precise diction and Colgate smile, it was no wonder why he was MTN News’ most famous and highest paid anchorman.

After a quick dessert, four bodyguards escorted them outside to Rita’s car, a black Mercedes Maybach 62 with pitch black windows. A uniformed chauffeur was standing beside its already open rear door. Rita stopped to take pictures with a group of Michigan Avenue pedestrians, and then she and Nat got in the backseat. She shrugged out of her pale-gray chinchilla coat while the bodyguards climbed into the black suburban that was parked behind her car.

“We have to come here again,” Rita said.

“There’s no place like Great-Aunt Micki’s. I’ve been eating here for years. My mom says the food reminds her of Virginia,” Nat replied.

“Oh, that’s right, you are from Virginia. I don’t know why I keep forgetting that.”

He nodded his head. “Southampton County kid, born and raised,” he said, and then got quiet as the chauffeur started the car and drove off. Rita grabbed his hand and interlaced her fingers with his. A contented smile spread across his face. “Mind if I tell you about this recurring dream of mine?” he asked.

“Go right ahead. I’m all ears.” She looked over at him.

“Well… There are always these black and brown spirits wrestling in the sky. Then the sun goes dark, and blood pours down from the heavens.”

“What do you think it means?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve been praying about it, asking, God to—”

An Aretha Franklin ringtone suddenly bellowed from Rita’s iPhone. “I have to get this,” she said apologetically. “It’s my daughter.”

She answered the call.

“I’ll never in my life listen to another Rihanna song,” Alexus said. She was sobbing uncontrollably.

“What’s wrong, Lexi?”

“I just caught Blake cheating on me! Oh, my God, I am so done with him. The wedding’s off, mom. This relationship is over.”





Chapter 4

The days crawled by. Alexus spent most of her time taking care of King Neal at the Matamoros mega-mansion. She ended up sending her best friend, Tasia, to pick him up after the concert while she herself had boarded her Gulfstream VI and waited at O’Hare Airport for Tasia to arrive with the baby. Then they had flown straight to Matamoros, Mexico and they’d been there ever since.

At first, Alexus had been deeply wounded by Blake’s betrayal. She’d left the stage with Nicki and headed back to Blake’s dressing room, only to find him pounding his dick in and out of another woman. He had tried to apologize, but an apology was the last thing Alexus wanted to hear. She turned around and rushed out of the stadium in a fit of tears, feeling as if her heart had just been ripped from her chest and stomped on. Images of her tear-streaked face landed on TMZ the following day, which only served to intensify her pain. She changed her phone number due to Blake’s nonstop calls. When he showed up at the estate four days later, she had her security personnel turn him away.

Then her pain turned into a boiling hatred. Barely two weeks after the dressing room incident, a video of Blake throwing $250,000 in singles at a trio of strippers at an Atlanta strip club popped up on YouTube and went viral. The next day Entertainment Weekly reported that Blake had just purchased a twenty-million dollar mansion in Miami, a two-million dollar condo in Indianapolis, and a twenty-million dollar private jet—all in the same day. He was then spotted at the Grand Wailea Resort in Maui, Hawaii, with two women who were seen “kissing all over him” be several eyewitnesses. The latter transgression inevitably resulted in countless news stories concerning Alexus and Blake’s obvious break-up; stories that blazed through the media like a California wildfire.

Another news story that was receiving a lot of attention from the media was “The Whitney Murders.”

While Alexus and Blake had been enjoying themselves at the concert, eight women, all of whom were named Whitney, were shot to death in Blake’s hometown of Michigan City, Indiana. Alexus had ordered the hits after Blake confessed to cheating on her with a chick named Whitney. Now she regretted doing it. She believed that the killings might have somehow fueled Blake’s recent escapades, and although she hated him for all the pain he put her through, deep down she longed for his presence, his voice, his touch.

“You haven’t gotten over him yet, have you?”

Alexus raised her head. Her cousin, Pedro had come into the living room without her hearing him. “I’m fine,” she said with a gloomy smile.

“No you’re not.” He lowered his chubby body into one of the easy chairs. “I know you’re upset, Lexi. I’ve been around you all your life.”

“I’ll be okay, Pedro. It’s just bothering me that I…”

“You miss being with Blake.”

“Of course I miss him. Every second of every day I miss him. He was supposed to be my husband. I gave that bastard a half a billion dollars, and this is how he repays me?” She sighed and then glanced over at the baby. He was wide awake in his custom-made Versace car seat, smiling around his pacifier, opening and closing his hands on his chest. “I’m too young to be a single parent, Pedro,” she muttered faintly. “I’m a nineteen year-old multibillionaire. I should be in college somewhere, studying global economics and hanging out with a well-educated sorority, not changing diapers and fixing bottles and waking up in the middle of the night to rock a baby to sleep.”

“I agree with part of that; you are too young to be a mother, especially a single mother. But you have to get it out of your mind that college is a necessity. By reading studiously, taking notes, expanding your vocabulary, and testing yourself, you will be able to absorb more knowledge than a lot of college graduates. Colleges are merely slave schools. They teach you how to slave for some billion-dollar company who slaves for the government, and if you’re intelligent enough, you just might be able to start your own company and slave for the government yourself. You don’t need to do any of that. You already own one of the most popular television networks in the world; Niemann Elements accounted for thirty-nine percent of third quarter clothing sales in the UK alone; the Costilla’s restaurants are doing great; Urban Housing Development is doing alright.”

“Okay, okay, I get what you’re saying.” An iPad computer tablet was resting on her lap. She was doing some on-line shopping.

“I don’t think you do,” Pedro said, loosening his tie. “You are the richest woman on this planet. Sure you’ve just had your heart broken, but you can’t let it kill you. Learn from it and move on. There are literally millions of men who are dying to get to know you. Get out there, meet some new people. You can even make your own little “I Love New York” kind of reality show if you want to.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Alexus looked up at the hundred-inch television and watched about two minutes of “12 Corazones” on Telemundo while Pedro did something on his smartphone. She had on her comfortable pink Hello Kitty sweatpants, with white anklet pom-pom socks and a sleeveless white tank. Her long raven hair was pulled back in a modest ponytail.

“I think Papi might have done something to Savio,” Pedro said.

Alexus’ heart dropped. A grim astonishment locked her face.

“Don’t be silly, Pedro. You know how Savio is. He’s probably somewhere in El Salvador with that girl he’s been dating.”

“It’s not like him to just disappear without contacting the family. He would have at least told Santiago where he was going. Last time any of us saw Savio was at your place, right after you kicked my sister’s ass.”

“She started that fight.”

“I’m not talking about the fight, Alexus. Our cousin has gone missing. No one’s seen him in weeks. I think that takes precedence over everything else.” A note of seriousness intensified his voice. He moved forward to the edge of his seat and stared at Alexus. “Savio didn’t leave with us that day. He stayed at your mansion in Indiana with Papi.”

Alexus shrugged her shoulders. “I left for Chicago tight after you guys left. If I knew where Savio was, I’d tell you.”

A few seconds later, Tasia waltzed into the living room with Bookie, his friend Craig—and T-Walk.





Chapter 5

Blake’s 16,800 square-foot Mediterranean-style Miami estate was the home of his dreams. It had set him back $19.8 million, and for the price he got nine bedrooms, twelve bathrooms, four fireplaces, two kitchens, a gym, a steam room, and a private theater. The backyard boasted rolling lawns, a hotel like pool with a spa, a waterfall, and outside cabanas. The circular tan-brick driveway in front of the lavish mansion had room for fifteen cars.

“You can’t tell me that this ain’t the life,” Blake said, raising a Swisher Sweets cigar full of Purple Kush to his mouth. He was standing next to the pool with Young-D, peering through the dark lenses of the gold-framed Louis Vuitton sunglasses at Janautica, Princess, Lakita and two strippers he picked up at an Indianapolis strip club as they tossed around a beach ball in the pool.

“All real niggas should live like this,” Young-D said. He was rocking a white diamond necklace with an eighty-thousand dollar diamond-encrusted MBM (Money Bags Management) pendant over a Pacers jersey, Evizu jeans, and Air Force Ones. He paid for his own gear with part of the five-million dollar check Blake had given him two weeks ago.

Blake donned his bullet-proof vest, a black wife beater, black-and-red Red Monkey jeans, and black and red Jordan’s. He held an AK-47 with a 100-round drum in his left hand, its perilous barrel pointing at the ground. He had all of his jewelry on; the clunky diamonds sparkled in the midday sunlight. The left canted Bulls cap he wore matched his outfit.

“Man, bruh,” Young-D laughed, “I can’t believe Alexus had dem hoes murked just ‘cause you said the name Whitney when she asked who you was f*ckin’. That’s crazy as hell. I couldn’t f*ck wit’ no bitch like that, bruh. She nuts f’real.”

“Nigga, you don’t know the half of it. Them Mexican muhf*ckas ain’t got no sympathy for human life.”

“And we do?”

Blake grinned behind a cloud of smoke. “That’s different,” he said, flicking his eyes over to Lakita, who had just climbed out of the pool. As she began drying off, he gawked at her leopard-print bikini bottom and all the ass it embraced. “Oh, my God,” he whispered, taking a corner of his full lower lip between, his teeth.

Lakita had been staying with Blake ever since the morning after the concert; so had Janautica. Blake felt it was his personal responsibility to take care of the two women who saved him from spending the rest of his life in prison. He brought them along with him and Savaria to Disney World, which worked out well, because Lakita’s daughter was the same age as Savaria. Now the two little girls were inseparable.

Another plus to having Lakita around was that she had established friendships with a long list of Chicago’s most prominent hustlers while dancing at Redbone’s, the new strip club on the corner of 16th and Trumbull that Blake convinced her to work at. One hustler in particular, a lame-ass nigga nicknamed Tongue, told Lakita everything there was to know about the kidnappings of Ashley Joy and Savaria King, and of course Lakita repeated every juicy detail to Blake. He rewarded her with a brand new, yellow Lamborghini Gallardo, a yellow pave diamond Tiffany bracelet, and an appearance in his very first music video, “Beat it up”, which featured Keri Hilson, Young-D and T.I., and had cameos of Bun B, Rick Ross, Baby, and Young Jeezy, all throughout it. The video was shot at Pure Passion, the same Indianapolis strip club where Blake picked up two sexy stripper—Mocha and PlayThang—who were now stepping out of the pool with Janautica and Princess.

“Boy, you know you need to put that gun down,” Lakita said as she sashayed toward Blake. “Ain’t nothin’ but rich white folks live out here. The hell is you worried about?”

“I’m worried about that * you gave me this mornin’.” Blake flashed an pleasant grin. “You can’t keep wakin’ me up like that. I’ll f*ck ‘round and have a heart attack.”

Lakita smiled wickedly, “I know I got that wet-wet, nigga, you ain’t gotta tell e’rybody.” Fingering an errant lock of hair from her face, she stood facing him, her hands mounted on her hips. “Between me, Nauti, Mocha, and PlayThang, who do you think has the best *?” she asked, abruptly.

“You and Nauti,” Blake lied. Janautica had the tightest juice box he’d ever delved into, and he liked her way more than he did Lakita.

“You can only pick one of us, Blake.”

“I can’t choose just one.”

“Well, you have to.”

Always the voice of outspokenness, Young-D chuckled and said, “Bitch, get off that weak-ass shit. You f*cked our whole squad last night, just like bofe o’dem stripper-bitches over dere.”

“Did I ask you?” Slowly, she turned to face Young-D. “I bet you’ll never get that treatment again, ol’ disrespectful-ass nigga. Come through Gary talkin’ like that. I triple dare you, Wit’cho Wiz Kalifa-lookin’ ass.”

“Don’t get mad at me ‘cause I’m slim and you a Twinkie away from two hun’ed pounds,” Young-D shot back.

Blake choked on the potent smoke he was inhaling as he started laughing. He motioned for Janautica to follow him into the mansion, then turned and strolled to the patio, vigilantly fluctuating his eyes across the thick floor to ceiling windows and keeping his forefingers a half an inch away from the AK-47’s trigger.

Ever since Alexus caught him cheating, Blake experienced an overwhelming sense of dreadful paranoia; especially, after the Whitney murders. He knew how the Costilla cartel operated. They were cold, calculating and malicious. They had slain those eight innocent women simply because Alexus had been angry at an imaginary girl named Whitney. Blake knew that all it would take was a few words from Papi or Alexus for him to end up on a hit-list.

So he kept choppers with him everywhere he went. There were caches of fully-automatic assault rifles stashed away in each of his seven homes.

He opened one of the tall glass doors and preceded Janautica into his luxurious man-cave. Spacious and elaborate, with shiny hardwood floors and whitewashed walls, the room had expensive butternut leather furniture, several large flat screen televisions with PS3s hooked up to them, a wet bar with fifteen leather-cushioned stools lined up in front of it, a state of the art surround sound Sony music system, and five intricately carved Honduran mahogany and gold-trimmed billiards tables. This is where Blake sought refuge when he wasn’t in the upstairs studio recording songs, or traveling the county in his private jet.

Janautica went straight to the bar and fixed herself a glass of Ciroc vodka on ice. Her tantalizing walk stirred up a carnal craving deep in Blake’s loins as he admired her slender, model-like figure. She wore a black one piece Gucci swimsuit that accentuated her long caramel legs. Her shoulder-length hair was black with lime-green highlights.

“What the hell you want, Bulletface? And if it’s ‘bout that rich bitch, I ain’t even much tryna listen, yuh feel me?” Janautica said, dropping her hand at her hip.

“It’s not about Alexus.” Blake pulled out a stool and took a seat. Just hearing himself say his ex-fiancée’s name struck an emotional chord in his heart. Trying to ignore the heartache, he put the chopper on the granite countertop before him and drew in another mouthful of Kush smoke. “I’m still trippin’ off that Lawndale restructuring shit they got on,” he said.

You ol’ nappy-head f*cka, this is about that bitch.”

“No, it’s not.”

“You’s a got-damn lie and the truth ain’t in you. I do watch the new, you know. I’m not full-the-way retarded.”

Blake burst out laughing. “The hell you just say?”

“Stupid f*cka, you heard me,” Janautica replied with a subtle smile.

“Baby, it ain’t no such thing as ‘full-the-way’.”

“SO f*ckin’ what? It wasn’t no such thing was ‘bling’ til Lil Wayne said it, yuh feel me, like? I can make up some shit, too?”

‘This bitch is crazy.’ Blake thought. ‘Full-the-way crazy.’ But, he had to admit, Janautica was the realest chick he’d ever had. If not, then she and Alexus were running neck and neck. In Blake’s opinion, Janautica had all the ride-or-die characteristics that real ‘hood nigga looked for in a woman. The fact that she had kept nine-million dollars of his cash without disappearing with it while he was in jail, spoke volumes about her loyalty. Plus, she had voluntarily taken the rap for the two handguns a few months ago. Another thing that he dug about her was how she carried herself. Unlike Lakita, who had already managed to f*ck seven of Blake’s friends, Janautica strongly refused to have sex with anybody else. Every night when Blake went to bed, whether in a jet, a hotel suite, or one of his homes, Janautica was there beside him.

She walked around the bar and stood in front of Blake. A seraphic expression burgeoned on her sweet caramel face. “Okay, the rich bitch just invested two-hundred million dollars into fixin’ up some ratchet-ass ghetto in Chicago. Whoopty-got-damn-doo. What’s so important ‘bout that?”

Stifling a laugh, Blake said, “I ain’t trippin’ about her helpin’ a ghetto. But she shouldn’t be helpin’ the Lawndale neighborhood. That’s where the nigga who kidnapped my daughter lives.”

Janautica’s eyelids came together in a conspiratorial squint. “Mmm-hmm. I know that rich bitch was up to somethin’. Her mammy, too. Like my grandpa Funky Feet always said: ‘Never trust a rich bitch wit’ a big butt and a smile’; yuh feel me, like?”

Blake cracked up laughing again. “Funky Feet?! That’s his name?”

“Don’t start wit’ me, you Lil black sumbitch.”

His laugh was jovial and constant. “Shots fired. Your granddaddy’s name is Funky Feet.” He shook his head. “And you’ lyin’, too. Yo granddaddy ain’t never said no shit like that.”

“How you gon’ tell me?” Janautica pressed a palm to her waist and sucked her teeth. “Don’t be tryna make light o’ me ‘cause that rich bitch done pissed in yo’ Cheerios. I ain’t that bitch; I’ll buss you upside yo’ head wit’ this glass.” She sipped some vodka through a pink straw, scowling at him.

“You ain’t gon’ do shit,” Blake said, grabbing her waist and pulling her to him. “Hit me wit’ that glass if you want to.”

“Think I won’t?”

“I know you won’t.” He dipped forward and kissed her lips.

“Getcho mooncie munchas off me, stupid nappy head f*cka,” Janautica said, twisting her face into an expression of disgust.

But she offered no resistance when Blake kissed the left side of her neck. His big hands crept up her back, then cascaded down to her lovely lady lumps. He squeezed and caressed until his hands were content, licking her neck on the spot she called her ‘all-duh-way-turnt-up button’.”

Janautica pulled back and studied Blake’s face. She touched the two bullet scars on the left side of his jaw. “Stop tryna turn me up, you Lil pervert,” she murmured. “You like the green skreeks?”

“What?”

“The lime-green skreeks in my hair, jackass. You like ‘em?”

Blake chuckled again. “You need to start readin’ some books.”

“Hush, cowboy, I’m ser’ous. Is yuh listenin’?” she beamed. “Aaany-ways, like I was sayin’ fore you opened yo’ Lil stankin’-ass mouf, I got the skreeks to match our cars, yuh feel me, like, lime-green e’rything.”

She was referring to the expensive fleet of luxury cars that were parked in the driveway out front. There were four 2011 Bentley Mulsannes, a Mercedes-Benz SLR McLaren, two Ferrari’s—a 430 Scuderia and a 458 Italia— and two Mercedes Maybach 63s, and all of them were lime-green in color. Blake had purchased the Bentleys for Young-D, Streets, Lil Mike and Blubby. The Scuderia and one of the Maybachs belonged to Janautica. The other three cars were Blake’s.

“Just make sure I don’t find nothin’ green down there,” Blake said, grabbing the * that had instantly become his favorite.

“Ain’t nothin’ down there but tight wet mooncie, yuh feel me, like? And you know it, too. That’s why yo’ Lil ugly-ass face always screwed up when I put it on you.”

Blake shrugged. “I don’t know. I hear that Swine Flu shit can give you green bumps if you don’t get it treated. You might wanna go and get that shit checked out.”

“I ain’t got no f*ckin’ Swine Flu, you nappy head—“

“Mr. King,” said the thick-bearded Freddy Douglass as he barged into the room with his briefcase in hand. Tall, dark and stern-faced, Freddy was the music manager of Money Bagz Management, Blake’s new record label. “I have some good news and some bad news. Which would you like first?”

“Hit me with the bad,” Blake said.

“Your video for “Beat it up” is apparently too explicit for 106th and Park. They’re not going to air it. They say it’s too much like Nelly’s “Tip Drill” video.” Douglass pulled a smart phone from his hip and maneuvered his thumb over the screen. “It’s really nothing to stress over. “Lime-Green Bugatti” is heating up the airwaves all over the country. The Goon Musik mixtape has already sold three-hundred and forty thousand copies, and it’s only been out two days. What we’ll do is shoot the “Lime-Green Bugatti” video sometime within the next couple of days and get it to them, have you make an appearance on 106th for the world premiere.”

“What about the other video?” Blake asked.

“We’ll put it up on YouTube, let the fans eat it up. They’ll love it.”

Blake nodded his head in agreement. At first, he’d been reluctant to start his own record label. There were too many risks. But Douglass was a juggernaut in the music industry. He assisted Blake in hiring all the right people, ensuring that MBM would be able to hold its own in corporate America.

“So, what’s the good news?”

“Good news is, Jay and Kanye sent us a track that they want you to get on. The song’s pretty much done already. All you have to do is lay the first verse, maybe throw in an ad-lib or two, you know. And they’ve offered you an opportunity to open up for them when their Watch The Throne tour hits the United Center on November thirtieth and December first.”

“I’m with that.” Blake began rubbing his palms together.

“That’s not even the half of it,” Douglas boasted. He tugged his tie straight in a prideful gesture. “XXL Magazine wants you on their cover next month, and so does Don Diva, F.E.D.S., Street Elements, ASIS and… I forgot the name of the other magazine. Of course they want interviews, too. Nine times out of ten they’re gonna ask about your relationship with Alexus.”

“And I’ma plead the fif.”

“If that’s what you want to do, then do it. The interviews aren’t that important. What we’re looking for is exposure. Let’s get your face on those magazine covers. We need to take full advantage of these promotional opportunities. People are fascinated by your music, your lyrics, and your grimy street mentality. You’re the talk of the industry right now.”

Rolling her eyes, Janautica sucked her teeth and said, “Oh, my lord, is you, like, ser’ous right now, Docta Cornell West? You know damn well dey only want some words ‘bout that rich bitch.”

A bubble of laughter grew in Blake’s chest, and it was difficult to repress. He turned to Janautica and gave her a rigid stare. “Go back outside till we’re gone talkin’.”

“She’s all right,” Douglass said seemingly impervious to Janautica’s pessimistic jape. “I’m about to go up to the studio and make a few calls. Lil Webbie and some other rapper named Two Chains left messages on my voicemail asking if you’d be interested in making a few songs with them. I’m considering turning their offer down—“

“What?! Man, you’ trippin’. Tell ‘em I got ‘em. No charge,” Blake said, regarding his music manager with an are-you-crazy look. “Shit, we just got started. We can’t afford to be turnin’ down nothin’. Besides, all my Nap-town niggas f*ck wit’ Boosie and Webbie.”

“We’ve just lined an unprecedented distribution deal with Universal Records—” Douglass stopped talking mid-sentence and turned to look at the elderly Mexican man who was walking up behind him, carrying a backpack.

As soon as Blake saw who it was, he snatched up his chrome-plated AK-47 and aimed it at the old man’s face.

“Do you always keep your door unlocked?” Papi asked.





Chapter 6

T-Walk dropped the GQ magazine onto the glass-topped white marble table in front of Alexus, smiling beneath a fashionable pair of Marc Jacobs shades. Then he handed her the bouquet of red roses.

“You look amazing,” he said, lifting his eyes to graze over the thirty-foot high ceiling. “And this mansion… it’s like a castle. How much did you pay for this place?”

“I didn’t pay anything,” Alexus murmured gently as she inhaled the scent of the roses. She got up from the sofa and wrapped her arms around the lower back of T-Walk’s gray pinstriped Gucci tuxedo, her eyes cast down at the magazine cover. “My grandmother left it to me. It’s worth ninety-five million, though, if that’s that you’re asking.”

She went back to the sofa, and T-Walk plopped down next to her.

“Who’d you have to screw to get on the cover of GQ Magazine?” Alexus asked. A wide smile was pasted on her face.

“I didn’t have to screw anyone. I bumped into one of GQ’s senior editors in Hollywood at Lexington Social House a few weeks back. She took a picture of me and sent it to her boss, and that was that. They contacted me a week later and paid me two million for the cover shoot.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I would have stopped by the shoot if I’d known you were going to be on the cover.”

“I’ve been so busy with the Brick House girls, you know. Bouncing back and forth from North Palm Beach to Jupiter Island can be a headache.” T-Walk let it out a chuckle. “There’s so much money coming in, though. It’s crazy. We were just on Wendy’s show yesterday.”

“I know, I saw it.” Alexus glanced around the huge living room at everyone else. They were all smiling happily. Even Pedro was beaming.

“Can I hold the baby?” T-Walk asked. He wanted to scrutinize King Neal’s infantile visage, to see if any of the baby’s features were similar to his.

“Let’s leave these two love birds alone,” Tasia said as Alexus lifted her son out of the car seat. “We’re about to go horseback-riding anyway.”

“Guess I’ll get going, too.” Pedro stood up. “Bella and I are hosting the Race to Erase MS Gala at the Hyatt Regency Century Plaza in L.A., I’ll call you later.”

In his periphery, T-Walk saw that Alexus was checking out his expensive Gucci suit as he held King Neal out in front of him. When everybody was gone, Alexus softly said, “your shoulder feeling any better?”

“It’s alright. My hand’s been bothering me a little, but it’s not that bad. Nothing a few Tylenols can’t take care of.” T-Walk laughed at the grinning baby. “Is he always his happy?”

“I wish,” Alexus replied with a sigh. “That little f*cker keeps me up all night. He’s like a real-life Stewie.”

“Don’t say that. He’s just a baby.” He handed King back to Alexus, then took off his sunglasses and looked at her. “So, um… did you ever get that paternity test done?”

“I haven’t gotten around to doing it yet.”

A deafening silence fell upon them. Alexus took longer than necessary putting the baby back in his car seat.

“Blake didn’t want me to do it,” she finally said. “I think he was afraid that you might be the father.”

“So there’s still a chance that King is my son? And you’re just now telling me this?”

“I know, T-Walk. If you want to, we can go and get it done today. I shouldn’t have waited this long in the first place.” Her voice cracked. Tears sprang forth from her emerald eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. Blake had me wrapped around his finger.”

“Sshhh.” T-Walk pulled her head to his shoulder and let her cry, administering a light-handed rub to her back. “Everything’s gonna be okay. We both have some things to apologize for. Nobody’s perfect.”

Alexus sniffled. “I treated him so good,” she bawled. “I gave that cheating bastard over five hundred million dollars. When his daughter and her mom were kidnapped, I’m the one who paid the fifty-million-dollar ransom. I’m the one who paid off those judges to keep him from getting the death penalty.”

Grabbing, Alexus by her shoulders, T-Walk raised her up to face him. “Stop cryin’ about that nigga. I’m here now, Lexi you can trust me.”

Chapter 7

“Put that gun down, Blake. I’m allowed to stop by and see my son-in-law every now and then, no?”

“I ain’t goin’ for that shit,” Blake said, keeping the chrome Kalashnikov AK-47 trained on Papi’s face. “What’s in that bag?”

Juan Costilla exposed a wicked grin on his leathering old face. He looked down at the black backpack that was hanging from his right hand and chuckled. It was a gelid, maniacal chuckle, and Blake didn’t like it one bit.

“Get out of here, Douglass. I’ll call you later,” Blake said.

As the music manager was leaving, Flako Costilla and his son Antoney entered the room with eight more Mexican men, all of whom were holding MP5 submachine guns, which they immediately aimed at Blake.

Suddenly, an ear-piercing scream sounded from outside near the pool. Blake and Janautica flicked their eyes that way and saw that Young-D, Princess and the three strippers were being held at gunpoint by yet another team of Mexican gunmen.

“We don’t want any trouble,” Flako said. “We’re here to talk money, my friend; Pesos, dollars, francs, pounds, big piles of American cash. If we wanted trouble, you’d be in an unmarked grave somewhere in Mexico by now.”

“What’s in the bag?” Blake repeated, impervious to Flako’s excuses.

Papi unzipped the backpack and turned it upside down. A severed black human head tumbled out of it. It was a young man’s head, wrapped in the same greenish-blue colored cellophane as the massive cubes of cash in the mysterious vault at the Matamoros mega-mansion. Blake did not recognize the blood-covered face.

“Oh, shit,” Janautica gasped.

Slowly, Blake lowered the assault rifle. “Y’all are some sick-ass Mexicans. Why do you always gotta chop muhf*ckas up?”

Some guy proposed to my ex-wife on her talk show yesterday,” Papi said. He kicked the head across the hardwood floor and cackled again when it landed in front of Blake. “That’s his little brother. I paid his family a visit in Virginia right before I came here. Figured I’d keep myself a souvenir, you know? A keepsake.”

“You’s a f*cked up individual, Papi.” Blake turned to Flako. “Whatever you got to tell me, make it make it fast, ‘cause I ain’t wit’ this crazy shit.”

Flako had a fat cigar clenched between his teeth. He puffed on it, took it out of his mouth, and blow out a ring of smoke. “Who’s the girl?” he asked, eyeing Janautica.

“Nunna yo’ got-damn business,” Janautica snapped.

Papi scowled at her. “You left my daughter for this scrawny little whore?”

“Listen here, you Lil wetback motha—”

“Go outside, Nauti,” Blake said, cutting her off before she got herself killed. “They’ll be gone in a few minutes.”

The Costillas watched Janautica as she headed back outside, but Blake’s eyes were glued to the bloody head.

“One of these days,” he said, “y’all gon’ f*ck wit’ the wrong nigga, cut off the wrong head.”

Flako laughed. “I see you still think you’re a walking jewelry store,” he joked.

Blake looked up at him. “What the f*ck y’all want?”

“The drug shipments, Blake. The Midwest drug shipments. Why’d you cancel them?”

“’Cause I wanted to.”

“We were moving two-thousand kilos of coke every month out there. A hundred ki’s of heroin, ten-thousand pounds of Mary. You can’t just stop that kind of business. You’re taking money out of our pockets.”

“And nobody takes money out of our pockets,” Papi added.

“Look, man,” Blake said, taking a seat on the stool behind him, “the nigga who was movin’ most of that shit is the same muhf*cka who kidnapped my daughter and slit her momma’s throat. He already got us out of fifty million for the ransom. I’m not about to be feedin’ that nigga.”

“You have to learn how to keep your personal life separate from business,” Flako said, walking closer to Blake. “Later on down the road, when that guy no longer matters, he’ll disappear without a trace. But right now we need him. Your little Midwest crew had us raking in fifty million a month. We have to keep that going.”

Blake picked up Janautica’s glass of vodka and drank down the remainder of it in one big gulp. The fiery liquid played like a flamethrower in his throat. His face tightened then relaxed. “A’ight… check this out,” he said, flicking his eyes from Papi to Flako. “I want half of that fifty every month. As long as we can agree to that, I’m all in.”

“You’re out of your f*cking mind, kid,” Papi said.

Flako and Antoney laughed skeptically.

“I’m dead muhf*ckin-serious,” Blake said. “I didn’t get a dime out of all that dope money. Only reason I set up that Lil connection in the first place was ‘cause I was with Alexus at the time, and I knew she’d get most of the money. But shit’s different now. We ain’t together no more.”

Flako shook his head. “We’re only charging you ten grand per kilo of coke, a hundred per kilo of heroine, and two-hundred for every pound of Purple Kush Mary. You can easily make whatever you want to make by charging your guys a few extra grand.”

“I said half of what y’all get,” Blake sternly replied. “If I move fifty million dollars’ worth of product, I want twenty-five million in my pocket.”

Papi moved across the room to one of the tall glass windows and peered out at Janautica, who was standing on the patio with her arms crossed and her back to him. “I have a better idea,” he said as he reached inside his black suit jacket, pulled out a gold-plated .45 revolver, and pointed it at the back of Janautica’s head. “We’ll give you fifteen million out of every fifty million. Now, either you accepted that or your scrawny little girlfriend gets it.”





Chapter 8

There were seven MTN executives and ten of the network’s most distinguished anchorpersons—Not Turner included—seated around the long mahogany conference table when Rita Mae Bishop walked into the room.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” she said, taking her place at the head of the table. She beamed at all of the inquisitive black faces. “I know you all are wondering why I called this meeting. As I said in the e-mail, there are about to be some major changes to our newscasts, and we’re getting ready to launch two more television networks.”

Rita’s assistant placed a steaming-hot cup of Starbucks coffee on the table in front of her. She took a few tongue-searing sips of caffeine to awaken the rest of her mind. Yesterday morning, during a live taping of The Rita Bishop Show, just as she was wrapping up an interview with New York Times best-selling author Wahida Clark, Nat had come out onto the stage and proposed to her with the flawless twelve carat white diamond and platinum engagement ring that was now sparkling on her ring finger. Afterwards, they had headed to Rita’s multi-million dollar Victorian style Chicago home, where they’d celebrated their engagement with Krug champagne, catered soul food, and splendidly appeasing episodes of raucous love-making that lasted most of the day and half of the night.

Releasing a tired yawn Rita adjusted her black leather swivel chair to a more comfortable level and mumbled, “God, I am so fatigued.”

A bevy of knowing smiles blossomed around the table.

“As I was saying,” Rita continued, “from now on, our newscasts are going to be structured around the true core of urban America. No more stories about the wars transpiring overseas. I mean, I love our American soldiers, and we are forever indebted to them for protecting our country from terrorists, but there are thousands of wars being waged all across the U.S. that are essentially being swept under the rug. Every time an American solider is killed, it’s an international news story; however, when a Black or Latino is murdered, they’re lucky if their story gets fifteen seconds on a local news station. That kind of injustice is unacceptable.”

“I absolutely agree,” Nat Turner said, nodding his head. He was seated to the right of Rita. “Twenty-four hour coverage of the tragedies ad triumphs of urban America—that sounds like a dream come true, like a CNN for the ghettos. Maybe now we can get someone to tell us why it’s illegal for the families living in those urban war zones to wear body armor, or why police officers harass Blacks and Hispanics in low income communities, yet cruise through wealthier neighborhoods as if everyone residing there is drug-free.”

Rita turned to him. “Or why insurance costs for minorities are substantially higher than they are for whites.”

Halfway down the table, an MTN anchorwoman named Nikole Giovanni eased forward in her chair and asked, “Mr. Turner, what do you mean by ‘twenty-four hour’ coverage?”

“He’s referring to MTN News which, beginning January second, will have its own network,” Rita said. “The other new network will be sort of like HBO or Showtime. It’ll be entitled iBlack, and it’s set to debut in the second quarter of twenty-twelve. I’m also launching a newspaper, magazine and book publishing company, a motion picture company, and a social networking website within the next five or six months. Of course each one of the companies will be a part of the already flourishing Costilla Corporation.”

Giovanni began taking notes on her iPad2. “Keep it up Ms. Bishop and you’ll make this corporation grow to the size and success of Time Warner Inc. It will be like cotton candy on a rainy—”

Nikki Giovanni went silent as Nat’s phone started buzzing. “Excuse me for a moment,” he said as he stood and stepped over to one of the thirty-eighth floor windows to answer his smart phone.

Picking up her cup of coffee, Rita studied Nat’s appearance for a brief moment. She like the way he looked in his dark Tom Ford suit. If not for the room full of colleagues, she would have told him so.

Suddenly, Nat dropped down to his knees. His smart phone clattered to the floor. He pressed his palms against his eyes and shook his head from side to side. “God, no!” he groaned in a pained, guttural voice. “Not my family!”

Rita moved hastily to his side. Consolingly rubbing her hand cross his back, she murmured, “What’s wrong, Nat? What happened?” When he didn’t reply she grabbed his phone from the floor and put it to her ear. “Hello?”

“Who am I speaking with?” a man asked.

“I’m Rita Mae Bishop, Nat’s fiancée.”

“This is Homicide Detective Jeff Diehl out of Southampton County Virginia.” He cleared his throat and continued. “A little over an hour ago, we received an anonymous tip that there had been a break-in at the Turner residence. The responding officers discovered, um…four dismembered bodies. They were Nat’s parents, his aunt, and his younger brother. Their limbs appear to have been hacked off with some type of machete. We’re still searching for the little brother’s head, but I’m certain it’s him. My family’s always been pretty close with the Turners. I knew them well.”

Rita gasped. “Lord Jesus,” she whispered.

“I know. It’s pretty gruesome. I have a team of voice analysts going over the recording of the anonymous caller. Sounds like an older man, with a Spanish accent…”



Twenty minutes later, Rita and Nat boarded the company’s Bell helicopter on the MTN tower rooftop. Aside from the chopper’s roaring blades, it was a silent ride. Rita gazed at the pristine Chicago skyline through her window and asked herself why she’d accepted Nat’s proposal. She’d known that Papi—a Mexican drug lord, a habitual murderer—would not take too kindly to her being engaged to another man. But she had not even considered the thought that he’d go so far as to murder her lover’s family.

Nat cried with a stone face all the way to O’Hare Airport and Rita held his hand the entire time. As soon as the pilot landed and they stepped off the chopper, Rita said, “I know exactly who killed your family.”

“I know, too,” Nat said. “And he’s going to pay for it.”





Chapter 9

“Oh, my God…you got the sexiest body I’ve ever seen, Lexi. On the BOSS,” T-Walk said. He was sitting on the side of the vintage claw-foot tub in the spacious bathroom of Alexus’ master bedroom suite, watching her as she rinsed bubbly curds of Dove soap off her naked skin in the shower across from him. “Why are you torturing me like this? Is this my punishment for leaving you?”

She looked at him and smiled. “I do look good, don’t I? I’ve gotten my waist down to twenty-four inches. Double that and you have my ass measurement.”

“Damn.” T-Walk shook his head in disbelief. “Forty-eight? Ain’t that thicker then Deelishis?”

“Don’t get yourself all worked up for nothing, porn star. We’re business partners now. You should be focused on creating another hit reality show.”

“Just because we’re business partners doesn’t mean we can’t f*ck. We can be friends with benefits. I promise not to kiss and tell.” He paused. “I know you remember how good this dick is.”

Alexus stepped out of the shower and grabbed a gold-stitched white bath towel from the gold rack that stretched across the sliding glass shower door. Drying off, she danced her eyes over his face and bit down on the corner of her lower lip. “Got condoms on you?” she asked.

“You know it,” T-Walk said, and grinned.

Alexus curled his tie around her hand and pulled him close. His triumphant grin expanded. He moved in to kiss her, but she evaded his lips by turning her back to him and sauntering out of the bathroom, yanking him along behind her.

“No kissing,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to kiss, I want to get eaten and f*cked. Is that okay with you?” She pushed him down onto the snow-white faux fur blanket on her oversized circular bed.

“I’m cool with that…for now.” T-Walk undressed in a hurry, gazing attentively at his ex’s Brazilian-waxed * as she cupped her big breast into her hands. “If you don’t mind me asking, why can’t I get a kiss? We used to kiss all the time.”

“Because…Just because. Put the condom on,” Alexus demanded, sounding vexed.

Rolling a Trojan down his erection, T-Walk said, “So, I guess some head is out of the question, too, huh?”

“And I guess you’re a psychic,” Alexus replied.



In street vocabulary, yellowish-brown-hued women are often referred to as yellow-bones, and Cereniti “Tee-Tee” Stingley was among the finest specimens of yellow-bone New York City had ever birthed. A few years ago, she and Tasia had been dancers at one of Harlem’s most popular strip clubs, taking home upwards of two grand a piece each night they worked, rubbing shoulders with big-name celebrities and professional athletes on a daily basis, all in hopes of one day engaging a baller whose money was long enough to set them for life.

But things hardly ever go as planned, Cereniti and Tasia had teamed up with a local dopeman to cop a million Ecstasy pill from some Canadians in Manhattan, and the drug deal had gone sour. Cereniti had been shot twice in the stomach. Two others were killed, and the Canadians ended up getting away with all of their money. After that Cereniti had fled to Michigan and matriculated into Michigan State University, where she’d met and fell in love with Kenya, her roommate. Shortly thereafter Kenya had introduced her to Alexus, and that he’d been the end of college for Cereniti. She dropped out and started moving bricks of heroin and cocaine for Alexus. She called Tasia, who’d been dancing at Kamal’s 21 in Atlanta at the time, and brought her into the dope-dealing clique, too. The money had been way sweeter than strip club dollars, but after the Costilla family had tried to kill Alexus on several occasions, Cereniti decided to call it quits. She stole five million dollars in cash from Alexus, stashed most of it in the densely crowded basement of her maternal grandmother’s Brooklyn home, and then boarded a plane to Fukushima, Japan, with a Japanese model chick she’d met on Facebook.

However, tragedy struck again in early March when a catastrophic combination of earthquake and tsunami wiped out Fukushima. Cereniti was one of the few people who survived the disaster. Her Japanese girlfriend wasn’t as fortunate.

“Alexus is going to kill me for stealing that money,” Cereniti concluded as she stood between Craig and Tasia behind the horse stables, watching Kenya and Bookie gallop around the equestrian course on horseback. “I know she is, yo.”

Tasia shook her head. “She’s probably already forgotten about that little piece of change by now. What’s five million to fifty-six billion? A drop of piss in the Hudson River’s what it is. Word is bond.”

“Did she say that?” Cereniti asked.

“She hasn’t even mentioned it, Tee Tee. That bitch drops a quarter million on one bottle of perfume. She has four pairs of diamond-covered shoes that cost about two mill’ a piece. Trust me; Alexus isn’t thinking about that money you took. She’ll probably cuss you out, but that’s about it.”

A quiet moment passed. Craig took a step back and let his eyes roam over the girls’ voluminous derrieres. Tasia’s stylishly faded blue jeans were as tight-fitting as a leotard, and her bow-legged stance accentuated her shapely lower half. Her hair, parted down the middle, was shoulder length and curly. Her pink tee shirt read Viva La Mexico across the back. On the other hand, Cereniti’s hair was long and straight, and her dull gray tube dress made Craig salivate. “Did Alexus really pay a fifty-million dollar ransom to get Blake’s daughter back?” he inquired, breaking the silence.

“What?” Cereniti said.

“She sure in the hell did,” said Tasia. “They had her wire the money to some bank in Panama. I guess they thought that wiring it there would make it untraceable, but she still managed to get it traced.”

“And she didn’t report it to the law?” Craig asked.

“Alexus would commit suicide before she calls the cops about anything.” Tasia pushed her fingers down into the back pockets of her jeans. “Don’t tell her I told y’all this, but she has, like, a billion dollars in cash hidden somewhere here in Matamoros. I don’t think it’s in the mansion. I’ve been in every room already, and I have yet to find a single dollar.”

“So,” Cereniti asked, “how do you know about it in the first place?”

“Because… A few weeks ago, Alexus and I were having dinner out in the courtyard. Halfway through the meal, she started crying, telling me how much she loved and missed that punk-ass nigga Blake, and how—“

“Don’t call him that Tasia. Blake’s mad real, yo,” Cereniti reprimanded.

Craig scoffed. “Man, that hoe-ass nigga shot me in my wrist, shot Bookie in his leg, shot T-Walk twice, killed K.G., Johnny, and two more of my Lil niggas. Fuck that nigga.”

“Sounds to me like he f*cked y’all up, son,” Cereniti laughed.

“That shit is not funny Tee-Tee, so peel that stupid smirk off your face.” Tasia glowered at her childhood friend. “Anyway Alexus said she showed Blake where her safe was hidden, and that it contained almost a billion dollars.”

‘Damn…that’s alotta muhf*ckin money,’ Craig thought to himself. He looked through the tall white fence to his right. A white Maybach had just pulled up in front of the mansion and parked beside Alexus’ Phantom, blocking his view of the Rolls. Tapping Cereniti on the shoulder, Craig said, “Ay, whose car is that?”

By the time Cereniti and Tasia turned their heads to look at the Maybach, it was already vamoosing down the long driveway.





Chapter 10

T-Walk had Alexus lying on her back, her knees pushed up to her ears, and he was long-stroking her dripping-wet juice box as if it had disrespected him in some way. The feel of her fingernails digging into his back excited him.

“I love you so much,” he said in a breathless whisper.

Alexus continued moaning beneath him, not saying a word. Though he didn’t show it, her failure to reciprocate his statement of love hurt him. He wanted to try and kiss her again, but he decided to hold back. Right now she seemed to only want sex, and he was content with that.

They went hard for almost an hour, switching positions several times. Whenever T-Walk felt himself on the verge of coming, he pulled out and sucked on her swollen clit until her inner juices squirted out onto his face. Alexus was bouncing up and down on his dick in the reverse cowgirl position when he ejaculated, filling the condom with cum.

“That’s the shit I miss right there,” T-Walk said as Alexus fell over next to him. Both of them were covered in sweat.

“My legs are shaking,” Alexus noted. Snickering softly, she moved from her back to her side and rested her chin on his chest. She gazed into his eyes, her breathing growing slower and slower. “Bet you wish you’d have never left me now, don’t you?”

“I did, at first,” he admitted. “Not as much now, though.”

“Whatever, negro. Stop trying to be so insensitive. You missed me just as much as I missed you.”

“Of course I did. But my dreams and aspirations are everything to me, and I can’t let you or anyone else get in the way of me achieving them. I’m hoping to leave as big a footprint in the television industry as Tyler Perry’s doing with TBS,” he said, removing the condom from his softening penis.

“What is that, a month’s worth of cum?” Alexus grabbed the rubber from him and held it up, examining it closely. The latex sheath was an extra-large, and nearly half of it was full of semen. “I cannot believe you came this much. I don’t even think my horses can nut like this.” She tied the condom in a knot, sat up, and tossed it into a trash can on the side of her bed.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” T-Walk said. “Why didn’t you show up for the Brick House premiere at The Visionary Lounge in Chicago?”

“Well, I was actually going to come. But then Blake shot those boys in front of my house. Reesie Cup, the owner of The Visionary Lounge, has five houses on Trumbull Street. He runs that whole neighborhood. I couldn’t show up at his club after my boyfriend had just killed two of his men. I’m a little bit smarter than that.”

“You still could have called and told me that you weren’t coming.”

“Last time I checked, my father’s name was Juan Costilla,” Alexus said as she stood and strolled back into the bathroom. “Come on; let’s get all this sweat off of us before we leave.”

“Give me a few minutes. I have to make a phone call.” He said, picking up his BlackBerry from where it lay at the head of the bed.

He phoned Reesie Cup

“Hello?”

“Is this Reesie Cup?”

“Yes, it’ me. What’s the thought, Joe?” You holla at that bitch yet?”

“Holla at her? Nigga I just tore that * up! I’m in Mexico with her right now,” T-Walk whispered. “I’m pretty sure I can get the connect. I’ll ask her about it later tonight.”

“Man, Joe, we need that plug. Bad. The Mexican Mafia done stopped f*ckin’ with me, and now I’m coppin’ from some Dominicans for twenty-six racks a piece. And that’s only fifty bricks at a time. Fuck am I supposed to do with that?”

“You’re saying too much over the phone, Cup.”

“My line’s secure.”

“I don’t give a f*ck if it’s secure or not. We still don’t talk like that on the phone. Anybody could be listening.”

“A’ight, Mr. Hollywood,” Reesie Cup muttered “Hit me up later, Joe. One hun’ed.”

“One hun’ed.”





Chapter 11

After showering again and applying her makeup, Alexus stepped into her massive walk-in closet, selected a white one-shouldered Niemann Elements mini-dress, a white Himalayan crocodile-skin Hermes Birkin bag with diamond hardware, and a pair of Dolce & Gabbana shades. She dressed hurriedly and then performed a runway walk through her bedroom for T-Walk, who had been standing in front of the big flat screen television watching ESPN.

“How do I look?” she asked with an amicable smile.

“Like the baddest bitch on Earth.”

“Badder than Kim K.?”

“A thousand times.”

“What about that model you used to have on your phone’s screensaver back when we first met?”

“Who, Mizz D.R. or—“

“Yeah, that’s her,” she said, opening the glass-fronted yew wood jewelry cabinet that stood next to her dresser.

“I can’t lie, both of you are dime pieces. But I love you, so I can’t say you and her are equal.”

“Good, ‘cause I’d fire your high-yellow ass in a heartbeat.”

They shared a jubilant laugh. Then Alexus put on a sparkling platinum Le Vian necklace, encrusted with triple bands of white marquise diamonds, a matching pair of heart-shaped earrings, and four white diamond ball bracelets. As they left the bedroom, she sent a text message to her head of security and Tasia telling them to meet her out front.

“So, where are we going?” T-Walk asked

“I have a restaurant a few miles down the road from here. We’re gonna stop there for a bite to eat before we head to Chicago for a tour of the neighborhood we’re renovating.”

“That’s a great thing you’re doing for those people, Alexus. You’re probably the only billionaire in the world who actually gives a damn about the ghettos of America.”

“I try my best,” she said, stopping at King Neal’s racecar themed bedroom, which was two rooms down the hall from hers.

She stuck her head in the door. Anita Ortega, the fifty year-old nanny, was moving back and forth in a rocking chair, perusing a Michele Dominguez Greene novel. King Neal was asleep in his crib. In Spanish, Alexus told the nanny that she’d be back to pick up the baby in about an hour. Then she continued up the marble floored hallway, tantalizingly swaying her hips.

“To be honest,” she said, “sometimes I feel bad about my people moving so many kilos into the states. Twenty-two tons every week is an awful lot of coke. That’s more than all the other cartels combined, and all of it’s damaging the very same neighborhoods that my mom and I are working earnestly to improve.”

“Wait a minute,” T-Walk said, halting just as they reached the top of the spiral staircase. She turned to face him, and he inspected her expression to see if she was kidding. “Did you say twenty tons?”

“No, I said twenty-two tones. Comprende?” She started down the stairs, glancing at the Costilla family portraits on the wall to her left. “The only reason I’m still participating in the drug trade is because I’m afraid of what the CIA might do to my family if I walk away from it.”

“The CIA?”

Alexus, looking over her shoulder at the clueless man behind her, shook her head and emitted a sigh. She could not tell him that the U.S. government was indirectly responsible for every single gram of cocaine and heroin produced in South America, that without the Acetate and Ethyl-Ether provided by the U.S. based oil companies, cocaine and heroin would not be able to be manufactured at all. She could not tell him that the so-called “War on Drugs” was a complete sham, that guns and drugs were intentionally sent into poor African- and Latin-American communities not only to continue the worsening of their environments but also to keep the prisons populated so that the government could continue to make slaves of prisoners, who were paid fifty cents to a dollar a day to build products for billion-dollar companies. More than likely T-Walk was hip to the U.S. government’s lucrative prison hustle, but the CIA had warned the Costillas not to break down the scheme to anyone.

“Have you ever read Behold a Pale Horse?” she asked him.

“Hell nah, but I’ll read it tonight if it’ll teach me how to get twenty-two tons of dope.”

Like a sincere gentleman, T-Walk opened the front door and let Alexus walk out ahead of him. She appreciated the masculine gesture. ‘So, chivalry isn’t dead,’ she thought.

And then she froze.

Cereniti, who was standing in front of Tasia’s pearly white Porsche Panamera, froze, too. She stared emptily at Alexus, and Alexus stared back. Emotions began to churn in Alexus’ chest.

“You’re alive,” she muttered matter-of-factly.

“I’m sorry, Alexus. All I can say is I’m sorry I wish I could take back what I—“

Alexus reached in her Birkin bag and pulled out her gold-plated .44 Bulldog, a collective gasp was heard from Tasia, Kenya, Bookie and several bodyguards. She turned on the red laser sighting, centered it on Cereniti’s forehead, and released a drab, nasal chuckle. “You have the nerve to show your face—on my property, at that—after you’ve stolen five million dollars of my hard earned money?”

“Put the gun down, Lexi,” Kenya nervously coaxed.

Cereniti started crying as Alexus walked towards her.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t blow your brains all over the Porsche,” Alexus said, touching the barrel of the revolver to the tip of Cereniti’s nose.

“Calm down, Alexus,” Tasia pleaded.

“No, I won’t calm down. I want this bitch to tell me why she stole my f*cking money, and she’d better hurry up.”

“Your family was trying to kill you, by any means, and… I got scared, yo,” Tee-Tee explained. “Especially after your aunt Jenny shot up your Bentley on the highway. Any one of those bullets could have taken my life.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Alexus saw her driver get in the Phantom. She put the gun back in her bag, cocked back her left arm, and punched Cereniti as hard as she could in the mouth. Cereniti fell back onto the hood of the Porsche.

“Get the hell off my property, you thieving—”

Twenty feet away from Alexus, a sudden explosion sent her Rolls-Royce soaring high up into the air atop a mushroom of flames.





Chapter 12

“Wake yo Lil ugly ass up, Bulletface,” Janautica said, poking a long, lime-green painted fingernail against the side of his neck.

“Ten seats on the muhf*ckin jet, and you just had to sit by me.” He kept his eyes shut. “And I’m not sleep anyway; I’m resting my eyes.”

“Res’ my ass, nappy-head bastud. I’m tryna show you what done happened at the rich bitch house in Mexico. But it’s cool, yuh feel me, like? I don’t even much care, no how. Is yuh listenin’? Is yuh listenin’? I know you heard me, stupid f*cka.”

She sucked her teeth, got quiet for about half a minute, and then said, “Okay, just listen to this: ‘Mere hours after MTN News anchorman Nat Turner’s family was found brutally murdered, his billionaire daughter-in-law, Alexus Costilla, is now dealing with her own devastating loss following a bombing outside of her home in northern Mexico that has reportedly resulted in the deaths of her driver and two bodyguards.’”

Blake popped open his eyes and glanced over at Janautica’s iPhone. She was reading from the MTN News website. “Ratchet ass Mexicans,” she mumbled, shaking her head. “Them muhf*ckas got steroids in they’ water or somethin’, yuh feel me, like? ‘Cause they be goin’ ham. Early, too.”

“Does it say what time it happened?” he asked, snatching his own iPhone from his waist.

“Five o’clock Central Time.”

“Shit, that was only three hours ago.”

“No shit Sherlock.”

“You’ better watch yo’ muhf*ckin mouf.”

“Or what?”

Grinding his teeth together, Blake ignored her and stared at his phone screen. On it was a picture of Savaria holding King Neal in her arms. Blake scrolled down his list of contacts and called his mom, his heart pounding with dreadful worry at the thought of someone harming his family. The first four rings went unanswered, and a profound sense of panic overcame him. A sigh of relief blew from his mouth when Carolynn finally picked up.

“Well, hello there, stranger,” Carolynn said.

“You okay, Momma?” he quickly asked.

“I’m fine, baby. Sitting here having dinner with your father and my grandbabies. Your brother brought the twins over with their costumes so I take them tick-or-treating after the Halloween party tomorrow. We’re gonna walk through Beverly Hills and West Hollywood.”

“Did you get Vari’s costume yet?”

“Yeah, I got her a nice little Minnie Mouse costume. Looks real cute on her. She wants you to come tick-or-treating with us.”

“I’m on my way out there now. My plane should be landing at LAX in about forty-five minutes.”

“Oh, well, you’ll run right into Alexus.”

“Why you say that?” he asked.

“You haven’t heard about the bombing? It’s all over the news.”

“I just found out about it.”

“She called me maybe twenty minutes ago and said she was on her way over to drop King off, said she’s gonna leave him here until she finds out what’s going on in Mexico.”

Blake put the tip of his thumb between his teeth and lightly bit down on it, wondering what he could possibly say to Alexus to get her back. “You got her phone number?” he asked.

Carolynn hesitated. “I think I might have erased it already.”

“Don’t lie to me, Momma.”

“Who said I was lying?”

“I know when you’re lyin’, and right now you’re lyin’.”

“She asked me not to give it to you. And I can’t say that I blame her. She told me what happened at that concert. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Blake. We raised you better than that.”

“A’ight, Momma. See you in a Lil bit.”

Ending the call, Blake reclined in his comfortable leather seat. Due to his steadfast love for Louis Vuitton, he’d had the interior of the Gulfstream customized by the designer. There were LV logos everywhere. Forty-inch flat screen televisions hung in front of the soft brown seats.

Young-D was reclining in the seat across from Blake, getting a blowjob from Princess, whose head was hidden beneath a thick blanket.

“I’m sorry, Blake,” Janautica whispered, placing her hand on his knee. “I know I be talkin’ shit all the time but.. it’s not… you know I rocks witchoo, like, hard body. And it ain’t even much about the money. I straight, like, digs ya, yuh feel me? I ain’t never f*cked with no nigga like I f*cks witchoo. F’real.”

“I know, Nauti. For the most part, I like that tough attitude, but you can’t do that shit all day, every day. You be blowin’ me wit’ that shit.”

He shut his eyes again, and Janautica undid his white 8732 jeans, pulled out his flaccid dick and sucked it into her mouth. A great apology.





Chapter 13

Following the bombing, half of the bodyguards had rushed Alexus and her son to the two-mile-long landing strip that lay behind the mega-mansion and onto her Gulfstream VI jet, while the other half escorted everyone else to the Matamoros airport, where they set them up on a flight to Miami. Both T-Walk and Tasia had tried calling Alexus several times since then, but it was to no avail; they got her voicemail every time.

“Ain’t this about a bitch?” T-Walk said as he paced the floor of his $10,000-a-month penthouse suite at the

Fontainebleau hotel in Miami. “I was so close to getting that connect, bruh. On Larry Bernard Hoover, Alexus said they’ve been moving twenty-two tons of dope every f*cking week! You know how much cocaine that is? Nigga, that’s twenty thousand ki’s!”

Craig was sitting on the arm of the sofa with a short glass of Hennessy in his hand. Cereniti and Kenya had gotten their own hotel room, and so had Tasia and Bookie.

“I can believe that,” Craig said. “Shit, if I was Reesie Cup, I would have made Alexus pay way more than fifty million. I heard she got, like, a billion in cash stashed somewhere down there in Mexico.”

T-Walk stopped pacing and stared at Craig through squinted eyelids. “What are you talking about?”

“Tasia said Alexus told her about the stash when—”

“No, I mean about Reesie Cup.”

“Oh.” Craig sipped his cognac. “I thought you knew ‘bout that.”

“About what?”

“’Bout the fifty million he got from kidnapping Blake’s Lil girl.”

“He told you that?”

“Nah, I don’t even know that nigga. Tiff-Tiff told me he was the only nigga who didn’t have a mask on when they ran in that apartment she had in Chicago and tied up her, Ashley and the Lil girl. They originally came to rob Tim—remember, Tiff was f*ckin’ with that clown while I was locked up—but when Cup figured out that Ash was Blake’s baby-momma, and that the Lil girl was Blake’s daughter, he kidnapped ‘em, and Alexus dropped fifty million to get ‘em back. I think the only reason he killed Ash was ‘cause she knew who he was.”

“Aww, okay,” T-Walk said, slowly nodding as the pieces came together in his head. “So, that’s why Blake shot up them niggas in Chicago. It all makes sense.”

“Know what else would make sense?”

“What’s that?”

“If we kidnap Alexus’ son.”





Chapter 14

A TMZ cameraman was standing outside of the airport when Alexus and her security team emerged from the front doors at LAX. She had the baby nestled against her bosom, and her eyes were vigilantly sweeping the passing vehicles as Enrique Aleman, her head of security, urged her toward the waiting Escalade limousine.

“Alexus, can you tell us anything about the bombing?” The cameraman asked, aiming his shoulder-mounted camera at her face.

She ignored him and the many other people whose video phones were fixed on her and climbed into the limo. Enrique got in next to her, and the remaining six bodyguards hopped in the black Suburban that was parked behind the stretch Escalade.

There was an app on Alexus’ iPhone that allowed her direct access to the state of the art camera system at her Matamoros estate. She selected it and then watched for the second time as her cousin Isabella pulled up in her white Maybach, got out, and planted a small black box on the underside of the Phantom. Alexus turned to Enrique and regarded him with an angry scowl.

“Explain to me why I’m paying you a hundred thousand dollars per month,” she said. “Is that not enough to finance an effective security team? Let me know if it’s not.”

“Come on now, Lexi. There is no way we could have known what Bella was up to. I was your grandmother’s personal security for many years, and not once have I encountered a cowardly Costilla Cartel member until now. When my men at the front gate asked her why she was leaving so suddenly after having just got there, she told them she’d forgotten her purse.”

Shaking her head and rubbing King Neal’s back, Alexus said, “I want my security doubled—no, quadrupled. I’ll write you a check to cover the expenses. And from now on, I want to be advised every time someone steps foot on my property. No exceptions.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll implement the changes immediately.”

Alexus dialed Papi’s mobile number, but he didn’t’ answer, so she called Rita.

“Why haven’t you been answering your phone, Alexus?” There was an underlying gloominess to Rita’s commanding tone.

“Enrique asked me to forward all calls to my voicemail until we could determine who planted the explosive.”

“Have you learned anything yet?”

“No, not yet. The police are investigating. Our camera system was down when it happened,” Alexus said, hating herself more and more as the lies spilled out of her mouth. But she had to abide by the Cartel’s rules, and the rules stated that issues were to be handled internally, with no assistance from non-members. She changed the subject before Momma could question her further. “How’s Nat doing?”

“Believe it or not, I’m more distraught than he is,” Rita said. “Nat is as angry as a raging bull. I think he’s going to retaliate, to tell you the truth. We’re at his Uncle Will’s house with the rest of his family. He and will are in the kitchen talking.” She paused for a couple of seconds then whispered, “Will’s a gunsmith. He owns a gun store here in Virginia.”

“In my opinion, he should kill whoever did that to his family.”

“I’m not going to let him throw his life away, Alexus. And don’t ever mention something as insane as that again.”

“Why not? What do you think the authorities are gonna do to the killer if they ever catch him? They’re gonna give him the death penalty, Momma. They’re gonna kill him by injecting poison into his veins. A killing is a killing, no matter how kindly you word it.”

Rita whispered, “Your father murdered these people. I’m certain of it.”

For a long moment, Alexus was quiet. She looked at King Neal’s innocent little form and hoped that he would never have to endure the iniquities of life. “Papi didn’t do that, Momma,” she finally said.

“Don’t be so na?ve. You know these murders have Papi written all over them. It is not a coincidence that dismembered bodies keep popping up all around us. I remember what happened to Raul. That boy didn’t kill those girls. And you know it.”

“I don’t know what happened.”

“Well, you aren’t as aware as I thought you were.”

Alexus sighed. “I’m gonna call Papi.”

“Tell him I said that if he ever contacts me again, I’m going straight to the FBI and telling them everything I know.”

“Don’t say that, Momma.”

“I say what I mean,” Rita countered. “Kiss my grandson for me, will you? And get him somewhere safe. I’m about to go out to our rental car and pray for a little while.”

“I’ll call you in the morning.”

“Where are you staying?”

“I’m dropping King Neal off with Blake’s mom.”

“In L.A.?”

“Yeah. I might stay there for the night.”

“Just make sure my little nugget is safe. Love you.”

Alexus set the phone down next to her, moved to the longer section of seats, and eased down onto her back, kicking off her heels in the process. She sat King Neal up on her stomach.

“Hey, little man,” she said, smiling at him. “Somebody tried to kill us today, you know that? My fat-ass cousin tried to take our precious lives.”

“Want me to call Papi?” Enrique asked.

“Go ahead. Put him on speakerphone,” Alexus replied.

“You don’t really want me to call him, do you?”

“Not really, but I have to at least let him know that I’m alright.”

Reluctantly, Enrique took a smart phone from the waistline of his black Armani suit and called Juan Costilla, putting it on speakerphone as Alexus asked.

“Where’s my princess?” Papi hastily inquired.

“I’m right here, Papi. The baby and I are safe. I’m on my way to drop him off at…an old friend’s place.”

“Who did it?”

“The same fat whore I beat up a few weeks ago.”

Papi chuckled sarcastically. “So, that’s why she called me.” He laughed again. “My niece is truly a complex woman, isn’t she?”

“What?!” Alexus was disbelieving. “You are going to kill her, right?”

“Of course not. I don’t get involved in cat fights. That’s between you and Bella. I love my niece just as much as I love you.”

“You didn’t say that when you blew Savio’s brains out!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Alexus.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” she snapped, a note of defiance lacing her tone.

“Listen, Alexus, I’m not getting involved, and that’s that. If you want her dead, you’re going to have to kill her yourself.”

She turned and glared at Enrique as if he were the source of her anxiety. “Why’d you do that to Nat Turner’s family?” She asked Papi.

Enrique glanced down at his phone. “He just hung up.”





Chapter 15

Dressed in a white 8732 t-shirt, matching baggy jeans, and a white Louboutin red-bottom sneakers, Blake mobbed through the Los Angeles airport, rolling a heavy Louis Vuitton suitcase behind him. He was expecting to go unnoticed by the hundreds of late night travelers, but the majority of them recognized both him and Young-D, which resulted in a bunch of autographs and pictures with the bustling crowd of fans.

One fan in particular—a tall, slim black guy in a tight yellow shirt and skinny jeans—said, “Damn, Bulletface, what happened with you and Alexus? There’s no way I would’ve broken up with her. She’s as thick and pretty as that girl in French Montana’s “Shot Caller” video, and she’s rich as shit!”

“You need to break up with them tight-ass pants,” Janautica said, stepping forward with her hands on the hips of her twenty-five-hundred dollar beige Valentino dress.

Blake and Young-D laughed as the disgruntled fan turned around and stormed off. Janautica flipped him the middle finger as he was leaving.

“Fruity f*cka,” she muttered.

A black-suited chauffeur was standing near the airport entrance holding up a black-lettered sign that read, Blake King. After taking one last picture with a middle-aged black couple, Blake and his entourage walked over to the chauffeur, and he preceded them outside.

Sporadic flashes from paparazzi cameras illuminated the darkening night. The entire Kardashian clan had just arrived at LAX, and Blake felt grateful; he wasn’t in a mood to be dealing with paparazzi.

They departed from the airport in a long white Escalade. Young-D jotted down rap lyrics on a white college-ruled notepad while listening to music on his iPod via a pair of Beats headphones. He was putting the finishing touches on his verse to Blake’s “So Much Ice,” which featured Lil Webbie and Gucci Mane.

Janautica rested her head against Blake’s shoulder. “So, whatchoo gon’ tell the rich bitch?” She softly asked, rubbing her fingertips across the diamond-encrusted buckle of his Louis Vuitton belt.

“I’ma tell her the truth. Either she can accept it, or she can move one.”

“What’s the truth?”

“Shit, I don’t know. It’ll come out when I talk to her,” he said.



Blake was surprised to find a black suburban blocking the entrance to his parents’ driveway when he arrived at their Brentwood mansion. Two burly bodyguards were standing side by side in front of the tall iron gates. An escalade limousine was parked at the curb.

As Blake and Young-D were helping the chauffeur unload their luggage from the rear of the SUV, the gates opened, and Blake’s father, Dale, walked out wearing a tailored gray business suit. Savaria streaked past him in a plum-colored sundress and leaped into Blake’s arms.

“Daddy!” She yelled, and kissed him on the cheek.

“Hey, baby girl! You miss me?”

“Mmm hmm. And guess what, daddy. My step-momma just got here, and I ask her to stay and her said yeah.”

Dale walked up and gave Blake a fatherly hug. “Alexus just found out you’re here. She ain’t lookin’ too pleased.”

“Oh well. I’m sure people in hell ain’t too pleased about the heat, but they gotta deal wit’ it,” Blake said.

Young-D tipped the driver two hundreds and they all headed inside. During the brief walk, Savaria told Blake how much fun she’d been having at her new school, how many new friends she had, and who she was going to be dressed up as for Halloween.

Carolynn and Alexus were admiring the framed portrait of Nelson Mandela that was hung over the fireplace when Blake stepped into the living room. Alexus turned to Blake and regarded him an ice cold, scornful stare. Then she flicked her eyes over to Janautica.

“Isn’t this the same chick who hugged you that day at the courthouse?” She asked Blake.

Carolynn crossed the room and grabbed her granddaughter’s hand. “Come on, Vari. Let’s get you in the tub. Dale, show our guests to their rooms.”

“I’m Janautica Spalding, by the way,” Janautica said, smiling and waving at Alexus. “I’m Blake’s assistant.” She fell in line behind Princess and Young-D, and the three of them followed Dale out of the living room.

Blake strolled over to the L-shaped black leather sectional sofa and sat down, trying to decide if he should go along with Janautica’s lie or simply tell his ex the truth.

Planting her hands on her hips, Alexus said, “She’s not really your assistant, is she?”

“She is my assistant.” Technically, he wasn’t lying. Janautica did handle a lot of his business.

“I would say I believe you,” Alexus said, “but I’ll never, ever believe you again.”

“You still love me?”

“Fuck you, Blake.”

“What? I’m only askin’ a question. All you gotta do is say yes or no.”

“That’s it? Fine. No.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Any more questions, sir? Because I have some important phone calls to make, and I don’t have time to—”

“Man shut the f*ck up with that bullshit. You done f*cked some niggas just like I done f*cked some bitches, and don’t lie and say you haven’t”

“See”—she pointed a forefinger at him, dropping her other hand back to her waist—“that’s your problem right there. You don’t know how to treat a woman. You talk to me like I’m some kind of prostitute, you lie to me, you f*ck every bitch who’s dumb enough to spread her legs for you, and somehow you expect me to just overlook all of that, to keep on loving you while you treat me like shit? Ha! That’ll never happen again. I mean, I love you, but I am not going to be your personal little rug. Find yourself another woman to walk on.”

Blake smirked. “So, you do love me.”

“Agh!” Alexus exclaimed, rolling her eyes. “I f*cking hate you!”

“Make up your mind. Which one is it?”

“Do you see a smile on my face? Stop taking everything I say as a joke.” A single tear drop slid down her left cheek. “You don’t love me. You’ve never loved me. Our entire relationship was a joke to you.”

“No it wasn’t,” Blake said, his tone shifting to a more serious note. “Baby, I love you more than anything in the world. You don’t know how many times I done woke up in the middle of the night wishin’ you was there layin’ next to me. I know I f*cked up that night at the concert. Ain’t nothing I can do about that ‘cept apologize and hope you forgive me. If I could take it back, I would. Swear to God.”

He got up and walked to her.

“Don’t touch me, Blake,” she said, taking a step back.

“Let me get just one kiss, baby.”

“Kiss my ass. Better yet, why don’t you go out and kiss on of those strippers you’ve been throwing all your money at. I’m sure they won’t mind.” Tears began skating down both sides of her face and her lower lip was trembling.

Blake paced his hands on her hips, “Listen, baby. I’ll do whatever I can to fix this relationship, a’ight? Whatever it takes.” He gave her hips an affectionate rub, his intent gaze fixed on her sexy green eyes. “Can I get a kiss now?”

“Hell no,” she murmured.

“What about a hug? Can I get a hug?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her close, squeezing her tightly.

Alexus surrendered to his affectionate embrace and hugged him back.

Blake smiled widely. Although it pained him to see the girl he loved so much looking hurt, it still felt good having her in his arms again. He swept his lips across her neck, inhaling through his nose the intoxicating scent of her costly perfume. Pulling his head back, he studied her sullen expression again, wondering how he’d been dumb enough to cheat on Alexus Costilla.

“I love you,” he said.

“You have a funny way of showing it,” she retorted thumbing away her tears. “We’re gonna have to get you checked into some kind of sex addiction center; Dr. Drew, or something like that.”

“I don’t need no sex addiction classes. All I need is the squirt-squirt you got down there.” Slapping his muscular black hands onto her phat ass, he kneaded the meaty cheeks with his fingers. Then he pressed his lips against hers, and they kissed for a long while until Alexus jerked her head back and smiled at him.

“If Tasia knew I was standing here kissing you right now, I would never hear the end of it,” she said.

“So what…? Baby, don’t start lettin’ muhf*ckas dictate what goes on in our relationship.”

“I’ll never do that.” She wiped the glossy remnants of her kiss from Blake’s lips. “Can you believe that Bella’s fat ass actually bombed my car? If I hadn’t taken the time to punch Cereniti in her mouth, I’d be dead. We were just about to drive down the road to my restaurant when the explosion happened.”

“Cereniti? You talkin’ ‘bout Tee-Tee? I thought she was dead.”

“So did I. Not many people survived that earthquake and tsunami in Fukushima. I guess she was one of the chosen few.”

“What’s up wit’ Bella? I figured y’all had made up by now.”

“I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with her. I’m gonna have a long conversation with Bella first thing in the morning, though.”

Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” ringtone sounded from Alexus’ Birkin bag, which was sitting on the sofa. She peeled away from Blake and went to answer it.

“Change that ringtone,” Blake demanded with a chuckle. “And let me hear that phone call, too.

Alexus looked over her shoulder at him, “You can trust me, Blake. I’m not the one who’s been sucking on strippers every damn night,” she reminded him.

But she put the call on speakerphone anyways. It was from a seven-seven-three area code. Chicago.

“Hello? Is this Alexus Costilla?” Said a young female voice.

Alexus frowned. “May I ask who’s calling?”

“I need to know that I’m speaking with Alexus before I give my name. This is a very, very personal call.”

“I’m Alexus Costilla.”

A sigh drifted through the phone. “I’m…Mercedes. Mercedes Costilla. I’m your sister.”

“Sorry, I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else. I’m an only child,” Alexus said, getting ready to end the call.

“This isn’t a mistake. Unless there are two sixty-year-old men named Juan Miguel Donaldo Costilla from Matamoros, Mexico, which I’m absolutely sure there isn’t, you and I are sisters.”





Chapter 16

T-Walk had been staying at the Fontainebleau, in his grand two bedroom penthouse suite, ever since his split from Kenya. He’d chosen to reside in Miami not only because of the plethora of beautiful women and celebrities he often mingled and networked with at the LIV nightclub downstairs, but also because the hotel was within driving distance of the North Palm Beach and Jupiter Island estates where his hit reality shows were filmed.

Occasionally, when Thunder wasn’t busy partying and arguing on the set of Brick House, she’d show up at T-Walk’s door unannounced, usually clad in something that looked to have come straight out of a porn stars closet. And tonight was no different.

When T-Walk answered the door at t a few minutes past midnight, he found Thunder standing there in a white lab coat, a nurse’s hat, and a tall pair of transparent heels. A stethoscope hung from her neck. Through the eyeglasses that were perched low on the tip of her nose, she seemed to be reading from the clipboard in her hand, licking her red-painted lips.

“Mr. Walkson?” Thunder said, lifting her eyes to his. “I’m Dr. Wet Cat, Chief sexologist at the Southern Institute of Sexual Deprivation. Mind if I step inside?”

Chuckling to himself, T-Walk turned around and walked back to his sofa. He heard the door click shut behind him. About ten minutes earlier, he had changed into a sky-blue three piece Gucci suit, intending to head down to LIV and hopefully get a word with Trina, who was hosting a party at the gaudy nightclub.

“I was just about to leave,” he said, taking a seat.

“Are you nuts? Sexual deprivation is a very contagious disease, sir. You could infect half of Dade County.”

Thunder stepped in front of him and took off the lab coat, revealing her naked body. The nipples of her big chocolate breasts were pierced, as was her tongue and clitoris, and she smelled good enough to eat. She kneeled between his legs, set the clipboard down on the floor next to her, and started unbuckling his belt.

“So,” T-Walk asked, “what do you suggest I do to overcome this terrible disease? You got some kind of medicine for me?”

“A minor blowjob treatment should suffice.” She twisted her tongue ring, and it began vibrating. “If that doesn’t work, we may have to rush you to the Emergency Room for immediate sexual healing.”

A smile of pleasure spread across T-Walk’s mulatto face. He dropped his head back and reveled in the moment as Thunder’s tremulous tongue touched the crown of his dick. She took it into her mouth, fluctuating her lips up and down its length.

‘One billion dollars in cash,’ T-Walk thought to himself. ‘And all I have to do is kidnap a baby to get it.’

He’d been pondering the kidnapping scheme ever since Craig had mentioned it a few hours ago, and he had to admit, it didn’t sound like a bad idea. Sure, it would be extremely difficult to launder that much money, but that was nothing compared to the benefits he’d reap from having a billion dollars at his disposal. The only thing holding him back from drawing out an actual kidnapping plot was the fact that King Neal might be his own son.

‘I gotta hurry up and get that DNA test done,’ he told himself.





Chapter 17

“Everything she’s saying is true, Alexus. I’ve been going over the paperwork with Mercedes all day. She was born exactly one year and three days after you were born,” Britney Bostic said through the speakerphone. “Your father even signed her birth certificate.”

Alexus’ opened-mouthed, wide-eyed expression told it all: she was shocked beyond belief. She turned to Blake and saw that he looked just as shocked.

“I was sorting through some of my mom’s stuff after the funeral when I came across an old picture of her standing with Juan beside a big swimming pool,” Mercedes said. “Momma showed me the picture a long time ago—I think I was around eight or nine then—but I never bothered to ask about him, because I didn’t know him. I still don’t know him. He left my mom ‘cause she was addicted to crack.”

Blake plopped down on the sofa behind Alexus and pulled her down onto his lap. “Well, nice to meet you, sister-in-law,” he said to Mercedes.

“Is that Blake?” Attorney Bostic asked.

Ignoring the inquiry, Alexus combed her fingers through her hair and mumbled, “I have a sister.” She couldn’t believe it.

“You are not going to believe how much she looks like you,” Britney said. “Only difference is she’s a tad bit shorter and about two shades darker.”

“Where do you live…Mercedes?” Alexus asked.

“I’ve lived with my mom for most of my life, but I moved in with my boyfriend when I turned eighteen earlier this year, and my mom moved to Indiana.” She sniffled audibly. “I wish I’d have just stayed with her, you know? If I hadn’t left, she and I would still be together in that raggedy old house on Ridgeway.”

A grim silence filled the room. Mercedes was obviously crying. Five seconds later, she shakily murmured,” My mom was killed a couple of weeks ago in Michigan City, Indiana. Some guy knocked on her door, asked her name, and when she said it, he shot her in the face.”

“Oh, my God!” Alexus exclaimed. “What’s her name?”

“Whitney Clark,” cried Mercedes. “Whoever did it must’ve had something against women named Whitney, ‘cause seven others were killed that night, and all of them had the same name.”





Chapter 18

Blake watched as the color drained form the beautiful face of his favorite woman. Her body went limp. She pressed her back against his brand-new trio of platinum and white diamond necklaces.

“I’ll um… be in Chicago tomorrow afternoon,” Alexus murmured, finger-combing her hair again. “Do you need some cash?”

“Girl, I’m flat-broke,” Mercedes said. “I have an eleven-month-old daughter and a two year-old son, I got laid off from my job at Church’s Chicken for being late five days in a row, and I spent the fifteen hundred I had saved up on my mom’s funeral. My man was helping out, but he got busted the other day with five ounces of cocaine in the trunk of his car,” she paused for a moment then added, “I don’t want you to think I’m contacting you to get some money—”

“No, it’s fine. Britney, wire her ten grand. I’m, um, I have to go. Whose phone number is this?”

“It’s mine,” Mercedes said.

“Okay, I’ll call you as soon as I get up in the morning, and I’m going to make damned sure Papi’s on the phone, too.”

Alexus was quiet for a minute or so after the call. Rubbing his hand across her stomach, Blake wondered what she was thinking.

“You did it,” she finally said.

“Nah, nigga, don’t blame that shit on me,” Blake countered. “I didn’t tell you to have somebody go out and whack them hoes.”

“Shut up talking to me, Blake.” She stood up. “Come on, let’s go to bed. I need some rest.”

“You need some help.”

Following her out of the living room, Blake couldn’t keep his eyes off her backside. “You do look kinda like that video chick,” he said.

Alexus sighed. “Who do I look like this time?”

“That thick-ass girl in the French Montana video.” He reached out and squeezed her big, soft ass. “I want you in my video with some tight jeans on too. We’ll be shootin’ the video for “Lime-Green Bugatti” in a few days.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Fuck you mean?”

“I said I’ll think about it. For all I know, you might be f*cking somebody else by then.”

Just as they were approaching Dale and Carolynn’s master bedroom, Savaria stepped out into the hallway in her Minnie Mouse pajamas, holding a stuffed Minnie Mouse doll under her arm. Her brown eyes lit up at the sight of Blake and Alexus together. She raised an index finger to her lips. “Sshhh.”

Squatting down to the little girl’s level, Alexus whispered, “Hey Vari. What are you shushing me about?”

“My grandma just tucked me in, and her don’t know I’m out here. Her think I’m sleep, okay? So we just have to be quiet.”

Blake laughed as he picked up his daughter and set her on his hip. “It’s bedtime, baby girl,” he said, heading toward Savaria’s bedroom.

“Is you and my step-momma gon’ stay together again? I hope you to stay with her, Daddy. I love my step-momma.”

“Aww,” Alexus cooed. “I love you, too.” She looked at Blake. “And I love daddy….sometimes.”

Savaria’s bedroom had pink walls, pink faux fur carpeting, and a stage that sat against on wall beneath an ever spinning crystal ball. There was a big Minnie Mouse face stitched into the middle of the two-toned pink blanket that rambled across Savaria’s king-sized bed, with a dozen matching pillows lined up at the head of the bed. A pink four-step staircase was set next to the bed.

“I see you’ve been busy in here,” Alexus said, looking around.

Blake laid Savaria down in bed and pulled the covers up to her neck.

“You like it, step-momma?” Savaria asked.

“Of course I like it, I wish my room had been like this when I was a kid. Did you pick out the colors yourself?”

“No. Grandma paid a lady to fix all the rooms good like this, and the lady fixed all the rooms.”

“Good night, Savaria,” Blake interjected. He kissed her forehead.

“I love you, daddy.”

“I love you more.”

Savaria’s eyes moved to Alexus. “Step-momma, can I just call you Momma now? I don’t want you to be my step-momma no more.”

Alexus smiled. “I’m okay with that.” She bent over and gave Savaria a hug.

Blake felt a distinct warmness in his chest as he and Alexus were leaving the bedroom. It was a wonderful feeling that he never experience before. Alexus grabbed his hand, interlaced her fingers with his.

When they made it to his bedroom, Blake opened the door and found Enrique Aleman sitting on the Italian leather sofa that sat a few feet away from the foot of Blake’s king-size bed. Enrique was typing something on a laptop computer. King Neal was asleep in his glass crib.

“We now have sixty-five men here in Brentwood, and I’ve ordered eight armored Excursions and an armored Hummer limousine to be delivered here at zero five hundred hours. It’ll cost us about a hundred and twenty grand extra if you’re trying to get them flown to Chicago tomorrow,” Enrique said, getting to his feet. He walked over to Alexus and hugged her, glanced at Blake, and then disappeared from the room without another word. Blake locked the door behind him.

“What’s up wit’ him? Blake asked. He sat down on the side of his bed and started taking off his jewelry and laying the expensive pieces on his bedside table.

“He’s alright, just a little overprotective.” Staring at the platinum and white diamond watch Blake was taking off, she said, “Is that a Hublot?”

“Yeah, I heard Jay-Z say somethin’ ‘bout a Hublot, so I said f*ck it and bought three of ‘em. Fo’ hun’ed racks a piece.”

There was a fully-automatic Uzi submachine gun taped under the bedside table. Blake ripped it loose and set it up on top of the table. He took the twenty-thousand dollar bundles of rubber-banded hundreds out of his pockets and tossed them on the table, too. Then he got naked and stretched himself out in the middle of the bed.

“You do know it’s past midnight, right?” Alexus said, pulling off her dress.

“And…?” Blake looked down at his dick, which was growing long and harder by the second. “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

“It’s officially Halloween.” She peeled off her white lace bra and panties, kicked off her heels, and hopped on top of him. “And tonight, I’m gonna make you think my name is Superhead.”

She lowered her mouth to his, and they shared a passionate kiss, her tongue wrestling with his, his strong, black hands rubbing all over her ass. He slipped a hand between her thighs and massaged her clit.

“Mmm..Shhh….,” she moaned, raising up to look at him. “Keep…doing that… right there.” She pinched her nipples mashed her breast together. “I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna…”

Her creamy juices spilled out onto his dick. She moved his hand and slid her dripping * back and forth along the underside of his thick pole.

“Damn,” Blake said with a chuckle. “That was quick. You missed me that much?”

“I love you that much,” she corrected.

Then she went down on him. Like Lakita, Alexus could take his dick to the very back of her throat without choking, and she did exactly that. She held it hostage in her throat for a couple of seconds, twisting her head clockwise and counterclockwise to get a few more inches of him into her mouth. Slowly, she skated her lips up to the head, sucked on it as hard as she could, then popped it out of her mouth.

“Put your jewelry back on,” she said, stroking, and squeezing his dick, a string of pre-cum dangling from her bottom lip.

There were two hundred carats of chunky round-cut diamonds in each of Blake’s three necklaces. His bracelet also boasted two hundred carats of white diamonds, so did his custom-designed Hublot. He sat up and put it all back on as Alexus went back to sucking him, including his two platinum and white diamond pinky rings and his ten-carat, round-cut white diamond earrings.

Leaning back on his elbows, Blake watched as Alexus bounced her sultry lips up and down his dick as rapidly that she seemed to be moving in fast-forward. Sucking sounds filled the bedroom. The seventy-five inch widescreen was on and tuned to MTN, and the volume was muted. Light from the television reflected off Blake’s plethora of diamonds, creating a shimmering effect.

Alexus’ killer head-game took a toll on Blake a mere ten minutes after it had begun. She must have sensed his imminent eruption, because suddenly she deep-throated his dick and kept it there as he ejaculated, letting the cum drop down onto his shaft before sealing her lips around it and ascending up to its gushing head. She sucked and tongued the rest of his semen into her mouth, then dropped her head back and showed him the glue-like pool of cum that covered her tongue.

“Ugh, you’s a nasty muhf*cka,” Blake said, wincing in disgust.

“How am I nasty? You’re the one who shot his gunk in my mouth.” With her fingernails, Alexus grabbed a thick ribbon of cum off her tongue, stretched it away as if were a piece of chewing gum, and then laid it back on her tongue and started gargling it in her throat. Finally, she swallowed it all down in two long gulps. “Still think I’m nasty?”

“You ain’t kissin’ King Neal no more, I’m tellin’ you dat now.” Blake moved her onto her back.

She snickered as he kissed her navel. “Go on down there and get your mouth nasty, too. See how you like it when I bust one in your mouth,” she said, pushing his head further down.

Blake didn’t argue with that. Nor did he remove her hands from his head. The delicious aroma of her * beckoned him, and he had already been waiting weeks to get another taste of her.

Puckering his lips around her throbbing clitoris, he sucked and licked and swished a bunch of saliva over it while slipping two fingers in and out of her *, a well-honed technique of his that Alexus had named the “washing machine.” It usually brought her to orgasm within five or so minutes, but this time she barely lasted two before she began squirting onto Blake’s chin. He lapped up her sweet juices, and then rose up on his knees, stroking his hard dick.

Blake f*cked her for a good hour after that—missionary and doggy-style, cowgirl and reverse cow-girl—and when he was ready to explode, Alexus deep-throated his dick and drank his cum again.





Chapter 19

Juan Miguel Donaldo Costilla was awakened the following morning by the sound of his brother’s voice. “They’re here Papi,” Flako whispered.

Papi opened his eyes inhaling the lingering scents of multiple perfumes, hairsprays, cigarettes, and alcohol. There were four sexy young girls—all of them African-American and in their twenties—in the bed with him.

Last night, with the assistance of two Viagra pills and a bottle of his favorite Brandy, Papi had been able to last quite a while with the four girls.

He sat up wiping his eyes, “What time is it?” He groggily asked.

“It’s seven o’clock here in South Beach. Enrique just called and said he’s somewhere in L.A. with Alexus and that she’s back with Bulletface.” Flako was looking worried. He helped Papi out of bed and into a heavy black-and-gold Versace robe.

Working the kinks out of his tired old body, Papi went to his walk-in closet and opened his safe. He grabbed a ten-thousand dollar stack of bank wrapped hundreds, a gold, razor-sharp machete, and a gold-plated .50 caliber Desert Eagle with an already attached titanium sound-suppressor. He set everything down on top of the safe, took a deep breath then roved his eyes across the many expensive suits that lined the wall to his left.

Flako appeared in the doorway. “I can’t lose my daughter, Juan. Not over something as stupid as this.”

“That’s between Bella and Lexi. You have my word; I won’t get involved in any way.” Papi pulled two suits—a dark-gray Niemann Elements and a navy-blue Brooks Brothers—from the rack and showed them to his brother. “Which one do you think I should wear to the Halloween massacre?”

“What are you talking about?” Flako asked, lighting a cigar.

“I’m gonna pay another visit to Virginia, see if I can find the rest of that black guy’s family. Rita has no idea who she’s f*cking with, vato. I was good to her.” He locked eyes with Flako. “Was I not good to her? Did I not take care of that woman? I’m the reason she’s rich. If not for our mother, there would be no MTN. There would be no Niemann Elements. Blake wouldn’t have that stupid record company. Rita wouldn’t have that talk show.” He threw the gray suit to the plush black carpet and spit on it. “I’ll blow up that f*cking MTN tower!”

“We’re not going back to Virginia, Papi. Leave Nat Turner and his family alone. Killing them won’t make Rita re-marry you.”

“Yeah? Well I disagree,” Papi said. He picked out a tie, shirt, underwear, fedora, and a silk pocket square to go along with his Brooks Brothers suit. “What’s with the new guys in Columbia? Two grand per kilo?”

Flako nodded his head. “The North Valley Cartel is offering us a much better deal than the one we have with that wanna-be in Medellin. The new deal would only cost us two hundred million a month.”

“For a hundred thousand kilos?”

“Yep. And they’re guaranteeing the bricks will be one hundred percent pure, not that ninety-seven percent garbage from Medellin. North Valley even has the United Self-Defense Forces of Columbia protecting its drug routes and laboratories. I hear they have good heroin, too. We could maybe grab ten thousand of them at ten grand apiece, put a hundred thousand dollar price tag on each one, no? We’d make a nice profit.”

“What about the Medellin Cartel?” Papi asked.

“Who gives a shit? I’m worried about the Costilla Cartel, making sure we’re eating.” The fervent tip of Flako’s cigar brightened as he puffed from it. “I see a lot of potential in Blake’s little Midwest crew. He reminds me of that guy from Detroit we used to do business with; the flashy guy.”

“You’re talking about Meech.”

Papi handed the suit and all its accessories to Flako; he then picked up the cash and the machete with one hand and the .50-caliber with the other. He breezed past Flako and shouted for the girls to wake up. Once he had their attention, he tossed the stack of hundred dollar bills onto the bed with them.

“Each one of you gets twenty-five hundred. I need you all to stay in here until I get back. Should be no longer than five minutes,” Papi said, glancing at the panties, bras, and empty Rosé champagne bottles that littered the floor around his huge bed. “Clean this room up and I’ll double it.”

While Flako was draping his brother’s outfit over the arm of a honey-colored easy chair, Papi told the two men who were standing outside his bedroom door to watch the girls. Then he and Flako left the bedroom.

“When do you plan on selling this place,” Flako asked.

“I paid a million and a half for this mansion, back in nineteen seventy. Now, almost forty-two years later, it’s worth twenty-eight million. Why should I sell it? It might be worth fifty million forty years from now.”

“That’s a big leap.”

Papi lifted his shoulders, “You never know.”

A small group of Costilla Cartel henchmen were huddled around two chairs in the four-car garage when Papi and Flako walked through the door. The two men tied to the chairs had black pillowcases pulled down over their heads. They were the same men who’d been stationed at the front gate at the Matamoros estate when Isabella planted the bomb on the phantom.

“Incompetent workers will never rank high on my list of favorites,” Papi said, raising the Desert Eagle. “And unfortunately, you two didn’t make the list at all.”





Chapter 20

Alexus was jolted awake at 5:50 a.m. by the sound of her iPhone vibrating on the bedside table. Not wanting to disturb Blake’s sleep—and certainly not wanting to startle her son into a screaming fit—she picked up the phone and tiptoed to the adjoining marble-floored bathroom, narrowing her eyes as she found the light switch and flicked it on. The call was from Tasia.

“How you doin’ girl? Are you okay?” Tasia asked.

“Bitch, do you know what time it is?”

“Depends on where you’re at. It’s almost nine here in Miami.”

“Well it’s going on six here in L.A.” Alexus squatted over the toilet to relieve her bladder. “Oh God, I have so much to tell you. You’re not going to believe this. I got a call from some girl named Mercedes last night. She claims to be my little sister and she has the birth certificate to back it up. Britney was on the line with her and everything.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Yo, that’s mad crazy.”

“I still can’t believe it. I’m flying out to Chicago to meet her in a few hours,” Alexus said with a yawn. “Sorry for not calling you after we left Mexico. My chief of security had me forward all my calls to voicemail, and by the time I turned the call-forwarding off, I was ready for bed.” She chuckled lightly. “Shit, after Blake pounded this *, I thought I’d sleep for two days straight.”

Tasia sucked her teeth. “You gave that punk-ass nigga some coochie? Are you serious? Have you lost your damned mind?”

“Bitch, you know how much I love that boy. I had to give him another chance,” Alexus said, flushing the toilet.

“What about T-Walk?”

“What about him? He’s a successful producer with a great vision, and I’m hoping he’ll be able to crank out a few more hit shows for MTN. Other than that, we’re pretty much done. He’s my plan B for now, you know what I’m saying? Boyfriend number two.”

“Have you ever ridden the short bus?”

Alexus laughed. “Fuck you, Tasia. I am not slow; I’m in love, and I refuse to let anything or anyone get in the way of me having that love. So, please, if you’re not going to support me—”

“Whatever, whatever, whatever. Ain’t nobody tryin’ to hear that. Blake cheated on you once, and you know he’ll do it again. But since you don’t want to talk about that, tell me who put that bomb in your car.”

“We’ll discuss that later. Just get yourself a ticket to Chicago. I’ll be there in about four or five hours.”

“You bringin’ King, too? I mean, I would if I were going to meet my sister for the first time. I’m sure she’ll want to meet her nephew.”

Alexus went to the bathtub and turned on the water. “I guess I’ll bring him. Girl, let me get myself together.”

“A’ight, bitch. I’ll call you when I get to the Chi.”





Chapter 21

“She’s bringing the baby.” Tasia said, setting the phone down on her lap. She was sitting in the passenger’s seat of T-Walk’s powder blue Bentley Continental GT, puffing on a robust blunt of Purple Kush.

T-Walk clenched his teeth together and kept his eyes on the road as he drove up Brickell Avenue. Craig and Cereniti were tailing him in a rented Cadillac CTS Coupe. They had just had breakfast at a fancy restaurant inside the Four Seasons, and now they were headed out to do some shopping until Kenya and Bookie got back from visiting their family in Fort Lauderdale.

“I can’t stand that dumb bitch,” T-Walk said. He had heard the entire conversation between Tasia and Alexus, and he wasn’t happy.

Tasia offered him the blunt. “Don’t let that shit get to you, big bruh. So what if she calls you boyfriend number two? If we can snatch that baby and get Alexus to pay us a billion dollars—in cash—we’ll be set for life! Let’s stay focused on getting’ that money.”

“What was she saying about her sister? I didn’t know she had a sister.” T-Walk toked on the blunt, pondering the kidnapping scheme.

“She didn’t know about it either.”

They were quiet for a moment. In the back of his mind, Trintino kind of regretted telling Tasia about the planned kidnapping. Not only was she best friends with Alexus, she was also engaged to Bookie, Alexus’ cousin. But T-Walk trusted her. She was like a sister to him, and he knew she was just as eager to get her hands on that cash as he was.

“So,” Tasia asked, “do you really think it’ll be that easy? And even if we do manage to get the money, where can we hide it? How will we launder it? And how will they even get the money into the States?”

“If they can move twenty two tons of dope every week without getting caught, I’m pretty sure they’ll be able to move a billion in cash,” T-Walk reasoned. “What you need to be worried about is how you’re gonna get the baby away from Alexus and past those bodyguards. Everything else will fall in place after that.”

“I sure hope so,” she said, rubbing her hands together.





Chapter 22

“Blake. Blake, get up.” Dale was shaking Blake’s shoulder. “Nigga, you ain’t that damn sleepy. Wake up.”

Vexed, Blake rolled over onto his back, struggling to open his eyes. He studied the vacant left side of his bed, then the white marble-topped Honduran mahogany bedside table where Alexus’ smartphone and Birkin bag had been last night, and finally his dapper father, who was dressed in a clean black suit with a dark blue tie.

“Where Alexus go?” Blake asked. He reached down to the floor next to his bed, picked up his Louis Vuitton boxers, and put them on under the black and white Scarface-themed blanket.

“Nigga, you should’ve seen how she left a few minutes ago,” Pops said, lighting a Newport. “It was like the Secret Service out there, a bunch of cocky-ass Mexicans in Men In Black suits.” He grabbed Blake’s watch. “Man, is this a real Hublot?”

Blake climbed out of bed and took his iPhone off the charger. There were twelve new text messages: one from his music manager, one from Alexus, one from his mother, and nine from Janautica. He read the one from Alexus first:

‘Good mornin, hubby! Gotta go take care of something. Be back @ 7:30-8:00 a.m. Mwah!’

Then he read the message from his music manager:

‘Money Bagz Management tour is set to begin Dec. 2nd! 56 cities, 80 shows, North American tour. First three shows at Madison Square Garden. Lime Green Bugatti video shoot this Thursday in your old Michigan City neighborhood, remix vid shoot w/ Weezy, Kanye, and Ross scheduled for Friday night at Miami mansion, and 30 Inches vid to be shot on popular 38th strip in Indianapolis on Monday. Afterwards we’ll have radio and television appearances and magazine interviews to promote tour and album (we need to get album done ASAP). Have yourself a Happy Halloween, because schedule will get hectic starting Nov. 3rd!’

“How much did you pay for this watch?” Dale asked.

“Too much,” Blake answered abruptly. “Man, Pops, I got this tour coming up in December. Fifty-six cities, eighty shows. That’ll have me all over the country.” He grinned at Dale. “I’m in the rap game, Pops.”

“I always knew you had it in you, son. I am not the least bit surprised at your success. As long as you remain true to what you believe in and give back to the ghetto, I’m with you all the way.”

Blake went into the bathroom to brush his teeth and take a piss. “Where is King Neal? Lexi took him with her?”

“Nah. Your mother took the baby, Vari, and the twins out shopping. Left me here with you and your brother,” Dale said. “He’s out there in the pool with Young-D and those two girls you brought with you. Oh, and your Uncle Noble just got here. That’s why I woke you up. He wanna see you.”

A subtle grin appeared on Blake’s face as he brushed his teeth; gazing at his reflection in the oval mirror above his Carrera marble sink. He’d always favored Uncle Noble over his other two uncles. Uncle Noble was an old-school player out of Detroit, a drug dealer and pimp turned adult film company CEO. He had invested half of the two million dollar check Blake gave him a few weeks ago into the failing porn company, moving it’s headquarters from Detroit to Pasadena, California.

After putting on his jewelry and stepping back into his baggy white jeans and red-bottom sneakers, Blake returned the four bundles of hundreds to his pockets, tucked the Uzi behind the Louis Vuitton belt, and followed Pops out to the sitting room, checking his other text messages as he went. Carolyn had texted him at 6:48 to let him know where she was going and that breakfast was on the stove. Janautica’s messages were densely laced with threats. ‘Umma buss yo stupid azz fohead!’ Said one of them. Another read, ‘I hope you catch AIDS and die… BITCH!!’ And her last text read, ‘I FUKN H8 U!! U LIL FUCK-NIGGA!!!’

Blake laughed to himself. “Crazy Bitch,” he mumbled.

Uncle Noble was leaning back on the rear side of the leather sofa, flipping through one of the many XXL magazines that were always laying on the glass coffee table. He wore a black Brioni suit and Mauri shoes like his older brother Dale, only Noble’s silk tie was yellow with white pinstripes, accentuating his light brown complexion and gold-covered teeth.

Dale poured them each a glass of cognac on ice and they sat down to chat.

“I can’t thank you enough for that money, nephew,” Noble said as he eyed the thick diamonds in Blake’s necklaces. “Everything’s goin’ good now. Got some real stars on the Lucid Entertainment roster. I’m tryin’ to get Montana to do a movie for me, y’smell me, young pimp?”

“I smell you, unc,” Blake said, chuckling at his uncle’s antics.

Serious-faced, Noble moved forward to the edge of his seat. He locked eyes with Blake and said nothing for a couple of seconds; then, “Young pimp, you got the baddest bitch I’ve ever laid eyes on, and she got damn-near sixty billion in the bank.” He paused. “What are you doin’ f*ckin’ anotha bitch? You mean to tell me you’re cheatin’ on the sexiest bitch on the planet, nigga? The same bitch that bought you a Bugatti and gave you a half billion?! Tell me what that equals, ‘cause it ain’t addin’ up to me.”

Dale nodded his head in agreement. “Alexus is in love with you, Blake… and you’re in love with her. And she’s King Neal’s mom—”

“That baby might not even be mine,” Blake interrupted.

“So what?” Said Noble. “I wouldn’t give a damn whose baby it is. You better step yo’ ass up to the plate, swing til you can’t swing no mo’, y’smell me, young pimp? That bad bitch chose you, nigga. Not a nigga that look like you, not a nigga that smell like you, young pimp. You’d better take advantage ‘fore y’hoe meet a savage. Ass around and get her passed around.”

“I got this, unc. Trust me. I’m about to make a billion myself wit’ my record label. Wait and see.”

“Oh, I got faith in you,” Noble said with a Kool-Aid smile. “This family ain’t raised no fools. I’m just tryna make sure you make y’next move y’best move. You ain’t gotta fake it to make it, but y’gotta gotta bake it to cake it, church?” He raised his glass for a toast.

Repressing a chuckle, Blake touched glasses with the old guys. He told Uncle Noble about the upcoming tour, and about his nearly completed freshman album.

“Just make sure you get Face and Mary J on that album,” Noble advised. “And if I ever catch you wearin’ some skinny jeans, or a colorful-ass Mohawk, I’m f*ckin’ you up.”

They laughed jubilantly, three kings in a castle.

“You got me f*cked up, unc. I’m trapped up and strapped up til I’m dead, nigga. Ain’t shit changed,” Blake said, sipping his Hennessey. “I’m done cheatin’ on Lexi, though. I can’t be fake wit’ my bitch and real wit’ my niggas.”

“It’s not about being fake, son,” Dale said. “It’s about morals. Be a man. Real men take care of their women. They love their women until the end of time, you know what I mean? You’re supposed to be making Alexus feel like she’s First Lady Michelle.”

“Tabernacle,” Noble agreed. “It’s cheaper to keep her. If you cain’t keep that sweet cat on track, bring ‘er back and let a mac teach ‘er howda act, y’smell my pimpin’?”

“All day,” Blake said, getting to his feet and walking to one of the long floor-to-ceiling second-floor windows. From there he could see Young-D and Streets mingling with about twenty sexy-bodied black women in the pool out back. “Damn unc, you brought all these bitches?”

Noble joined Blake at the window. “Yep. Those are the Lucid Entertainment girls, all twenty-six of ‘em. Porn superstars.”

“You got the best job ever, unc.” Blake scanned the pool until he found Janautica. She was reclined in a lounge chair beside the pool, a dark pair of shades shielding her eyes from the sun as she chatted with Princess, who was sitting up in the lounge chair next to her. They were getting manicures and pedicures by a team of Asian women.

With a sigh, Blake phoned Janautica, expecting to get snapped on as soon as she answered. He watched her pick up her iPhone from between her thighs and put it to her ear. She had on a black two-piece bikini, and her flawless caramel skin seemed to glow in the sunlight.

“What the hell you want, stupid nappy-head f*cka?” Janautica said acidly.





Chapter 23

The stomach-turning stench of burnt flesh hung over the basement.

Isabella Costilla was naked and lying flat on her back on the rusted springs of the old bed frame. A strip of duct tape sealed her mouth shut, and her wrists and ankles were tied to the corners of the steel frame. Enrique Aleman sat on two stacked crates a foot away from Bella. The jumper cable in his hand was attached to the new car battery at his feet, and every time he rubbed the cable against the steel bed, thousands of volts of electricity coursed through Bella’s body.

“You still want to blow up cars?” Alexus taunted, arms crossed over the chest of her bone-white Pucci dress. She was standing next to Enrique, towering over him in her six-inch Christian Louboutins. “Juice this fat bitch again, Enrique. Make her wish she was dead.”

Enrique touched the cable to the steal for the fifth time in less than a minute. Sparks jumped from the springs. Bella groaned miserably.

“Don’t cry now, Miss Piggy. You didn’t cry when you tried to blow me up, so don’t cry while I try to blow you up. Juice her again.”

The three of them were alone in the basement of Alexus’ sixty-two million dollar, eighty room Beverly Hills mansion. She bought the place on her birthday—April twenty-first—after seeing it on dupontregistry.com, originally planning to wed Blake at the lavish Tuscan-style estate.

Ripping the tape off Bella’s mouth, Alexus sneered at her cousin. “How dare you plant a f*cking bomb on my car! Have you lost your mind?! I’m the queen of this cartel, queen of the f*cking world, you got that? Nobody f*cks over me.” She moved her face close to Bella’s. “If the family tunnel was not connected to your home, I’d murder you right now.”

All Bella could muster up was a painful gurgle that barely escaped her throat, but her eyes were full of dread, an absolute fear to the highest degree.

Beyoncé began singing from Alexus’ iPhone, which was resting atop her Birkin bag on the table behind her. She slapped the tape back onto Bella’s lips. “I’m not through with you,” she hissed, turning around.

The 4,000 square-foot white marble-floored basement was more like a night club than anything. Semicircular white leather sofas encompassed nineteen tables, including four on the elevated VIP platform. There were seventy stools wrapped around the U-shaped, fully stocked bar; eight stripper poles with stages, and enough open floor space to accommodate a large crowd.

Alexus looked at her phone screen and saw that the caller was her mother. Turning back to glare at Bella, she answered the call. “Good morning, Momma. Did you sleep well?”

“Considering the circumstances, yeah, I slept alright,” Rita Mae said. “How’s my grandson?”

“He’s fine. Carolyn took him shopping.” Alexus put her thumbnail between her teeth and lightly bit down on it. “Momma… have you ever known of a woman named Whitney Clark?”

“Sure, I know Whitney Clark. Haven’t seen her in about twenty years, though. She used to do my hair and nails before you were born. I heard she moved to Chicago and started using drugs. Hey, speaking of Chicago, we have to show up for a walk-through of the Lawndale restructuring areas. We were supposed to do it yester—”

“Hold on a second,” Alexus said. “I think Papi pulled an Arnold Schwarzenegger move on us.”

“What do you mean?”

Reluctantly, Alexus explained the conversation she’d had with Whitney’s daughter, and the revelation silenced Rita for a long moment.

“That ungodly man,” Rita finally said.

“I know, Momma.” Alexus paused. “Listen, I’m meeting up with the girl when I get to Chicago. I’m gonna take her shopping and then bring her with me for the Lawndale walk-through. She said she has two kids, too. I’ll order them some things online.”

“Call me when you get here. CNN, BET, and MTN camera crews will be set up on the corner of sixteenth and Millard in the parking lot of that high school by six o’clock Chicago time.”

“The one we’re reopening?”

“Yeah. I renamed it Shirley Earl High School. There’s an old wise woman by that name who dedicated her life to the enrichment of that community. Nat told me about her.”

“How’s Nat doing?”

Rita sighed despondently. “He’s staying in Southampton for a few weeks. I suggested he take some time off.”

“That’s good. Tell him I said hi next time you talk to him.”

“Just keep him and his family in your prayers. God will eventually clean this mess up. Love you, baby.”

“Love you, too, Momma.” Alexus ended the call and checked to see what time it was.

7:27 a.m.

Looking over his shoulder at her, Enrique said, “Again?”

Bella weakly turned her head from left to right.

“No,” Alexus replied. “I believe she’s learned her lesson.” Dialing Blake’s number on her smartphone, she shouldered her big white Himalayan croc-skinned bag and headed for the elevator.

Enrique zapped the bed frame twice more, and Bella’s fat body bounced and twitched atop a shower of sparks. Alexus watched the final attacks unfold in the golden reflection of the elevator doors. Then Enrique picked up his gold-plated AK-47 from the table and followed her to the elevator.

“I said no,” Alexus whispered to Enrique as Blake answered his phone. They were connected via Face Time and were immediately able to see one another.

“You on your way?” Blake asked, breathing hard, with water dripping from his face. “I just hopped out the shower.”

“I’ll be there in about forty-five minutes,” Alexus said as the elevator doors slid open before her. She and Enrique stepped inside. “My family’s here and I have to discuss some business with them. We’ll be heading back in five or ten minutes.”

Blake quickly told her about his upcoming video shoots and concert tour.

“Which video do you want me in?” She asked.

“The original “Lime Green Bugatti” and the remix. I done already bought two more Bugattis—the Grand Sport convertible and another Super Sport. I’m thinkin’ about just drivin’ all three of ‘em for the first video, then I’ll have all my cars on set for the remix in Miami.” Blake suddenly frowned at her. “What happened to the cars you bought for me in Mexico?”

“They’re still in the garage. How much of that money have you blown through already? It sounds like a lot.”

“I ain’t spent that much.”

“How much?” She repeated.

“Bout ninety million. I looked out for a buncha people, mostly my niggas, my family, and some people I went to school wit’. Bought like forty Chevys for my Dub Life niggas, got ‘em all candied and rimmed up.”

“Stop wasting money on all those people,” Alexus scolded, turning to Enrique, who was motioning for her to hang up. “See you in a little while boy. With your crazy ass.” She blew Blake a kiss.

“And you love my crazy draws.” Blake smiled, and then hung up.

Just then, the doors separated.

Pedro and Santiago Castillo were standing right outside of the elevator, both looking angrier than Alexus had ever seen them. There were ten black-suited men lining the walls on the sides of the long hallway and every one of them carried military-issue FN P90 machine guns.

Through clenched teeth, Santiago said, “Tell me what happened to my brother.”

“And what did you do to my sister down there?” Pedro added.

“She tried to kill me yesterday,” Alexus said, shifting her eyes from Pedro to Santiago. “And I’ve told you all a million times already, I don’t know anything about Savio’s disappearance. I’d tell you if I did.”

Pedro got on the elevator as Alexus walked up the hallway and turned into the lounge, an extravagant space of luxurious white leather furniture, white fur carpeting, and massive white marble pillars. A square-shaped marble Jacuzzi was built into the middle of the floor.

The ten armed men from the hallway spilled into the room behind Enrique and Santiago, and Alexus sank down into an easy chair. “I don’t have much time,” she said to Santiago.

He scoffed in disbelief. “Who do you think you’re talking to?” His face turned red. “Grandmother is flipping in her grave right this second, you know that? Cartwheels and f*cking somersaults!”

Santiago started pacing left and right in front of Alexus’ chair, motioning wildly. His aggressive demeanor frightened Alexus. Over the years, she had witnessed him murder numerous men in Mexico, and once, at a gas station in Nogales, Mexico, she’d seen him empty a hundred and twenty rounds from an AR-15 into a carload of rival cartel members and drag the five bullet-riddled corpses out of the shot-up Bentley. Then he’d beheaded all of them with Papi’s gold machete.

Alexus crossed her legs. “Calm down, Santiago. Tell me what you’re so worked up about.”

“What am I so worked up about? You want to know what I’m so worked up about?!” Santiago shouted, yanking loose his tie. “My brother’s been missing for weeks! My mother’s been in a f*cking fed joint since May! And there’s a nineteen year old cousin of mine who’s in charge of a cartel that she knows absolutely nothing about! Not to mention the fact that she’s squandering our family’s fortune on some nigger rapper, and on fixing up neighborhoods in the f*cking United States!”

“Will you please lower your voice?”

“I don’t take orders from kids,” he replied, but his voice did weaken.

“Listen,” Alexus said, “I didn’t ask for any of this. Grandmother left me in charge and I’m doing the best I can, okay?”

“For Christ’s sake, Alexus, you’re a got-damn celebrity! You can’t be a celebrity and a f*cking cartel boss at the same time!”

Alexus sighed, “Is that all?”

The redness on Santiago’s face deepened. He stopped pacing and offered his nineteen year old boss a hostile glare. Then he turned and stormed out of the lounge without another word.





Chapter 24

When Blake had answered his phone and told Alexus that he had just gotten out of the shower, he hadn’t exactly lied. He’d actually had Janautica bent over in the shower, f*cking her in thug fashion, when his phone rang.

Afterwards he sprayed on a mist of Cool Water cologne, rummaged through his Louis suitcase, took out a black pair of baggy True Religion jeans, a black t-shirt with MBM stretched across the chest in big lime-green letters, and a Louis Vuitton belt and skullcap to match the brand-new LV sneakers he would wear with the outfit. He was fully dressed and on the phone with Lil Mike when Janautica returned to his bedroom in a pink and white Prada jogging suit. She stood next to him, hands on hips, as he studied his reflection in the dresser mirror and told Lil Mike to meet him at the airport in Chicago.

Blake clipped the phone to his waist, looked over at Janautica, and grinned. “My lovely assistant,” he joked.

“Shut the hell up, stupid,” she retorted softly, her sparkling brown eyes descending to the gravid bulge in the front right pocket of his jeans. “How much money you got in there?”

“Twenty racks.”

“Give it to me.”

“For what?” You finally gon’ get that Swine Flu vaccine?” Blake said, chuckling aloud. He tugged the rubber-banded bundle of hundreds out.

“I’m serious, you stupid f*cka. You always think somebody playin’ wit’choo. Ain’t nobody playin’, yuh feel me, like? Gimme the money.” Janautica raised a demanding palm.

Blake laid the cash in her hand. “You need it for real?”

“Of course I need it. I gotta get me a place to stay, pay my bills, get some furniture, pay for the abortion, yuh feel me, like? Since you back wit’ that rich bitch.”

“Abortion? What abortion?”

“My abortion, you f*ckin’ jackass. I’m three weeks pregnant,” she said, fanning through the cash. “I ain’t raisin’ no baby by myself.”

“Is it mine?”

“Duh! I ain’t did it alone, genius.”

Blake stared at her, eyebrows knitted, and said, “First of all, you already got a house, and I’ll buy you another one if I need to. And you ain’t gotta get no muhf*ckin’ abortion. Fuck is you thinkin’?”

“I’m thinkin’ I caught two gun cases and killed a f*ck-nigga fuh yo’ punk ass. That’s what I’m thinkin’, if you really wanna know, Einstein. I ain’t even much trippin’, though, yuh feel me, like? ‘Cause I knew it was comin’. I knew you was gon’ go back to dat bitch. But guess what, cowboy. Is yuh listenin’?” Her hands returned to her hips. “Next time she leave yo’ ugly ass, don’t come callin’ me ‘cause I ain’t goin’ fuh dat bullshit again. I’m goin’ back to Norf Carolina where I came from, yuh feel me, like? Mind my got-damn marbles and let choo mind yours. Punk!”

“Stop callin’ me out my name.”

“Or what? Whatcha gon’ do hit me?”

“Hell nah I ain’t gon’ hit you. Baby, listen, I’m not tryin’ to hurt you, a’ight? Alexus was already my girl when I met you. I wasn’t supposed to be with you in the first place. I’m not sayin’ I regret it, but—”

“Fake you, Blake,” Janautica said, flipping him the middle finger. She stomped out of the massive bedroom and vanished, only to reappear at the doorway seconds later. “I got just one question fuh yo’ stupid nappy-head ass. Did you really shoot all them niggas in Indianapolis?”

Momentarily, Blake was silent. He’d actually only shot and killed one of the fifteen men who had been murdered that night, and that was because the guy had been abusing Savaria. But what the hell did any of that have to do with Janautica? He knew she’d taken care of the snitch for him, and he assumed she might be feeling self-conscious about taking the snitch’s life.

“Don’t ask me no police-ass questions,” he said, lifting an unopened pack of Newport’s from the bureau.

Janautica disappeared again.

Slapping the top of the cigarette pack against his palm, Blake left the bedroom, intending to stop her and perhaps talk her into going to Chicago with him.

But he suddenly found himself face-to-face with Alexus.

“What’s wrong with her?” She asked, looking back at Janautica, who was speed-walking up the hallway.

“I fired her,” Blake replied as he leaned forward and kissed Alexus. “She’ll be a’ight, baby. That bitch just crazy.”

“I think your uncle’s the crazy one. Carolyn’s out there screaming her head off. She said he’d better get those whores out of her swimming pool and back onto that tour bus before she calls the LAPD on his ass.” Alexus giggled. “I’ve rented a Boeing 747 to ship your cars from Matamoros to Miami for your video shoot, and Enrique’s renting one for my security team and their SUVs.”

“Have you talked to Bella yet?”

“Yeah, we caught up with her. She won’t be blowing up anything else. Not for a while, at least.” She hopped up and wrapped her legs around his waist. “Wanna get a quickie before we leave?”





Chapter 25

The Rita Bishop Show began on a gloomy note.

Standing in front of her big black easy chair in an extravagant, embroidered Tulle Marchesa dress and Guiseppe Zanotti heels, Rita wandered her desolate eyes across the many painted and costumed faces of her studio audience, all of whom were dead silent. They knew all about the tragedy that had befallen her fiancé’s family. Half the country knew. It was the top story on every major news station.

“As you all know,” Rita began, “Nat is going through the very, very devastating loss of his parents, Martin and Sojourner Turner, his younger brother, Travis Hark Turner, and his maternal aunt, Bessie Smith. I ask that you all keep Nat in your prayers. And cherish your family while you still have them; tell them how much you love them. Those profound feelings of friendship that are so hard to express—feelings of love, of appreciation, of understanding—are really the feelings we should tell our family and friends about most directly. So I say we love everyone and judge no one. Do not partake in the hate. Love thy neighbor. It’s what God wants us to do.”

The audience applauded loudly. Rita wished everyone a happy Halloween, turned to the teleprompter, and introduced her first guest, a compassionate Haitian-American woman named Fabiola Montgomery.

Fabiola was the co-founder of the Restavek Liberation Foundation, a non-profit organization that offered assistance to hundreds of children in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, children who were forced to walk miles several times a day just to get water, children whose families could not afford school tuition and supplies. Rita admired humanitarians like Fabiola. They sat and talked until there was only forty-five seconds left to commercials. Then Rita’s staff brought out a seven million dollar check for the Restavek Liberation Foundation, and Fabiola cried tears of joy.

Rita rushed backstage to use the restroom during the commercial break. She was stopped by her personal assistant as she exited the private restroom in her magnificent office.

“Rita your ex—I mean Juan Costilla’s on line one,” said the slender female assistant. “Would you like me to tell him to call back after the show?”

Looking at her watch, Rita saw that she had about a minute left before she had to return to the set. She picked up the phone from her large mahogany desk and put it to her ear.

“Don’t you ever call me again, Juan,” Rita said tightly.

“I need you, my queen. We were twenty years strong,” he replied.

Rita slammed the phone down and got back to work.





Chapter 26

There were eight armed Costilla Cartel members packed into each of the seven black Suburban’s that pulled to a stop behind Papi’s black Porsche Cayman-R. Inside the Porsche, Papi was fighting back tears and grinding his teeth as he stared at his phone screen.

“She hung up on me,” he said glancing over at Flako, who was seated next to him. “Told me not to call her again.”

“What did you expect? Rita’s not your wife anymore. You messed that up when you lied about your occupation.”

“She wouldn’t have stayed with me if she’d known. No Christian wants to be with a f*cking cartel boss.”

“Well, killing her boyfriend’s family won’t bring her back.”

“I’ll see about that, my dear brother,” Papi said, opening his door.

He stepped out of the car and gazed straight ahead at the big Victorian-style home that sat on a cul-de-sac at the end of Natchez Place, just off Warren Road in Southampton, Virginia. The place belonged to Mary Turner, a thirty year old stockbroker originally from Buffalo, New York.

Mary was Nat Turner’s sister.

Papi grabbed his Machete from between the front seats, and minutes later he was standing in Mary’s back yard beside an old, tall tree, watching as two of his men dragged the pretty black woman out the rear patio door of her home. She looked to be about eight or nine months pregnant. The men tied her hands and ankles together with a length of rope and hung her upside down from the tree while another man doused her clothes with gasoline.

“Please, don’t do this to me,” she cried.

But Mary’s words ended abruptly as Papi stuffed a handkerchief in her mouth. He took a scalpel from his breast pocket and cut off both her ears, cut out one of her eyes, then got a lighter from one of his men and set her clothes on fire.

“Come on, Juan. That’s enough,” Flako said.

Ignoring his brother, Papi cut open the woman’s abdomen with the golden machete. The infant dropped to the grass, and Papi crushed the baby’s head beneath his shoe. He then had his men fire over three hundred bullets into Mary’s body.

“Now…” Papi said, flicking the eyeball into the air, “that’s enough.”





Chapter 27

Nat Turner, dressed in a custom-made dark blue bulletproof sweatshirt, with an AR-15 assault rifle stretch across his lap, had been sitting quietly in the back of his Uncle William Still’s brown Chevy van, reading his bible, when he heard the gunshots. Four of his cousins—Henry, Nelson, Sammy, and Frank—were with him in the rear of the van. They too were armed with AR-15s and Kevlar sweat suits. Nat had gathered them for the sole purpose of patrolling the Cabin Pond neighborhood where the majority of his family resided. He wanted to protect them from Juan Costilla, the man who’d already been arrested and accused of being the leader of Mexico’s deadliest drug cartel by the FBI, DEA, and ATF.

Now after hearing the gunfire as his Uncle Will drove the van up to Warren Road, Nat prayed for his sister Mary’s protection. He cocked the fully automatic assault rifle, then looked around at his cousins as they cocked theirs.

“Don’t you think we should let the cops deal with this?” Henry asked.

No one offered a reply.

Will turned left onto Natchez Place and pulled over to the curb. Heart pounding, adrenaline surging, Nat stared coldly at the group of Mexicans who were loitering near a line of SUVs in front of Mary’s home. He tried not to dwell on the loss of his parents, the loss of his little brother, the loss of his Aunt Bessie. Instead he focused on the pot of fiery anger that was boiling in his chest. The two large gasoline-filled titanium containers strapped to his back were attached to the MCGI-219 flame-thrower that lay behind him, and he was more than ready to use it to protect his sister.

He draped the AR-15’s shoulder strap around his neck, cradled the chrome-plated flame-thrower in his hands, and addressed his cousins in a resolute tone.

“I fear my sister may be dead already. These guys are heartless animals, and the only way yo handle them is to kill them. I need all four of you to come out of this van with your guns blazing. Any questions?”

There were none.

Henry “Box” Brown pushed open the rear doors, and they cascaded out of the van in Navy SEAL-fashion.

“Try to get them into the street,” Nat said. He estimated the distance between himself and the SUV that was farthest from him to be about thirty-five or forty feet. Since the flame-thrower could only reach twenty-five feet, he had to get closer.

A cacophony of thunderous gunfire ensued. Nat made a beeline toward the Suburban’s, studying the black-suited Mexicans with genuine intrigue as the bullets tore through their bodies.

It was then that Nat remembered his dream: black and brown spirits wrestling in the sky, a dark sun, gushing streams of blood. This was it. This was the vision.

He unleashed the flame-thrower on a dozen wounded cartel henchmen. The twenty-five foot rope of fire instantly set the men ablaze. Their blood chilling screams were drowned out by more rapid gunshots, and Nat did not feel even a drop of remorse.





Chapter 28

“Oh my God, Blake. You seriously bought all of these books? I didn’t know you liked to read urban novels,” Alexus said as she sat next to Blake, scanning through a Barnes and Noble bag that was full of ‘hood books.

They were on her seventy million dollar Gulfstream VI, soaring through the clouds on their way to Chicago. Savaria was sitting across from them with the baby pulled tight against her chest and Enrique was reclining in one of the other seats.

“All of ‘em ain’t urban novels,” Blake said. “I got some of James Patterson’s and John Grisham’s in there, too. And I just bought that Angela Davis autobiography the other day. I try to keep ‘em wit’ me everywhere I go so I can have something constructive to do while e’rybody else on bullshit. If I ain’t readin’ or recordin’, I’m listenin’ to some Weezy or Gotti and thinkin’ about yo’ muhf*ckin ass.”

“Stop cursing so much.” Alexus lifted a Leo Sullivan novel out of the bag and read the back cover. She had changed into a white belly shirt, snug white jeggings, a white Bulls cap turned to the left, and white diamond-covered five-inch Prada heels. “I’ve been reading these urban novels for years. A lot of them are antinovels, but I still like the stories.”

“Antinovels? What the hell dat mean?” Blake asked.

“Poorly written novels. You know, some black publishers accept every book that’s sent to them, and they don’t even bother to edit them. That’s why the urban book market is so saturated with antinovels.” She shrugged. “Leo’s a pretty good writer, though.”

“Yeah, I dig his books,” Blake said and turned to look out his window.

Alexus dropped the book into the bag, interlaced the fingers of her right hand with his left hand, and tilted her head onto his shoulder. Timidly, she said, “I’m worried about you going back to Chicago. Those Vice Lords can’t be happy about what happened earlier this month.”

“I’ll be a’ight, baby. Them niggas ain’t gon’ do shit. And the Bugatti bulletproof anyway, right?”

“Yeah… But still… they could get you when you’re not in it. I, um… I want you to stay with me the whole time we’re in Chicago. My men will be able to keep you safe.”

“I’m cool with that. I don’t need no security, but I’ma be with you. I’ll never leave your side again.” He kissed the top of her head. “We gotta make this work, baby. We got to. I have to be a good example for Vari and King Neal.”

“Speaking of King Neal,” Alexus said, sitting up to look at him. “I’m getting that paternity test done sometime this week. Hopefully, we’ll be able to do it today or tomorrow.”

Blake shrugged but did not reply. He was still gazing out the window. The notion of T-Walk being King Neal’s father disturbed him greatly. Just pondering it made him tense all over.

He thought about Janautica’s pregnancy. She was on his private jet with Young-D and Princess. She’d decided to accompany them to Chicago after all, but only to pack up the clothes she had at her Michigan City home. It hurt Blake’s heart to know that she was really leaving him, but he loved Alexus much more than he did Janautica, so he was content with the split from Nauti; or at least that was what he was making himself believe.

Savaria shattered his introspection. “Daddy is we going to, um, be back to my grandma house for Halloween and trick-or-treating?”

“We should be,” he said.

“I hope so, Daddy, ‘cause I don’t wanna trick-or-treat without my grandma, ‘cause her bought me a Minnie Mouse costume for Halloween and I want her to see me wear it.” Savaria kept rubbing King Neal’s back, holding his head against her shoulder.

“She is so cute,” Alexus murmured. She told Siri, her iPhone 4S’s computerized assistant, to call Britney.

The attorney answered, “Hey, Lex. I’ve been waiting on you to call. Have you spoken with your father about Mercedes?”

“No. I haven’t even called Mercedes yet. We’re headed to Chicago now, though, so I’ll just call her when my plane lands.”

“Is Blake still with you?”

“Yup, and I’m listenin’, too,” Blake interjected.

Britney laughed. “I knew you two would end up getting back together. You love each other too much.”

“Listen,” Alexus said, “I need you to stop by the Trumbull Street mansion and grab our furs out of my closet. There’s no way I’m getting off this jet in Chicago without a coat. I am not trying to catch pneumonia.”

“I’ll go over there now.” Britney ordered her driver to take her to the Trumbull residence. Then she said into the phone, “Your Rolls Royce Phantom Limousine is finished. It arrived yesterday evening, and I’ve been rolling around in it ever since.” She let out another lively chuckle. “You have to let me use this for my wedding.”

Reciprocating a laugh, Alexus turned to face Blake. He applied his lips to hers and held them there for a brief, loving moment.

“We’ll let you use it after our weddin’,” Blake said.





Chapter 29



The kids were napping when Mercedes got up at 3:00 p.m. and opened the blinds on her bedroom window. Sunlight poured into the small room. She went to the bedside table, unplugged her BlackBerry, and checked to see if Alexus had called. There were several missed calls from her boyfriend Duke’s sister, two from Mutulu, her fifty year old sugar-daddy, and a few from some local girls who wanted their hair done by the best hairstylist in the ‘hood.

Mercedes Costilla—short, bronze, gorgeous, and Buffie-bodied—was the baddest young chick on the west side of Chicago, so exceptionally fine that she stopped traffic everywhere she went; especially whenever she chose to rock a tight pair of jeans to show off her rotund derriere. Hustlers all over the Windy City were after her, but she’d only been sexually involved with a handful of them; four to be exact.

One of them, a handsome brown-skin twenty-eight year old named Lil Cholly who was also her boyfriend’s drug supplier, knocked at her front door as she was walking to the bathroom.

She opened the door and gave him a tired smile. Standing there in a brown leather jacket with a matching skullcap and loose-fitting Polo jeans, he smiled back at her. She looked at the big round-cut brown diamonds that sparkled in his earlobes, then dropped her eyes to the McDonald’s bag he was holding with both hands.

“Breakfast?” Mercedes asked.

“I got you a lil XXXsomething’,” Lil Cholly said, handing her the bag and stepping into the apartment.

On her way to the bathroom, Mercedes put the bag on her kitchen table. She knew without even looking that Lil Cholly was gawking at the meaty cheeks of her ass as they bounced around in her pink boy shorts. After receiving the ten thousand dollar check from Alexus’ lawyer last night, Mercedes had called Lil Cholly and ordered nine ounces of cocaine for sixty-five hundred. She had planned to cook the coke up into eleven ounces of hard and grind it off to pay the ten percent on Duke’s bond, which amounted to fifteen grand.

But now she had other plans.

After brushing her teeth and freshening up, she clicked into the Google app on her phone and typed in: Alexus Costilla net worth. What popped up made her mouth drop open. According to Forbes Magazine, Alexus was currently worth $57.9-billion!

Mercedes was smiling beautifully when she walked into the living room. Porsche, her sixteen year old sister, was sitting on the tan-colored love seat feeding Mercedes’ and Duke’s daughter, Meyoncé Sky, a bottle of Enfamil. Counting through a large stack of twenties, fifties, and hundreds on the sofa across from Porsche, Lil Cholly glanced up at Mercedes and scrunched his brows together.

“What the hell you cheesin’ about?” Porsche asked.

“I was gon’ ask the same thang,” said Lil Cholly. “You ain’t even looked in the bag yet, have you? That nine piece in there.”

“Forget about that nine piece,” Mercedes said. “Lil Cholly, do you remember who you said I looked like when you first saw me?”

“Hell yeah, I remember. You still look like her. Shit, y’all got the same last name. Y’all might be related.” He continued counting the bills. “ I done been face to face wit’ Alexus twice before, and I swear, y’all could almost pass for twins.”

“What if I told you I really am her sister?”

“I wouldn’t believe you.”

“Why not?” Mercedes was enjoying the suspense.

“Cause you drive a Ford minivan,” Lil Cholly reasoned, pocketing his cash. “Man don’t tell me I done weighed and bagged up that work for XXXnothin’.”

Oscillating her eyes from her dark-skin, thin-framed sister, to Lil Cholly, Mercedes struggled to suppress her sheer excitement. She picked up an old manila folder from the coffee table and gave it to Lil Cholly. “Read that,” she said and sauntered to the living room window to peek through the blinds and get a glimpse of his triple-black Range Rover Evoque, which was parked behind her minivan on the corner of Lake and Lockwood.

Members of the Four Corner Hustler street gang were already out in full force in front of the dilapidated red-brick apartment building. Although there weren’t many Halloween decorations up on the street, every day was like October thirty-first. Many L-town residents were confronted by scary masked men in the dead of night, only instead of butcher knives and axes, these menacing creatures wielded Glocks, Rugers, and machine guns.

“Hell mothaf*ckin’ naw,” Lil Cholly emphatically stated.

“What?” Porsche nosily asked. She hopped up and rushed to Lil Cholly’s side. “What’s so important about a stupid birth certificate?”

Mercedes was just about to turn and answer her sister when two white Ford Excursions rounded the corner on the street below, followed by a long white limousine, two more Excursions, and three lime-green Bugattis.

“You’re about to find out,” Mercedes said.





Chapter 30

The 122-inch, 13-passenger 2012 Rolls Royce Phantom limousine was, in Blake’s opinion, a work of art. It’s hardwood maple floor was painted gloss white. It’s ceiling was mirrored, as was the bar. The seats were white Italian leather. There were three fold down flat screen televisions, a twelve-disc Pioneer CD/DVD changer, an additional single Sony CD/DVD player, and an incomparable sound system. Bone-white 24-inch Lexani rims and Dunlop tires completed the look of the most stunning limousine Blake had ever seen.

Hidden behind the darkly tinted windows, Blake was rocking to the beat of Lil Wayne’s “Racks” remix and sweeping his eyes up and down Lockwood when they pulled up in front of the run-down tenement. The leering eyes of the gangbangers did not worry him, for he had already gotten his Kelvar vest, shoulder holster, and Glock 18 out of the Bugatti that Lil Mike was driving. Blubby and Fly were pushing the other two Veyrons, and their passenger seats were occupied by a trio of sexy black women, all in their early- to mid-twenties.

“Why isn’t Papi answering his phone?” Alexus muttered in frustration. She was staring at her iPhone, wrapped in a plush white fur coat. “I’ve called him five times.”

“You need to get that old muhf*cka checked into a mental hospital,” Blake said, bouncing King Neal on his knee. Blake’s fur coat was a thick, gray-black chinchilla.

Savaria was fast asleep in her seat. She had dozed off shortly after they’d dropped Young-D and Princess off at the Sybaris in Northbrook.

Janautica had opted for a taxicab from O’Hare airport.

“Don’t talk about my father.” Alexus scrolled down her phone’s list of contacts until she reached Mercedes and tapped the screen to send. A Wiz Khalifa call-tone sounded in her ear.

“Yeah,” said Attorney Bostic, who was sitting a few seats away from King Neal’s car seat, looking as chocolate and comely as Kelly Rowland in her gray floral print Dolce & Gabbana dress. “He is your father-in-law, Blake. Whenever you and Alexus decide to jump the broom, he’ll be the one walking her down the aisle.”

Blake shrugged off the lawyer’s comment and put the baby back in his car seat. He listened to Alexus and Mercedes as their dialog began, while in the back of his mind he pondered the possibility of having both Alexus and Janautica to himself. Shit, if Hugh Hefner’s old ass could do it, Blake knew that he could definitely do it.

“Hey, girl,” Alexus said, taking off her gold-framed Channel shades. “I’m down here now. Want us to come up?”

“Trust me, you don’t wanna come up here. This tiny little apartment is probably smaller than your closet,” Mercedes said.

“You haven’t seen a “little apartment” until you’ve seen Somalia. Our people over there are starving to death, sleeping in roofless little aluminum huts. But that’s another story. Are you dressed yet?”

“No, but it won’t take me long. I’ll just throw on some sweats.”

“I’m coming up; at least for a few minutes.”

“I’ll meet you downstairs.”

Alexus clipped the iPhone to her Birkin bag then pressed the button on her door that lowered the black privacy glass. Up front, Enrique was next to the driver.

“I’m going up there,” Alexus stated.

Enrique nodded and said something into his earpiece’s slender microphone. Seconds later, sixteen men in black trench coats emerged from the two SUVs that were parked behind the limo. One of them pulled open Alexus’ suicide-door and helped her out onto the sidewalk while the others drew subcompact machine guns from inside their coats and formed a human shield around her.

“Come on,” Alexus said looking back at Blake.

“I’m good right here, baby. Go on up there and meet your sista.”

Sucking her teeth and rolling her eyes, she put her sunglasses back on and headed into the apartment building with her security team. Enrique took her spot next to Blake, shut the door, and raised the privacy glass to exclude the driver from what he was about to say.

“We’ve secured a stash house for your crew out in River Forest, a nice, secluded mansion. There are two thousand kilos of pure Columbian coke, a hundred kilos of heroin, and ten thousand pounds of Kush piled up in the living room. Now we can’t have you going anywhere near the product, not with you and Alexus being together, and definitely not with you being involved in the music industry. We went through that once with Big Meech, and it didn’t turn out too good.”

Blake nodded his head. “I’ll have one of my niggas move that shit.”

“Make sure he’s in no way involved with your legitimate businesses. His only job should be to deliver the product to two or three to distributors and have a few others drive the money to someone who will deliver it to—”

“I got it, man. You don’t have to worry about that. Just let me know how to wash all dat dirty money.”

“Why try to launder it at all? You’re worth five hundred million dollars. I say you should keep the cash and spend it in the ghettos, you know? Let your crew get about a one or two year run, you walk away with a couple hundred million, everybody’s happy.” Enrique retrieved a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of his black Brioni suit jacket, unfolded it, and gave it to Blake. “There’s the address. Your man will find two Hummer H2 limousines parked in the driveway. Both have secret compartments that can hold up to three hundred and twenty-five kilos. The instructions on how to open them are attached to the key rings on the foyer wall.”

Is that how y’all got those guns through LAX and O’Hare?”

“Works every time.” Enrique said as his phone began ringing.

Blake cast a suggestive glance at the lawyer’s scrumptious ebony thighs while she had her eyes on her iPad. Then he swiftly turned his attention back to the head of security as Papi’s angry voice boomed from Enrique’s phone.





Chapter 31

Alexus had made it only four or five steps up the ramshackle wooden staircase when she came face to face with Mercedes Costilla, and there was not a doubt in her mind that the girl she was staring at was indeed her sister.

They had the same long, curly black hair; the same feline-green eyes; the same high cheekbones and unblemished skin. Even their smiles were similar. Mercedes was wearing a pink Niemann Elements t-shirt, black sweatpants, and Air Max sneakers.

Both of them were speechless. They wrapped their arms around each other and hugged for half a minute before Alexus pulled back and murmured, “God… this is so crazy. I’ve had a sister for eighteen years and I’m just now finding out about it.”

“I can’t believe it myself.” Mercedes rubbed her forearms. “Let’s get inside. It’s freezing down here.” She glanced warily at all of the armed men, then turned and started up the stairs.

Just then, Beyoncé’s “Who Run The World” sang from Alexus’ smartphone. The call was from Tasia.

“We just left Midway airport,” Tasia said. “Where you at, yo?”

“Are you in a taxi?”

“Yeah.”

“Have him bring you to the corner of Lake and Lockwood. I’ll be here for about thirty or forty-five minutes.”

“Is that where your sister lives?”

“Mmm hmm. I’m on my way up to talk to her now.”

“Check out CNN when you get a chance. Some wild shit just popped off in Virginia. Buncha motherf*ckas got killed,” Tasia said before hanging up.

Alexus felt her heart drop to her stomach as a stream of daunting questions skated through her mind: More murders in Virginia? Was Papi responsible for those, too? Was that why he hadn’t answered his phone? Had the rest of Nat Turner’s family been wiped out?

She went to her smartphone’s CNN app and quickly perused the story.

‘At approximately 11:30 a.m., the usually tranquil Cabin Pond neighborhood of Southampton, Virginia, was rattled by the sounds of several machine guns firing simultaneously. A minute or two later, more gunfire erupted as a shoot-out began in the middle of Natchez Place between two groups of heavily-armed men. When the smoke cleared, fifty-five men were dead in the street…’

Alexus stopped reading as they walked into the living room of Mercedes’ dreary little apartment. She ordered all but two of her men to remain in the hallway. Flicking her eyes around the room, her gaze landed on Lil Cholly. “What’s he doing here?” She asked herself.

Last year, back when she’d been only a millionaire drug-trafficker, she had sold hundreds of kilos to Lil Cholly and his gang’s chief, Reesie Cup. In fact, Blake had proposed to her at Reesie Cup’s nightclub. What worried her about seeing Lil Cholly was the Trumbull Street shooting. She knew that he was a legend in that particular neighborhood, and she logically assumed that the homicide victims had been friends of his.

“This here is my sister,” Mercedes said, gesturing toward the thin dark-skin girl on the love seat. “My momma let Juan name me at birth, and I guess she wanted to keep the car names rollin’ after that ‘cause she named my lil sis’ Porsche. Should’ve named her ass Pinto.”

Smiling, Porsche flipped the middle finger at her sister.

“Her daddy’s in Stateville doing ten for a bank robbery,” Mercedes continued, picking up a crawling baby girl from the carpet. “And this is your niece, Meyoncé Sky. Baby Duke’s still taking a nap. His lil bad ass’ll be up in a few minutes, runnin’ ‘round and breaking everythang in sight.”

Alexus took off her sunglasses. “Can I hold her?” She asked, reaching for the infant. She put Meyoncé on her hip and studied the little girl’s face until Lil Cholly stood up.

“Oh and that’s Lil Cholly,” Mercedes said. “He’s a friend of my boyfriend.”

“We’ve met a couple times.” Alexus squinted at him.

He flashed a diabolical grin. “Where my nigga Blake at? That nigga done got rich and forgot about us.”

“He’s down there in the car. And believe me, he hasn’t forgotten about anything.” The contempt in Alexus’ voice was noticeable. She glared at Lil Cholly as he walked to the kitchen, grabbed a McDonald’s bag off the wooden table, and left out the open front door.

“What was that all about?” Mercedes asked.

“It’s a long story.” Alexus crossed the room and sat down on the sofa. The little girl slid off her lap to the floor and began crawling again. Eyeing the infant, she said, “You might as well start packing up all the things that are most important to you, because I’m not letting either of you stay here. “

Excitedly, Porsche blurted out, “You and Bulletface got back together?”

“Yeah. We’re trying to work things out. I think we’ll stay together for good this time. At least that’s what I’m hoping for.”

“I hope this means I can get some free concert tickets.”

Mercedes gave Porsche an irritated look. “Getcho lil dirty ass up and go get Baby Duke dressed, witcho lil thirsty ass.” She turned to Alexus. “Excuse my French, but she be blowin’ me wit’ that thirsty-ass shit. Always want XXXsomething’ for free. Bitch need to get a job.”

Impervious to her sister’s harsh criticism, Porsche sailed on. “I read an article on InFlexWeTrust.com that said Bulletface’s first album might sell more than Eminem’s because he’s dating you. They said it might be the highest selling rap album of all time if it’s anything like the Goon Musik mixtape. Oh, my God, I’m the biggest Bulletface fan on Earth! Is he really outside right now?”

“The faster you get dressed and ready to leave,” Alexus said, “the faster you’ll get to meet him.”

Porsche got up and sprinted out of the living room, dialing a number on her cell phone as she went. Her skimpy halter and cut-up denim shorts left little to the imagination.

“Watch her around your man,” Mercedes warned as she plopped down next to Alexus. “I had to beat her ass the day after Momma’s funeral. Walked in on her, my boyfriend, and his brother having a threesome.”

“You should’ve kicked his ass.”

“I did. Mased all three of ‘em, busted his head wit’ a Seagram’s Gin bottle, stabbed him twice, blacked his eye, and then stabbed his brother in the face. Then I beat the brakes off Porsche.”

This elicited a nervous laugh from Alexus as she contemplated the grim notion of what Mercedes would do if ever she discovered the culprit behind her mother’s murder.

There was an old polaroid picture jutting out of the side of a manila folder on the coffee table. Another photo—one of Papi sitting on the hood of his old 1988 Rolls Royce Silver Spur with a curvaceous dark-skin woman in a blue sequin dress leaning back against him.

“That’s my momma right there,” Mercedes said. “She said it was taken in ninety-two, right around the time they started datin’.”

“Right around the time he married my mom.” Shaking her head in disbelief, Alexus turned and eyed Mercedes’ wounded expression. “I wonder if all men are dogs. I think it’s—I don’t know—some intrinsic trait they learn from rap music; or maybe it’s hereditary.”

“Who you tellin’. And I took Duke’s tired ass back. Can you believe that? I’m about ready to give up on love.”

“I tried calling Papi. He hasn’t been answering his phone.”

“Is that his nickname?”

Alexus nodded yes and lifted the other picture from the folder. It was the same dark woman, lying flat in a hospital gown on a large bed, and Papi was standing off to the side, cradling a blanket-wrapped baby in his arms with Flako and Granny Costilla standing on each side of him.

Opening the folder, Alexus found further evidence that Mercedes Costilla was actually her sister: Papi’s distinctive signature on Mercedes’ birth certificate, and a paternity test dated March 13,1995.

She quickly put the photos and documents into the folder and shut it before the guilt of Whitney Clark’s murder could overwhelm her. “Well,” she said, emitting a big breath, “this should make for a high-rated episode of my mom’s talk show. The media will be in a frenzy. They’ll be offering you millions for interviews.”

“I’m not interested in all that Hollywood BS. I’m from right here on the west side, and this is where I wanna stay.”

“Here? In this apartment?”

“No, I’m just sayin’ here in Chicago; or at least in the suburbs, like Bellwood or Des Plaines somewhere. I have to stay within driving distance of the ‘hood.”

Alexus did not agree. “We have homes all over this country. There’s no way you’re gonna stay in just one spot. I’ll get you a place out here, though, if that’s what you want. I don’t mind.” She looked over at Mercedes and added, “It’s the least I can do.”





Chapter 32

Blake had just stepped out of the limo and waved for his three guys to exit the Bugattis and join him on the sidewalk when Lil Cholly exited the building and stopped on the concrete doorstep. He stared at Blake, and Blake, standing a mere five feet away from him, stared back.

A treacherous grin spread across Blake’s face. “What’s up, nigga?” He intoned. “I ain’t seen you in a minute, pimp. Fuck you niggas been up to? I know y’all still got Chi-City on lock.”

“Don’t hit me wit’ that sarcastic shit, nigga. You bogus as hell for that shit you pulled on Trumbull.” The corner of Lil Cholly’s mouth rose into a contemptuous sneer. “Then you turned around and shut down the plug we had with the Mexican Mafia, too? What the f*ck kinda shit you on?”

Still grinning, Blake shook his head. “Let’s leave all dat alone and talk about some millions. Whatchoo tryna do?”

Lil Mike and Fly were walking toward Blake, while Blubby was speaking to one of the hoody-wearing gang members. On Lake, a crowd of ‘hood chicks had already begun to form.

“I’m supposed to trust you?” Lil Cholly said.

“Have I ever broke bad on a business deal? Just let me know how many y’all want ‘fore dem hoes get over here.”

“Thirty-six a thousand times’ll do a somersault.”

“You can get that. I know a muhf*cka who’ll give ‘em to you for fifteen apiece. Kush for twenty-five honey buns. Dog food for a hun’ed fifty a block, and you can dance on that thirty times.”

“How many Kush pounds can we grab?” Lil Cholly asked, glancing at Fly and Lil Mike as they halted beside Blake.

“As many as you can pay for.”

Lil Cholly took a set of keys from his jacket pocket and hit the alarm on his Range Rover Evoque. “A thousand soft, a hundred blocks of dog food, and two thousand Kush thangs. We got the thirty-five million ready right now.”

“The alley on fifteenth and Trumbull? Tonight at ten?”

“That’s the thought,” Lil Cholly said. He walked backwards to his SUV, keeping his eyes on the Dub Life crew. Behind him, fourteen ‘hood chicks swarmed in from the corner, their vivacious stares unwaveringly fixed on the man they knew only as Bulletface.

“Mane, it’s groupie time,” Lil Mike said, flashing his mouth full of gold teeth at the approaching flock of girls. Both he and Fly were clad in black Gucci jackets with matching skullcaps, sweaters, baggy jeans and sneakers, and their platinum chains were lined with two-carat round-cut black diamonds, as were their bracelets and Audemars watches.

The girls became ecstatic. They screamed, “Bulletface!” They asked for group pictures and autographs. And Blake, being the wealthy rap star that he was, honored every request.





Chapter 33

Squirm-G’s pearl-white Hummer H2 crept to a stop one block over from Lake and Lockwood, but it’s brand new set of 32-inch DUB rims kept spinning.

T-Walk sat quietly in the passenger’s seat next to Squirm-G, gazing down at the .40-caliber Glock on his lap and puffing on a Swisher full of dro.

“I’ll walk from here,” said Tasia, who was sandwiched between Lil Ant and Reggie in the back seat.

All four of the men wore light blue Armani business suits, and all of them had Glocks with thirty-round magazines resting on their laps.

“We can’t afford to mess this up Tasia,” T-Walk said. “Hundreds of millions of dollars are on the line. As soon as you get that baby, call me, and we’ll come and pick him up.”

You don’t have to keep tellin’ me that. I want that money just as bad as y’all want it.”

Squirm, the most dangerous of the four Gangster Disciples, turned to Tasia and said, “On GDN, if you f*ck up this lick, I’m murkin yo’ whole family. I ain’t come all the way out here for XXXnothin’.”

“I got this a’ight?” Tasia replied, rolling her eyes and reaching past Reggie to open his door. She climbed out behind him and started off toward Lockwood.

Reggie hopped back into the Hummer and pulled the door shut.

“That bitch bet’ not play no games, G-ball,” Squirm-G said.

“She won’t,” T-Walk said as he activated a GPS tracking device on his BlackBerry that was connected to Tasia’s iPhone.

“Ay, Folks, let me ask you XXXsomethin’,” Lil Ant said, nudging the back of T-Walk’s seat. “What made you get us for this lick? Why you ain’t get some niggas outta yo’ city?”

T-Walk shifted in his seat and looked back at Lil Ant. “I’m from the same city as Blake. Trust me, he’d find out who did it if I had some niggas from out there help me pull this off. And for two, y’all are much more used to bodyin’ muhf*ckas than the niggas in my city are. I’m willing to shoot everything in sight for that money and I know y’all are, too.”

“On the BOSS,” Squirm-G concurred, taking a hit from his own blunt. “Just make sure we get that twenty million apiece you said we was gon’ get.”

“That won’t be a problem,” T-Walk said.

Fifteen minutes later, the pulsing dot on his phone screen started moving. Two white excursions turned onto Lake, then a Rolls Royce limo, then two more Excursions and three Bugatti Veyrons. He reclined his seat and waited for the motorcade to pass.

Then Squirm-G made a hasty U-turn and followed them.





Chapter 34

“I have bad news. Fifty-five of our men were just found dead in Southampton, Virginia. Nat Turner and four of his cousins ambushed them with a flame-thrower and a couple M-16s. Flako and Papi got away without being hit, and the feds are scouring the East Coast for Nat Turner and his four cousins as we speak.”

“What were they doing there in the first place?” Alexus asked.

“You know how Papi is. He’s still upset about Rita and Nat’s engagement. They went out there to speak with Nat’s sister about it, and when they were getting ready to leave, they were ambushed,” replied Enrique.

They were speaking in Spanish and everyone else was silent. Perhaps it was the grave undertone in Alexus’ voice that hushed them. Or it might have been the disturbing MTN newscast that was playing on the three flat-screen televisions, the gruesome description of Mary Turner’s murder.

Alexus closed the privacy glass on Enrique and immediately phoned Papi. She briefly admired a gaudy white Hummer H2 on big chrome rims as her chauffer cruised up Lake Street. Then Papi answered and her attention fell on him.

“My little princess,” Papi said.

“I’m not your little princess today,” Alexus snapped. “What is wrong with you, Papi? Are you mentally ill? Do you have any idea how much heat that Virginia incident is going to bring to the family business?”

“It’s your mother’s fault. She’s being hard-headed. She won’t listen to anything I have to say.”

“Why should she? Especially after I told her about Mercedes.”

Papi did not reply.

“You could’ve at least told me about her. I’ve wanted a sibling ever since I was a little girl, and you now that.”

Still, he was silent.

Shaking her head, Alexus handed the phone to her newfound sister and turned to Tasia. “I hate that old f*cker,” she whispered.

“That’s mad wild, yo,” Tasia said. “I hope my daddy ain’t hidin’ no secret kids. I’m already having a hard enough time dealing with you and Cereniti’s crazy ass. I thought you were really gonna blow her head off in Matamoros.”

“I wish I had the guts to actually shoot somebody,” Alexus said looking over at Blake, who was talking on his phone. “I’d have shot him by now if I did.”

“Just give me the word, Lex. I’ll shoot his got-damned nuts off. You know I can’t stand his ass no way. Now, tell me where the hell we’re going.”

“I’m gonna take them”—Alexus nodded her head toward Mercedes and Porsche—“Shopping on Michigan Avenue. I’m supposed to attend the re-opening of a high school with my mom at six, but there’s way too much going on for me to be showing my face to the media. I’m just gonna fly us all out to Jamaica for a few days, or maybe the Bahamas, get us away from this madness.”

“Why don’t you and Blake go somewhere by yourselves and spend some time together? Britney and I can handle the shopping.”

Alexus had already pondered this idea when they dropped Young-D and Princess off at that romantic hotel a short while ago, so it didn’t take her long to make a decision.





Chapter 35

Tears were streaming down Janautica’s face as she raced her black Mercedes SUV down I-94. She had given the cab driver a thousand dollars for the ride to her home in Michigan City, Indiana, and now she was on her way back to Chicago.

Next to her sat twenty year old Christopher Trooper, a light-skin young hustler who had just so happened to be in need of a ride to the Windy City when Janautica stopped on Patrick Street, where he and his guys hang out, to buy a quarter-ounce of dro and four triple-stack Ecstasy pills.

“Slow down a lil bit ‘fore we f*ck ‘round and get pulled over. I’m strapped and I got some dope on me,” Chris said, rolling a blunt. He was slim and kind of short, about 5’7”, wearing a red Coogi sweater over a brand new pair of baggy jeans and black-white-and-red Jordan’s.

Janautica slowed the SUV from ninety MPH to fifty. She slipped a hand into her black Gucci dress and retrieved a pill from behind her bra. “Open that glove compartment,” she said, popping the pill into her mouth.

“Can’t you see I’m rollin’ up?” Chris asked.

“Well when you get done, stupid ass, open the damn glove box.” She wiped away the tears, turned up the volume on Meek Mill’s “Tupac Back” and let it rumble through her sound system. The she said, “What kinda gun you got?”

“Why?”

“Cause I wanna buy it. I’ll give you whatever you want for it.”

Drying the wet blunt with his lighter, he glanced over at her. “You still f*ckin’ wit’ my nigga Blake?”

“How the hell is he yo’ nigga and you ain’t even got no whip?”

“My car in the shop, while you talkin’. I got a brand new twenty eleven Camaro sittin’ on chrome thirties,” Chris said as he lit the blunt. He pulled a long chrome revolver from under the left side of his sweater and laid it on his lap. Then came a black semi-automatic pistol from his other side. “Why you need a strap anyway?” He asked.

But Janautica never answered.

Chapter 36

When Blake and Alexus stepped out of the million-dollar limo in front of the lavish Sybaris Hotel in Northbrook, Savaria crossed her arms over her chest, twisted her face into a confrontational pout and threw a tantrum.

“I’m not staying here wit’ these people,” Savaria stiffly declared, her bottom lip poked out. “I wanna go with you and Momma, and my brother, him wanna go wit’ you and Momma too.”

Blake lifted his grumpy little angel out of the limo and squatted before her. “It’ll only be for an hour or two, okay?” He coaxed, rubbing her shoulders. “As soon as you get back, we’re goin’ straight back to California to go trick-or-treating wit’ Grandma.”

“No. I wanna stay wit’ you, Daddy.”

“What if I buy you your own horsie?”

Instantly, Savaria’s livid expression turned into a delighted one. “My own horsie? A little-bitty pony horsie, with pink hair and a pink tail?”

“Yup, I promise.” He opened his arms for a hug, but Savaria spun around and climbed back into the limo.

“You’ll get a hug when I get my horsie,” she said and used all her strength to pull the door shut.

Enrique got out of the limo before it drove away, followed by one of the Excursions. The twenty-four men from the other SUVs were already spread out in front of the hotel.

Ending a phone call with her mother, Alexus looked at Blake and shook her head, smiling vacantly. “You shouldn’t bribe your daughter,” she chastised as they headed into the Sybaris. “You’re going to end up spoiling her.”

“Don’t worry about how I treat my daughter. What’s up with my momma-in-law? Is she a’ight?”

“Hell no, she’s not alright. She hasn’t heard from Nat since this morning. The FBI is checking her office and home computers for clues as to where he might be hiding.” She grabbed Blake’s hand and squeezed it, taking a deep breath. “Where did your boys go?”

“I sent them to do somethin’ for me,” Blake said. He had ordered Lil Mike, Fly, and Blubby to ditch their companions and get to the River Forest stash house to load up the Hummer limos for tonight’s drug deal with the Traveling Vice Lords. Then he’d called Young-D and told him to rent out another couple’s suite at the Sybaris.

Young-D was waiting in the lobby with the keycard to Alexus and Blake’s room. He had on a heavy white robe that was as bright as his smile.

“This shit right here, nigga!” Young-D said in his Katt Williams Voice. “Man, these white muhf*ckas got Jacuzzis and swimming pools inside the rooms. Waterfalls, rose petals on the beds, glass walls, good-cookin’ ass chefs—this shit wild, bruh.” He gave the keycard to Blake. “Now, if y’all will excuse me, I got some wet * to slide up into.”

They followed Young-D to the elevator and up to the top floor where their suites were located. Blake entered the room behind Alexus. Looking down at the red rose petals that led the way to a round, red-blanketed bed; he took off his fur and sighed in relief.

He sat down on the bed. Alexus tossed her coat on a chair and went to the bathroom.

“I’m getting out of the cartel business,” she said. “It’s about time that I stopped praising Jesus Malverde and started praising Jesus Christ. My mom’s been a Christian her whole life, and she’s the kindest, most loving person I know. I want to be like that, you know what I mean? I don’t want King Neal to grow up around a bunch of murderers and drug dealers.”

“Who is Jesus Malverde?” Blake asked, lighting a Newport.

“He’s the legendary cocaine god of Mexico. A lot of drug smugglers wear necklaces with pictures of him framed in the pendants, or they hang them from their rearview mirrors. I’m surprised you never heard of him.”

Blake lay back on the bed and gazed up at the mirrored ceiling. He blew a neat ring of smoke into the air and said, “what’s wrong wit’ Papi? Is he really dat f*cked up in the head?”

“He watched his father get beheaded when he was a kid.”

“By the leader of Zeta Cartel. He told me about that.”

“Gamuza wasn’t actually the leader then, but yeah, I think that’s what did it.” She paused, and then changed the subject. “Have you heard the news about my clothing line? We sold more than Louis Vuitton and Gucci combined. I know that French guy’s pissed.”

“Who you talkin’ ‘bout?”

“I’m talking about the guy that owns Gucci, Louis Vuitton, and Converse. I forget his name. He and Salma Hayek used to date.” Alexus sauntered out of the bathroom in a white bra and thong, her diamond-covered five-inch heels sparkling on her feet. “How do I look?” She asked turning a slow three-sixty.

Blake stood up smiling speechlessly. His iPhone began ringing on his hip, but he paid it no mind; nothing in the world could possibly be more important than the woman standing before him. He put out the cigarette.

“Close your eyes,” he said as he moved forward and kissed her lips. “I got a lil surprise for you.” She closed her eyes and he kissed her again, rubbing his palms up and down her generous derriere.

Then he got down on one knee, fished a small gray Le Vian jewelry box out of the front right pocket of his jeans, and flipped it open revealing a platinum ring with a twenty carat flawless white diamond bulging up from its diamond-encrusted band. He had paid seven million dollars for the dazzling engagement ring five days after Alexus had caught him cheating at the concert, hoping that she’d take him back. Luckily, he’d left it in his top drawer at his parent’s Brentwood mansion, and it had stayed there until he pocketed it this morning.

“You can open ‘em now,” Blake said, his voice an octave low with emotion. He saw the shock register in her eyes when they opened.

She inhaled sharply, slapping her hands over her gaping mouth as if her tongue was about to fall out.

“Blake!” She exclaimed, eyes watering.

“Listen, baby,” he said. “I love you. I mean, I really, really love you, Alexus. I know my past infidelities may have made you build security walls around your heart, but like Angela Davis wrote in her autobiography, ‘walls turned sideways are bridges.’ All I ask is for you to let down that wall, turn it sideways, and I’ma run across that bridge faster than Derrick Rose to get back that heart of mine.” He took her left hand. “So,” he added, taking a deep breath, “I ask you again. Alexus Costilla… will you marry me?”





Chapter 37

Tasia Olsen wandered aimlessly through Earl’s Jewelry on Michigan Avenue, occasionally glancing at the four body guards who were following her around the high-end jewelry store. She was holding King Neal on her hip. Mercedes, Porsche, and the other children were somewhere up the street at another store with Britney.

‘Where the hell are you, T-Walk?’ Tasia thought. She had sent him a text message fifteen minutes ago letting him know that she had the baby, and that she was in the company of four mean-looking bodyguards inside the jewelry store.

So where the hell was he?

“Excuse me, miss,” said the middle-aged, well-dressed Black man who was standing behind the counter. “Can I help you? If you give me an idea of what you’re looking for, I’m certain we’ll be able to find you something.”

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Tasia smiled at the man.

“I’m looking to buy a watch, actually.”

“For you?”

“No, it’s for my boyfriend. He wants another Audemars and a new Rolex. I figured I’d get him one today.”

Officially employed as Alexus Costilla’s publicist, Tasia was currently being paid a hundred fifty thousand dollars a month, so paying a hundred grand on a watch wouldn’t hurt her too much.

But, as it turned out, she wouldn’t spend a dime in Earl’s Jewelry.

The bell over the store’s front door jangled lightly as the employee led Tasia toward a section of the glass counter that was full of expensive watches. She looked back and saw that T-Walk and his three comrades had just entered the establishment.

With the speediness of trained assassins, they drew their Glocks and blasted holes through the skulls of the four bodyguards.





Chapter 38

“Damn baby, this ass so fat,” Blake murmured as he kneeled on the bed behind Alexus, gripping her hips and rapidly slamming his stone-hard erection in and out of her juicy *.

He could not keep his eyes off her ass as it bounced wildly with every stroke. The two big reddish-brown cheeks jiggled like twin mounds of Jell-O. Alexus had her head down with her hand between her ample thighs, massaging her clit.

“I’m about to…mmmmm…,” she moaned gutturally. “I’m cummin’, I’m cummin’, I’m… ah, ah…”

Blake poked his thumb into her * and held still as her body convulsed. He felt her inner muscles contracting around his dick. Her orgasmic juices poured down onto the bed, wetting the rose petals beneath her.

“I love when you do dat,” Blake moaned, slapping a hand across her ass. He pulled out and rolled over onto his back beside her. “You ready to ride it?”

“I can’t feel my legs,” Alexus mumbled in between breaths.

But only seconds later, she rose up on all fours, turned so that her head was hovering over his crotch, took his dick in her hand, and forced it into the very rear of her throat.

It wasn’t long before her mouth was over-flowing with cum.

Swallowing his gooey cream, she mounted Blake and gazed down at him, rubbing her hands up his tight six-pack. She squeezed his strong pectoral muscles, and he wondered what she was thinking.

“Will I have to pay taxes on all that money you gave me?” He asked.

“No. Britney took care of that for you. She went through all kinds of legal disputes to get it done, so I’d thank her if I were you.”

“Aw, I’ma do that ASAP. I’ll go out and get ‘er somethin’ tomorrow.”

Alexus sighed, cradling Blake’s three diamond necklaces in the palm of her hand. “Let’s go to Vegas and get married. I don’t want a big wedding anymore. I just want to get it done and over with so we can move on and enjoy our lives as a happy family. Kelly Rippa did it with her husband. Coco and Ice-T did it too.”

“ I ain’t trippin’, baby. Whatever you wanna do, I’m witchoo a hun’ed percent.” Blake slapped his hands onto her ass. “As long as you’ happy, I’m happy. I just wanna see you smile.”

“You’re really pouring it on today, aren’t you?” She beamed.

Blake’s iPhone rang again, eliciting A$AP Rocky’s “Peso” ringtone.

“Oh my God, Blake. Why won’t you cut off that phone? I turned mine off.”

“Grab that for me.”

Sucking her teeth, she got up and handed him the phone.

The call was from Young-D and his voice was frantic.

“Man, bruh, hurry up and get the f*ck over here,” Young-D said. “This crazy-ass bitch Nauti in here wit’ a gun to her head. She talkin’ ‘bout killin’ herself.”





Chapter 39

Blake dressed hurriedly; boxers, jeans, and sneakers.

“What’s going on?” Alexus asked as she covered her nakedness with the snow-white fur coat.

“Don’t worry about it, baby. Just stay in here,” Blake said, rushing to the door.

His mind was racing faster than his feet were moving. He snatched open the door and quickly crossed the hall to Princess and Young-D’s suite, noticing the absence of Alexus’ security team but not paying it any attention.

He walked into the room and stopped abruptly.

Janautica Spaulding was standing next to the Jacuzzi, holding a black Ruger nine-millimeter pistol to her temple. Princess, clad in red lace lingerie, had her arms wrapped tightly around Young-D, her face pressed against the shoulder of his white robe.

“Put the gun down, Nauti,” Blake said in a cautious tone. He moved a step closer. “What’s wrong? I know you ain’t that got-damned crazy.” Another step. “We can talk this shit out.”

Suddenly, a frigid smile crossed Janautica’s face. She turned the gun on Blake, wiping tear from her face with the back of her hand.

“I been waitin’ a long time fuh dis,” Janautica said.

Blake lifted his hands in surrender. He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Young-D push Princess to the side.

“Ay, get that gun out my nigga face,” Young-D demanded.

Janautica’s diabolic smile widened as she swung the gun around to Young-D and shot him in the chest. Princess shrieked.

Deciding to make a move while he had the chance, Blake lunged toward Janautica, but she had the pistol back on him in an instant. The barrel flashed twice, and he collapsed to the floor, bleeding from his shoulder and abdomen.

“I bet you’ wonderin’ where yuh little flashlight cops done went off to, huh?” Janautica dropped her head back and let out a mean, mad, maniacal laugh. “Well, guess what. I called the real cops, told ‘em they had some wannabes in the hallway out here wit’ machine guns, yuh feel me, like? They took ‘em down stairs to question ‘em.”

“I thought we agreed not to do this,” Princess whined. She was crouched down beside Young-D, holding a blood soaked towel to the expanding crimson spot on the chest of his robe.

“Shut the hell up, Cess,” Janautica snapped. “These f*ck-niggas killed my daddy ten got-damned months ago! We was s’pose to get in good wit’ ‘em and kill ‘em, but yo’ stupid ass done fell in love.”

Blake rolled over onto his back, clutching the bullet wound in his stomach and trying to figure out what exactly Janautica was talking about.

“I ain’t… killed… nobody,” he sputtered, looking up at her.

“Yes you did!” Janautica shouted. She aimed the Ruger at his face. “The judge might’ve thrown the cases out, but I know you did it. My daddy was one of them niggas y’all killed in Indianapolis. Cess was there. She saw it!” Janautica smiled again. “Tell my daddy I did this for him.”

Three more gunshots rang out, thunderous and deafening.

Two of the bullets punctured Janautica’s forehead, and the third one entered just below her left eye. She fell to floor, unmoving. Dead.

Blake looked back over his shoulder and breathed a sigh of relief.

Standing there in the doorway was Alexus Costilla, her fur coat half-open, exposing her nakedness. Smoke curling up from the from the barrel of her .44 Bulldog revolver.





Chapter 40

“Everything’s gon’ be okay, baby,” Blake said as the hotel’s medical staff loaded him onto a stretcher.

Alexus took his hand in hers and squeezed it. Although she had been involved with several murders, she had never actually taken a life until now, and it was bothering her more than she thought it would; she couldn’t stop crying and her entire body was trembling.

“Ma’am, we have to get him out of here,” said one of the medical staff.

Alexus bent over and molded her lips around Blake’s. Then she watched the medics roll him and Young-D out of the room. She badly wanted to go with them, but the police detectives had already told her that she would have to stay put for questioning.

She turned and stared at Janautica’s stiff corpse. A slender-built old white detective approached her.

“I’m not saying a word until my attorney is present,” Alexus said.

“You have his number?” the detective asked.

Nodding her head yes, Alexus pulled her phone from her coat pocket, suddenly remembering that she had turned it off. It began ringing as soon as she cut it on.

It was her lawyer.

“King Neal has been kidnapped,” Britney Bostic stated.