The Cocaine Princess Part 5 (Cocaine Princess Series #5)(18)

“I know a spot we ain’t hit up yet.”

“Yeah? Where?” She asked.

“The safe.” He kissed her all over her mouth and neck as he walked out of the family room, past the elevator, down a long hallway, and finally to the solid steel door of their safe. After pressing his thumb down on the fingerprint scanner, he typed in a set of numbers—12-12-11-14—and the ten inch thick steel door popped open.

But before he could open the door, one of the maids came running up the hallway toward them with a cordless phone in her hand. “Mr. King,” she said, extending the phone to Blake, “you have a phone call. They say it’s an emergency. And”—she looked at Alexus—“Enrique’s video chatting with Papi in your office. Papi wants to speak with you.”

Alexus lowered her feet to the heated white marble floor and tugged her snow-white mini-dress down over her thick bottom, knowing then that her night would not end the way she had intended it to.





Chapter 12

“Bruh, I’ve been tryna call you for the last couple of hours,” Fly had said as Blake was standing in front of the safe. “It’s about Lil Mike and Terry. They got shot up. Blub and Moe got hit, too, but they’ll be alright. Mike and Terry didn’t make it.”

“I’m on the way,” had been Blake’s concise reply.

Now he was lancing his lime-green Bugatti Veyron 16.4 Super Sport down Interstate 94, weaving the two-million-dollar car in and out of traffic and smoking an obese blunt of Purple Kush. He was brimming with anger. Some f*ck-nigga had the audacity to murder one of his closest friends, and he wasn’t about to let Lil Mike’s death go un-avenged.

Before leaving home, Blake had put on his Teflon vest under the tee shirt, a gray Louis Vuitton hoody over the tee, and a matching gray skull cap that was leaned to the left in honor of his steadfast alliance with the Traveling Vice Lords, one of Chicago’s most notorious criminal organizations.

He turned on his iPhone—it had been off since dinner—and discovered thirty one new text messages and seventeen new voicemails. Every message pertained to the shooting. Blake wanted to call and talk to somebody, but he didn’t want to risk discussing the shooting over the phone.

Scrolling down his phone’s list of contacts, he stopped at NM313. “Fuck it,” he grumbled. Then he pressed SEND.

The phone rang thrice before Nona’s cotton voice whelmed the line.

“Hello?” She answered.

Blake sucked in a mouthful of Kush smoke and turned down the volume on Rick Ross’s “Yella Diamonds.” He coughed a couple of times, then muttered, “You spend that sixty racks already?”

A shocked gasp blew from the phone. “Bulletface?!”

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m on the highway, needed somebody to talk to. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”

“No, no, no, no, no. I’m just lying here in bed, watching last week’s episode of Khloé and Lamar.” She released a light giggle. “To answer your question, no, I didn’t spend it all, but I did blow about twenty-five thousand in that Louis Vuitton store on Michigan Avenue. And I spent ten more on a brand-new flat screen TV and some other stuff I needed for the house. I’m thinking about putting the rest toward paying off the mortgage. All I’ll owe after that is—am I talking too much?”

“Nah, you good. I’m listening,” Blake said, steering the Bugatti around an eighteen wheeler.

“You sound so…depressed,” Nona said. “Are you okay?” Before he could reply she sailed on. “I know I’d be okay if I were you. The caption rolling across the bottom of my TV just said something about Alexus Costilla made billions off a business deal with some investment company in Dubai. That is just too much money.”

“Ain’t no such thing as too much money. Right now, Forbes got me down as having a net worth of five hundred and forty million. I wanna double that within the next couple of years. Shit, you ever heard of the Rockefeller Family? Them muhf*ckas had over three hundred billion. If they can do it, I know I can do it.”

“I suggest you take Machiavelli’s advice, then. ‘Men walk almost always in the paths trodden by others, proceeding in their actions by imitation. Not being always able to follow others exactly, nor attain to the excellence of those he imitates, a prudent man should always follow in the path trodden by great men and imitate those who are most excellent, so that if he does not attain to their greatness, at any rate he will get some tinge of it.’ That’s one of the most thought provoking statements I’ve ever read. Whenever I’m feeling pessimistic about my modeling career, I pick up Machiavelli The Prince and read that paragraph, and it always galvanizes me. I start saying to myself, ‘If Buffie and Maliah can become legends in the urban modeling game, then I can definitely do it. I just have to follow in their footsteps.’”

“So what you’re saying is I should be a follower.”

“Everybody’s a follower in one way or another. I went out and bought all this Louis Vuitton because you’re my favorite rapper and you’re always wearing Louis Vuitton. You wear it because our society has made it popular for people who have money. It’s a status symbol that the majority of us want, but we only want it because everyone else wants it. We’re following the trends. If you want to be successful, you have to follow the path trodden by successful men.”