The Cocaine Princess Part 5 (Cocaine Princess Series #5)(4)

“Punk ass nigga,” Mercedes was shouting, “you shouldn’t have f*cked my li’l sister! Now you wanna get mad cause I got a friend on the side?! Fuck you, Duke!”

“How many times are you gon’ bring that shit up?! I’ve apologized a thousand times already! What the f*ck do you want me to do?!” Duke raised his hands in frustration. He was six feet tall, the same height as Blake, and his Gucci outfit screamed new money.

Alexus exited the limo and headed toward them, her fur coat shimmering in the cool breeze. Four body guards accompanied her.

“Y’all need to chill out,” Blake said.

“You,” Duke countered, poking a finger at Blake’s face, “need to stay the f*ck out of my business. This ain’t got shit to do with you.”

Blake clenched his teeth and scowled at Duke, and Mercedes slapped Duke across the face. Hard.

“Bitch!” Duke exclaimed, wrapping his hands around her neck.

Blake shot his fist into Duke’s jaw, and Duke went down, unconscious, in the middle of the street.

Mercedes gasped. “Blake! Why’d you hit him?!” She kneeled down beside Duke and cradled his head in her arms.

Grabbing Blake’s hand, Alexus pulled him to the lime-green-painted tour bus. “You’re so f*cking stupid,” she chastised, snatching him along behind her.

Halfway down the block, Kenny-Lord’s black Porsche Panamera was parked at the curb; Kenny was standing outside of his open driver’s door, smiling at Blake and shaking his head.

Blake gave a nod, then boarded the coach behind Alexus.





Chapter 2

“That was completely uncalled for.”

“No it wasn’t. He shouldn’t’ve put his hands on her.” Blake studied his fiancée’s bellicose expression, easing back on the king-size bed as she stood before him. Her arms were crossed over the chest of her Dolce & Gabbana mini-dress. “Real men don’t hit women, punks hit women.”

Rolling her eyes, Alexus turned around and cut on the 50-inch LCD television. Her 32D-24-48 measurements strained against the thin fabric of her dress. After nearly two years with her, Blake was still obsessed with ogling her voluminous ass every time she turned her back to him. She tuned the TV to MTN News, one of her three television networks. Three anchormen were discussing the ramifications of the Trayvon Martin protests.

“He didn’t hit her,” she said stretching out next to Blake on the bed.

“Oh, my fault. He choked her.” Blake scoffed. “Big difference, huh.”

Alexus sighed. “What if he decides to press charges? Did you think about that?” Part One:



Money, Money, Money, Money, Money Baaaags





Prologue

Five Months Prior, November 1, 2011

“Shut the f*ck up and listen. Bitch, if you ever wanna see your son again—alive, I mean—I need a billion dollars in cash delivered to Gary, Indiana in exactly seventy-two hours. You understand that?”

“Yes, I understand. Can you let me hear him? I need to know that he’s still…..okay.”

“Bitch what the f*ck you think this is, Burger King? Didn’t I just tell you to shut the f*ck up?”

“I’m sorry,” Alexus cried.

The deep voiced kidnapper paused for what seemed like an eternity to Alexus Costilla. She was sitting on the right side of her fiancé, Blake King’s hospital bed at Chicago’s Northwestern Memorial Hospital, rocking back and forth with her iPhone 4S pressed against her ear. Tears were streaming down her breathtaking face. Her hands were trembling as though she was freezing, though the full-length, white fur coat she donned over her snow white Marchesa dress and five-inch, diamond-encrusted, custom-made Christian Louboutin heels had her feeling rather warm.

“Seventy –two hours,” the voice finally said. “I want the cash piled up in the back of a semi-truck, a’ight? No funny shit. If we find any kinda trackin’ devices mixed in with the money, I’m blowin’ this li’l nigga’s head off. You got that?”

Alexus sniffled, “I understand. Just don’t hurt—”

The line went dead.

She turned to Enrique Aleman, her black-suited chief of security. The broad-chested Mexican’s eyes were glued to the screen of his own iPhone. Clearing his throat, he looked at Alexus and stated in Spanish, “The call came from Gary Indiana, on the corner of Fifth and Madison. Phone was purchased from a gas station in Hammond around six this morning. I’m going to head out to Gary, take about twenty men with me.”

“I have the address and phone number to where the phone was purchased,” Attorney Britney Bostic stated. Seated across from Alexus in an easy chair, clad in a dark blue Valentino pantsuit, the twenty-seven-year-old lawyer rapidly typed on her laptop. Her delectable, pie-shaped chocolate-hued visage was smooth and unblemished, with a narrow nose and an infectious smile that hardly ever failed to brighten the spirits of everyone she encountered.

But today it was not working. Probably because yesterday, fifty-five members of the Costilla Cartel – Mexico’s reigning drug cartel, currently headed by nineteen-year-old Alexus Costilla and her sexagenarian father, Juan “Papi” Costilla – had been shot to death and torched in Southampton County, Virginia. Also yesterday, Blake King, Alexus’ nineteen-year-old fiancé had been shot once in the stomach and once in the shoulder by an ex-lover of his. Alexus had saved his life by putting three .44-caliber bullets through the deranged woman’s face.