The Cocaine Princess Part 5 (Cocaine Princess Series #5)(43)

“Welcome to the good life,” Blake chuckled. “Good sex, good Kush, good money.” He stuffed the cash in his pockets.

Cereniti said, “There isn’t enough room in my Lamborghini for her and I to go shopping. Mind if we take your Phantom—well, one of your Phantoms? Yo, I promise not to crash it.”

“If you crash my Rolls, I’m crashin’ you,” Blake threatened.

“You already did that.” Cereniti giggled, and then preceded Chyna out of the bedroom.

Blake sat on the bed and made a call to his mother to check on the kids. Carolynn sounded frustrated.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Momma. How you doin’?”

“This little devil of yours is getting on my last nerve.”

“Who, King?”

“I’m talking about Savaria. She’s driving me insane. And your father isn’t making it any better, wrestling around with her in my bed after I just made it.”

Blake grinned. He heard Dale and Vari’s laughter through the phone. “What’s up wit’ King Neal?” He asked, attaching a Bluetooth earpiece to his left ear, puffing on his blunt.

“He’s all smiles as usual. Trying his best to walk and talk like you. Thinking he’s tough already. He gibbers the way you did when you were his age.”

A wider grin burgeoned on Blake’s dark brown visage. “That’s my li’l nigga,” he boasted with pride. Getting back up from the bed, he headed out of the bedroom to the hallway safe and punched in the combination. Pulling open the heavy steel door, he said, “I’ll be out there in California all this weekend.’

“Good. Maybe I’ll get a little peace with these kids out of my hair.”

Blake clipped the Smartphone to his hip and stepped into the safe, a stainless steel vault with a gold and crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling and an eighty-inch Sony camera monitor on its left wall that displayed images from the estate’s thirty-nine cameras. The rear and right walls were three long shelves of hundred-dollar bills. The bank-new notes were papered together in ten-thousand-dollar bundles.

Flanking the door on both sides were three long rows of 24-karat gold-plated guns: Kalashnikovs AK-47s, equipped with 125-round drums; .50-caliber Desert Eagle handguns with 13-shot clips; Uzis and Tec-9s, Ruger P90s and Glock 18s, all gold-plated and fitted with red laser sighting and extended magazines. On the floor beneath them were forty brand-new Louis Vuitton duffle bags; Blake picked one up, unzipped it, and placed it on the 24-karat gold rectangular table that sat in the middle of the vault’s steel floor.

“What are you doing?” Carolynn asked.

Blake stared for a brief moment at the piles of cash—all $537 million of it. Then he began filling the brown leather duffle bag with cash. “Getting’ ready to start my day, Momma. I got two shows today. One at the stadium where the Pacers play in Indianapolis. Eighteen thousand people.”

“Thank the Lord. Mmm,” Momma intoned. “I don’t know how you do it. I’d probably faint if I had to perform in front of that many people.”

“It ain’t nothin’. I was born to be a star. Pops would have been a star too, if he hadn’t been a dope-fiend. It’s cool, though. At least he ain’t doin’ it no more. And it’s my time to shine now anyway.” He looked at the touch-screen camera monitor and saw that Chyna and Cereniti were just entering the eighteen-car garage. Another image showed Alexus and what seemed to be the entire Costilla family-Jenny excluded-conversing in the basement’s soundproof shooting range.

“You’d better be careful in Indianapolis. I’ve been reading the blogs. A lot of them still think you had a hand in that big shooting that took place two years back. Make sure you put on that vest, and don’t let anyone prepare your drinks or roll up your weed.”

“I know the game, Ma,” he chuckled.

“Well, I’m just making sure. I know how much you love those streets.” She sighed a motherly sigh of love and worry. “Here, talk to your daughter.”

Savaria quickly broke into her standard line of questioning. She wanted to know how he and Alexus were doing; if she should be expecting any new gifts; when she would be seeing him again. Blake finished stuffing $500,000 into the regular-sized duffle and zipped it shut while he spoke with his little angel. Then he ended the call, tucked a Desert Eagle behind the waistline of his baggy Trukfit shorts, grabbed an AK-47, and went down to the shooting range—after shutting and checking the safe’s door.

The elevator ride lasted less than thirty seconds. When the doors opened and Blake stepped out, the Costillas all turned to look at him. A deafening silence fell over the massive room. Blake walked over to Alexus and kissed her on the cheek, then hugged Mercedes and Isabella, and shook hands with Papi, Flako, Pedro, Antoney, and Santiago. Instinctively, Blake wondered why the cartel bosses were all here in Chicago. They usually stayed in Mexico.

Eyeing Blake’s gaudy attire, Papi grumbled, “Seems like your diamonds multiply every time we meet. Who do you think you are, Big Meech?”

“I think I’m Bulletface,” Blake replied tightly. He dropped the duffle, but kept the AK-47 in hand. “What’s goin’ on?”

Mercedes was dressed in a multicolored Marchesa sundress and black Gucci ankle boots. She grabbed her hips and said, “Papi thinks I’m in some kind of danger. They think my aunt Jenny—who I’ve never even met—wants to kill me.”