The Cocaine Princess Part 5 (Cocaine Princess Series #5)(6)

‘It’s Bulletface…I’m sure you heard, man

Rich hood nigga, so my dress code Birdman

Shout out to Birdman, and I’m the Birdman

A thousand bricks of thirty-six, I’ll send it to yuh curb, man…’

Blake grinned at the sound of his own gruff voice. He wore a Louis Vuitton bulletproof vest over a black wife beater, baggy True Religion jeans, and a pair of Jordan sneakers. The four-carat round-cut red diamonds in his platinum necklace glistened as brilliantly as the ten-carat red diamonds in his platinum pinky rings and the small red diamonds in his platinum bracelet and Hublot watch. Due to his grueling two-hour-a-day weightlifting sessions, he was 215 pounds of solid muscle. His left-canted Bulls cap partly exposed his low cut fade, and from the waist up he was covered in tattoos, including four teardrops on the left side of his face and four more on the right.

Money Bagz Management’s five other rap artists – Terrance “Streets” King, Blake’s older brother, Donte “Young-D” Roscoe, his childhood friend, Demetrius “Lil Meach” Burns, another childhood friend of Blake’s, Nakisha “Mocha” Newsome, a sexy, dark-skinned ex-stripper, and Damario “Chucky” Burns, Lil Meach’s older (though much shorter) brother—were sitting on the sofa with Blake, vibing to their CEO’s album. Mocha was jotting down lyrics in her rhyme book. The others passed around blunts and bottles of Ciroc Vodka.

The 45-foot-long mobile palace was parked at the end of the long driveway in front of Blake and Alexus’ Highland Park mansion. They had purchased the estate for $27.9 million shortly after Blake was released from the hospital. Alexus had spent another $15 million on renovations. The overhead included five maids, three chefs, a butler, and a nanny.

“Shouldn’t we be on our way to the album release party?” Mocha asked as she glanced at her platinum Rolex watch. “It was supposed to start at noon right? Well it’s eleven thirty now.”

“I know what time it is. We’ll get there when we get there”, Blake said. He turned and stared out the large, darkly-tinted window behind him. Where the f*ck is Alexus? He thought. Her plane landed at Midway over an hour ago. What’s taking her so long to get home?

“R.I.P Trayvon Martin,” Lil Meach said, and took a fiery gulp of Ciroc. Like the other MBM rap artists, he was heavily adorned with diamonds and clothed in Louis Vuitton from head to toe. The big red-diamond-encrusted pendant hanging from his necklace read Money Bagz Management. “Fucked up how they let dude get away wit’ killin’ that li’l nigga. Ain’t no way we would’ve been treated like that. Shit, you see how hard it was for me to get that fifty-five years off my back, and that was for somethin’ I didn’t even do.”

“I already know bruh”, Blake concurred. He pulled a dense, rubber-banded bundle of hundred-dollar bills out of his front right pocket. It was only thirty thousand dollars, pocket change compared to the $428 million in his Chase Bank account, and the $170 million in drug money he had stashed throughout his four Chicago mansions. “I gotta do somethin’ in memory of Trayvon; you know somethin’ that’ll be remembered for a long time.”

“Let’s do a song about him,” Mocha suggested.

“Yeah bruh,” Young-D added. “We can shoot the video before the tour starts. Have everybody wearin’ hoodies in the video, wit’ bags of skittles and bottles of iced tea.”

Nodding his head in agreement, Blake stood up and snatched his iPhone from his hip. “We’ll come up wit’ somethin’,” he said. Blake began to dial Alexus’ number. She answered immediately.

“Baby I’m right down the street from our house. Mercedes and her stupid-ass boyfriend met me at the airport, and now they’re screaming at each other in the middle of the street.”

“What?” Blake frowned.

“I know. Sounds crazy as shit, doesn’t it?” Alexus snickered. “One minute we were following them up the street, and the next they were leaping out of her car, arguing and shouting.”

Blake flicked his eyes around the coach’s pricey interior. The walls and cabinetry were Italian maple. All the upward-facing cockpit surfaces—including an eighty-foot long counter top—were swathed in carbon fiber, and the hardwood maple floors were painted a glossy black. His gold-plated Kalashnikov AK -47 assault rifle rested atop a cash-filled Louis Vuitton duffle bag on the counter.

He walked to the counter, pushed the AK aside, and unzipped the duffle bag. “That nigga bet’ not put his hands on my sista-in-law,” Blake said, lifting a gold-plated .50 caliber Desert Eagle handgun out of the bag.

“Just get out here and calm him down before he gets himself killed,” Alexus said. But Blake knew she didn’t mean it; the Halloween shootings had taken all of the fight out of her.

“On my way baby.” He cocked the pistol and shouted for his driver to start the engine.

Seconds later, the 55,000-pound Newell coach was drifting down the long, circular driveway toward the fifteen-foot wrought iron gates at the front of Jordan’s old home.

Blake was stuffing the thirty grand back into his pocket when his phone rang. The tour bus had not yet reached the gates. He looked at the phone and saw the call was from Kenny-Lord, a Mafia Insane Vice Lord from Gary, Indiana. Since last summer, Blake had been selling kilos of cocaine and heroin and pounds of purple Kush to Kenny-Lord’s crew. Over time they had established a brotherly rapport with one another. This was partly due to their flourishing business relationship, but mostly because Mercedes was cheating on her boyfriend with Kenny. And, in Blake’s opinion, Kenny was a better man for Mercedes than her current boyfriend.