The Cocaine Princess Part 5 (Cocaine Princess Series #5)(61)

Alexus got up and followed Trintino’s unwavering gaze to King Neal, who was on his hands and knees, rolling his toy Escalade across the floor. She crossed the room to T-Walk, slipped an arm around his waist, and murmured, “Finish what you were saying.”

What T-Walk had wanted to say was, “And besides, Squirm’s right-hand man, Lil Regg, is still pissed off about his girlfriend and son being killed when your cartel people rescued King Neal from Regg’s apartment.” But of course he could not say that. So instead, draping an arm around the nape of her neck and planting a warm kiss on her temple, he said, “King needs a safe environment to grow up in, and it’s my responsibility to provide that for him. Bringing a bunch of killers and drug-dealers around our kid is a recipe for disaster. He’s already been kidnapped once. We can’t take any more chances. The kidnappers might not be so dumb next time.”

“There won’t be a next time,” Alexus said.

“I know there won’t. I wouldn’t have let it happen the first time, to tell you the truth.”

Just then, the ever-cantankerous Cereniti walked into the bedroom with Mercedes and Porsche; all three of them had on tight black leggings with BULLETFACE stitched across the rear, black tee shirts with Blake’s face on the front and MBM TEAM on the back, and MBM visors that made them look like dealers in Vegas.

T-Walk grinded his teeth together in disdain.

“I’m not goin’ to no stupid-ass book release party,” Porsche said, plopping down on the white leather Versace sofa. “Shit, I’m f*ckin’ with my nigga Bulletface today.” She flicked her eyes at T-Walk and regarded him with a sneaky little smirk.

“Shut the hell up, Porsche,” Mercedes snapped.

“Straight up, yo,” Cereniti said. “We’re going to Michigan City for Tasia’s party right after we leave Blake’s concert. I mean, for Christ’s sake, if we don’t support each other…”

The welcoming sound of T-Walk’s smartphone ringing took him away from the girls’ boisterous conversation, and he was grateful for the interruption. He hated Blake, plain and simple, and seeing how much the world was beginning to love “Bulletface” made T-Walk hate him even more.

He strolled over to King Neal’s side, squatted down, and ruffled the little guy’s hair as he answered the phone.

“T-Walk?” Reesie cup said, sounding distressed.

“Yeah, what it is, fam?”

“Man, Joe…the DEA just raided three of my spots, got me for two hundred and ninety bricks and damn near twenty-seven million.”

There was a 72-inch flat-screen television secreted in the bedroom ceiling. T-Walk grabbed the TV remote, pressed a button that made the television descend from its hiding place, turned it on, and flipped through the channels until he landed on CNN.

And sure enough, there it was.

DEA agents arrest 47 in Chicago drug sting; seize millions in drugs, cash, and luxury vehicles.

“Goddamn,” T-Walk muttered, and the room suddenly became quiet as everyone zeroed in on the newscast.

Then they heard a single gunshot from somewhere outside the mansion.

The girls gasped in unison, and T-Walk rushed to his spacious walk-in closet to retrieve his Ruger pistol.





Chapter 36

“Rest in peace, you son of a bitch,” Papi said. He was standing on the front steps of the Casa Casuarina with his gold-plated Desert Eagle in hand, glowering down at what was left of his nephew Santiago Costilla’s head.

The two obese figures flanking Papi were Flako and his daughter Isabella, both of whom had long ago grown used to Papi’s savage behavior. Their indecipherable expressions betrayed the coldness in their hearts.

“Jenny’s really gonna flip out now,” Bella commented, throwing a glance back at the Ocean Drive traffic; the vehicles were already speeding away from the sound of gunfire, and the dark-suited Costilla cartel henchmen who’d occupied the black Range Rovers that had trailed Papi’s sleek black Maybach Landaulet to the mansion were hustling toward Santiago’s dead body.

“You didn’t have to kill him, Papi,” Flako said.

Waving off his younger brother’s comment, Papi handed the smoking .50-caliber to one of his men, then watched as they picked up Santiago’s limp corpse, tossed it in the back seat of a Rover, and disappeared down Ocean Drive.

“Think of it like this,” Papi said. “I just made him famous, shot him dead in the exact same spot where Gianni Versace was killed. This’ll go down in history, no? Jenny should be proud.” He looked at Bella, and saw that her eyes were brimming with tears.

“Why’d you kill him?” She murmured emotionlessly.

“He was working with the Zetas,” Papi said, “and I’m pretty damn sure Jenny’s working with them, too. His phone records show numerous calls to a Zeta underboss, one of Gamuza’s closest friends. There were also daily calls to an unlisted number in Venezuela, and that same phone was tracked to Belize two days ago, Mexico City, yesterday morning, and”—he looked at his Bulova watch—“an hour and forty minutes ago in Laredo, Texas. It’s Jenny. I’d bet my soul on it. She probably sweet-talked Gamuza’s underboss, got him to let her use one of their tunnels to enter the U.S. undetected.”

He turned toward the large front door as it swung open. His two beautiful daughters were in the foyer, nearly hidden behind a wall of vigilant bodyguards.