The Cocaine Princess Part 5 (Cocaine Princess Series #5)(62)

Alexus timidly stepped forward, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. Her usually exuberant green eyes widened in shock as she took in the grotesque sight of her brain-splattered marble steps.

“He was working with the Zeta-cartel,” Papi explained, assuming Alexus had watched the murder on her camera monitors.

She put a hand over her eyes and squeezed. “Who was it?” She asked with a hopeless sigh. “Please don’t say it was Santiago.”

“Fine, I won’t, then,” Papi said. “I need you and Mercedes to gather your things right this minute and come with us. Send someone out here to clean off these steps.”

“What about the White House dinner?”

“Forget about the dinner. I believe Jenny’s found her way back into the States, and there’s a very really possibility that she may have a nuclear weapon with her.”





Chapter 37

There were more than thirty pretty young Black women mingling around the indoor swimming pool at Bulletface’s Highland Park estate. Some of them were lying in white chaises, sipping glasses of Ciroc vodka, while others were bouncing to the beat of one of Bulletface’s club bangers and talking with the other MBM artists.

Blake was sitting at the wet bar on a white leather stool between Nona and Lakita, a big-bootied stripper he’d dated last year. He had talked her into becoming a dancer at Reesie Cup’s strip club in hopes of learning the identities of the men who’d kidnapped his daughter and murdered his daughter’s mother a few years ago. Now he knew that it had been none other than Reesie Cup himself, but since Cup’s crew accounted for over half of Blake’s kilo sales, Blake had set aside his ill feelings and focused on accumulating more cash.

But now things had changed.

“Yeah, it was crazy,” Lakita was saying. “Feds just swooped in and snatched up damn near every nigga Cup f*cked with. I’m really surprised they didn’t get his ass, too. I thought for sure he was goin’ down. He’s the biggest drug-dealer in Chicago.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Blake regarded Kita with a look of suspicion, wondering if she was somehow responsible for the demise of Reesie Cup’s crew; with the way she was talking, she definitely could have gotten some people busted.

“Loose lips sink ships,” Blake said, watching Cherokee D’Ass’ phat booty shake as she and Pinky sashayed away from the bar with their drinks in hand.

“Boy, please,” Kita retorted. “Everybody and they momma know about Reesie Cup.”

“Doesn’t mean you can just broadcast it to the whole world.” Nona was rolling up a blunt of Kush for Blake, and her eyes, replete with disdain, were fixed on Kita. “Big-mouthed bitches are the main reason why so many real niggas are locked up now.”

Kita waved off Nona’s comment, and Blake chuckled at their obvious dislike for each other. He liked Nona a lot, but he certainly did not love either of them. Alexus had taken his heart in her hand and mutilated it with an icepick of betrayal, and the experience had extinguished his need for love. Now all he wanted to do was eat *, get his dick sucked, and f*ck.

He smoked the blunt without speaking, feeling like he was on the set of French Montana’s “Pop That” video shoot. An Indian-looking dime piece who’d introduced herself as Shanel Nelson was standing maybe ten feet away from the bar, chatting with another urban model, and Blake couldn’t stop looking at her. Her eyes happened to meet his just as Fly walked into the room, and Blake almost motioned for her to join him.

But then he spotted Tameka, the girl he’d met at his Michigan City home on the night of Lil Mike’s murder.

She was strolling in behind Fly and three other guys. Tootie was right next to her. Awestruck, the two girls ogled the retractable glass ceiling as they followed Fly to the bar. Both of them had on tight fitting multicolored leggings, spiked heels, and Gucci accessories.

“What it is, bruh?” Fly shook hands with Blake, the Dub Life handshake. He was wearing a fresh white Trukfit outfit that was similar to Blake’s. “Man, I know you heard about that sweep.”

“Talking ‘bout Cup n’em?” Blake asked.

Fly nodded somberly. “I hope that shit don’t fall back on none of our niggas. You know how them indictments go. First it’s one clique, then it’s another.” He turned and introduced the three guys he’d brought with him. Blake had already met two of them—Smoke and Lil Lew—and the third nigga was Nutso, a dark-complected cat who looked like a shorter version of Rick Ross. All of them had on heavy fur coats and a bunch of diamond jewelry.

“I’ma have to get my ice game up,” Blake joked as he shook their hands and smoked the last few inches of his blunt.

Suddenly Nutso closed his eyes, leaned forward, and inhaled the pungent aroma of Blake’s weed. “What’s that, some Purp?”

Smoke laughed. “My nigga Nutso is a weed connoisseur. He can name every kind of Kush that’s out there.”

“Crazy part about it,” Blake said, “this is some Purp.”

“That shit ain’t on nothin’.” Nutso took off his chinchilla coat, laid it on a barstool, and pulled out a Ziploc full of loud-scented weed that was covered in a whitish sheen. “This shit right here is the champagne of strains. They call it White Russian. It’s the most potent Kush in the world, my nigga. Blowin’ one blunt of this White Russian Kush is like smokin’ eight blunts of Purple Kush.” He opened the bag, and the powerful stench made Blake’s head spin.