The Cocaine Princess Part 5 (Cocaine Princess Series #5)(68)

“Two hundred and we got a deal.”

Jenny Costilla showed a wicked smile as she peeled off two hundreds. ‘Greedy f*cking Americans,’ she thought, handing him the cash as he opened the door.

She stepped inside and looked around. There were cameras in every corner, and another janitor was cleaning windows on the other side of the lobby. He was younger, with cornrows and a goatee.

“Restrooms right down there by the elevator,” said the older janitor. “Try to make it quick.”

Jenny glanced at the black Maybach that was parked at the curb in front of the skyscraper. “Is that Rita Bishop’s car?”

“Yes ma’am, it is. Hard to believe she’s turned into the new Oprah practically overnight, isn’t it? My wife records every episode of the Rita Bishop show on that damn TiVo thing I got her last Christmas.”

“Where’s her office?”

The janitor frowned at Jenny. “I thought you had to use the restroom?”

Jenny didn’t reply. Instead, she turned and looked out the door again, this time focusing on the black Audi that was idling across the street. Miguel was lying back in the driver seat, wearing a black cotton ski-mask and holding an AR-15 assault rifle in his leather-gloved hands. Knowing that he was watching her gave Jenny a tad bit more confidence as she drew her Glock and put the barrel of its silencer to the janitor’s temple.

“Don’t you f*cking move,” she hissed, waving for Miguel to join her and keeping an eye on the other janitor, who was too busy squeegeeing the window to notice what was happening twenty feet behind him.

Seconds later, she and Miguel had the two janitors face down on the floor with their fingers interlaced behind their heads.

“Two questions,” Jenny said. “Number one: how many people are there in this building? And number two: where is Rita Bishop?”

“I don’t know, man, I don’t—” the younger janitor said, but his words were cut short by the suppressed phoof of Jenny’s pistol; blood, brain and bone splashed across the marble floor.

“Wrong answer,” Jenny said, moving the Glock to the other janitor’s head. “Let’s hope you can do better.”





Chapter 43

A stunning fleet of Ferraris, Lamborghinis, and Range Rovers was zipping down Chicago Avenue ahead of Bulletface’s matte black, four-door Bugatti. Recumbent in the tan leather passenger seat, he was eyeing the side of Mocha’s chocolate-hued face as she drove his multi-million-dollar toy through the darkness of Chicago’s west side.

Leaving the United Center, Blake had been livid. So livid, in fact, that he hadn’t even remembered to run the cash he’d made off the concert’s ticket sales through his money-counting machines. The only thing on his mind was revenge.

But then, just as he’d been getting ready to ride down on Duke’s clique of Four Corner Hustlers, he received a phone call from Jay Z, the one real nigga in the rap game who he respected and honored most.

The call had lasted a mere ten minutes, and it was life-changing.

Afterwards, Blake had forced himself to calm down. Then he’d given his assistant the money to bond his guys out of jail, rolled up a blunt, popped a Molly pill, and left the stadium.

Now, he was sweating like a Hebrew slave. His eyes were incredibly red, and the tantalizing sight of Mocha’s succulent lips had the crotch of his black Akoo jeans bulging out.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Mocha said, flicking her eyes at him. She was wearing a brown Louis Vuitton romper with matching shades and heels, and her full-length fur coat was draped over her seat. She looked a lot like Kisha from the movie Belly. “Don’t even start giving me that look, Face. Keep your freaky little eyes over there.”

Blake laughed as he snatched off his black Akoo sweatshirt and dabbed a line of sweat from his brow with his Louis Vuitton bandana. He had changed out of the Trukfit sweatsuit before leaving the concert.

“Ain’t nobody lookin’ at you,” he said, and went right back to ogling her juicy lips. “What kinda perfume is that you got on? That shit smell so good.”

Nakisha “Mocha” Newsome sucked her teeth, rolled her eyes, twisted her neck, and smiled all at the same time. She turned the volume up on the radio. Lil Wayne’s “No Worries” was playing on 92.3.

“You are so full of it,” she said. “I hope you don’t think I’m about to let you sweet-talk me out of my panties. Especially not after you did whatever it was you did to Nona and those other two bitches.”

“What?” Blake grinned. “When?”

“Before we left for the concert. I saw you creep off with them, and I know y’all did the nasty ‘cause I walked by your bedroom and heard it through the door.”

Another laugh escaped Blake’s throat. He had f*cked Nona and Tootie; but Tameka hadn’t joined them; she had sat aside and watched.

Blake’s smartphone started ringing, and he was surprised to see that it was Alexus calling. His brows furrowed together in wonder. ‘Fuck is she callin’ me for,’ he thought, adjusting the straps on his bulletproof vest. For a brief moment he considered ignoring the call. He didn’t want to talk to Alexus. Not after all the heartache she’d forced upon him. Not after she’d left him for his number one enemy. But the truth was, he still loved and missed Alexus, and just the idea of hearing her cotton voice was all the motivation he needed to answer the phone call.