“What else is there to say?”
She sighed heavily. What if it was Papa John’s baby—then what? She was living a good life with Darryl. He provided for her and took care of her, and he treated her fairly. But she had fallen in love with his son.
Somewhat frustrated, Dina removed herself from Papa John’s arms and went into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. The attitude came quickly. She didn’t want to hear “Damn” or “What else is there to say?” from him. She needed something more constructive coming from his mouth. She was risking everything by having an affair with him. Now things became critical. Papa John was the first to know about the pregnancy—even before her fiancé. Eventually, she would have to tell Darryl, but there was another option—an abortion. If she chose that road, then the money would have to come from Papa John, because Darryl would certainly want to keep the baby.
Papa John removed himself from the bed and started to get dressed. He had to go. The hours were flying by, and morning was imminent in a few hours. Dina was still locked in the bathroom. Papa John knocked on the door and said, “Dina, I gotta go. We’ll talk about this later.”
He received nothing but silence.
He left. Dina sat on the toilet in tears, wondering if she’d made the biggest mistake of her life. Papa John lived in a dangerous and deadly world. There was no telling if tomorrow was promised for him. And there was no telling if his world would come crashing into hers. If so, how would she explain it to Darryl?
20
The large flatscreen TV broadcasted the nightly news in the Far Rockaway beachfront property, and the core subject was the two deadly bombings in the city. Now the feds had a person of interest. Forty-five people were confirmed dead in the Harlem project building bombing, and another twenty residents were seriously injured. The bomb used was powerful with a strong kill radius—same as the nightclub. It almost felt nuclear. The blast took out several floors and shook the building’s foundation. The feds were worried.
Maserati Meek perked up when he heard the anchorwoman mention Jessica’s name. His eyes became fixed on the TV and he raised the volume to hear clearer. He was astounded to see her face on TV.
“What is this, eh?” Maserati Meek asked his men as they sat around in the plush decorated living room and watched the news.
Meek was confused. Why were they searching for Jessica? He assumed they already had her in custody. He assumed that she had snitched on him. She had betrayed him. She needed to be taught a lesson, so that’s why her family and those closest to her had to die.
“It’s a trick,” Amir uttered.
“You think so?”
“The FBI will do anything to catch their man, even lie.”
Maserati Meek wasn’t so sure. There were a lot of questions he wanted answers to. Where was she? Was she truly on the run? How did the FBI find out about her? How did they track her down? He started to feel anxious. She wasn’t answering her phone or texting him back.
“Yes, it must be a ruse. They want to confuse me,” Meek said. “I must call her again. Bring me a burner phone.”
Amir looked at him and said, “We must stay focused and continue on with the task. We are at war, my brother. And Allah has chosen us to relay His message. This girl, she’s a distraction.”
But she wasn’t a distraction. She was some of the best sex that he ever had in his life. Too bad it had to end. Maserati Meek paced back and forth in the opulent beachfront home. He felt secure there with his dedicated and armed Muslim brothers. The place had marble flooring with an open living area, a modern eat-in kitchen, and a luxurious master bedroom. It had a sweeping view of the ocean, a granite wet bar, and a double-side wood fireplace for the cold winters.
Amir kept his eyes on Meek. He had noticed something different about Meek—whose true name was Akar Mudada. Amir was a d
ie-hard extremist who wanted to strike terror into the lives of as many Americans, Israelis, and Europeans as he could. He believed that by killing those who did not serve their cause, he would make the world a much better place. They were fighting on behalf of all Muslims. And when his time came, Amir planned on taking out as many American lives as possible. He was bred for destruction. Allah was his calling, and violence was, most times, the only voice of reason—violence was the path to paradise.
“I need some air,” Meek said.
Amir nodded.
Meek stepped onto the spacious brick-paved patio. He looked at the sea. It was time to get back to business. While Amir and the others cared about their religious cause, it was making money that Maserati Meek truly cared about. But there was one more obstacle in his way: Panamanian Pete. Pete was his true distraction. He was a man that could match his wealth and his power. With Panamanian Pete finally gone, Meek could fully corner the market and manipulate prices, from drugs and racketeering to having absolute power. He could become a god on the streets and beyond. It was something that he refused to tell his Muslim brothers—that he was a big-time drug dealer in business with the black man. He was selfish, and Amir and the others were killing themselves based on a lie. Swelled with megalomania, Meek was determined to have it all by any means necessary.
While Meek lingered on the patio, Amir looked at him with suspicion from the next room. He had many questions for Meek. First, why had he changed his name from Akar? Why was the girl Jessica on TV, and why was she the person of interest for their handiwork? Who was she really to Akar? Was their Muslim brother in love with this woman? Things were going awry, and he felt it needed to be fixed right away. He turned and moved away from Meek’s line of view. In the following room, Amir removed his cell phone and dialed a number. It was a long-distance call, back home to Egypt, and Amir soon got in contact with Meek’s dad, Shahib Abu Mudada.
21
The Bottom’s Up was a seedy urban strip club in the heart of Bed-Stuy, four blocks from where the legendary Biggie Smalls grew up. It was a busy night at the club, swamped with thugs and pimps, locals and squares, perverts and first-timers. Overall, they were all there for the same things—pussy and drinks.
Inside the dim, loud club, a sultry dancer named Passion took to the stage butt-naked in a pair of clear stilettos with blaring rap music as her soundtrack. Her chocolate-covered body was curvy and flawless. Numerous tattoos decorated her skin, including one on her back of a large glistening diamond containing hundred dollar bills—a metaphor for being rich on the outside and in. Her tits sat up perfectly, her nipples were darker than coal, and between her thighs was the perfect shaved camel toe.
She grabbed the pole and skillfully swung herself around it a few times, moving to Drake’s “Hotline Bling.” She then hoisted herself up the pole, showing off her upper body strength, and contorted her body around it like a coiled snake. The muscles in her arms and legs worked together as she acrobatically worked her body down the pole, from the ceiling to the stage. It was just the beginning of her wild act tonight. The men crowded around the stage and tossed money at her like it was free, and a few were able to make it rain on her. Passion was everyone’s favorite.
The club was saturated with sexily dressed and promiscuous women. The Bottom’s Up was the place to be on a Friday night. The drinks weren’t watered down, the women were sprightly, and for the right price, they were available for anyone’s pleasure.
Panamanian Pete lingered in the back of the club near the office door, puffing on a cigar and keeping his eyes on everything. It was one of the many businesses he owned in the Tri-State area. Bedford-Stuyvesant was a neighborhood he controlled and where he always felt comfortable. He was a major player on the streets, with a reach that extended from the Brooklyn streets into NYPD corruption. He had money and power that only a few could dream of.