God calmly walked to his car and climbed in. Tonya was one problem gone, but there were other problems that he needed to solve. No way would Chanel or anyone else be the end of him. It was about survival—by any means necessary.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Bacardi couldn’t believe her eyes when she first entered the luxury suite in the city. She was impressed. Mateo was in a coma, yet Chanel was still coming up, and she still had people looking out for her. She continued to see Chanel as her golden goose—her lucky child, the one who was coming up somehow. She started to care more and more for the girl, with them having long talks and quality time together while enjoying the suite.
The soaking tub was huge and the marble bathroom was well appointed—and Bacardi made sure to take long, hot baths and sip on some wine. The moment Bacardi arrived, Chanel had hit her off with some cash and Bacardi, like always, stuffed the money into her bra. She never complained about getting money, no matter who it was from.
They ordered room service, took in the picturesque view that the suite had to offer, and although the suite had a pull-out sofa, Chanel wanted her mother to sleep with her in the king size bed. Bacardi didn’t have a problem with that. To her, it was like she was on a vacation—a paid one.
The next morning, mother and daughter had a nice breakfast from room service, and out the blue, Bacardi asked, “Why didn’t you want me to tell your sisters that you were staying here?”
Chanel sat there in silence, wanting to brush off the question. She didn’t want to say the words out loud, but Bacardi continued to push.
“You can talk to me, Chanel. You can talk to me ’bout anything,” she said. “I’m here for you now, and I know I’ve been a terrible mother to you, but I’m tryin’ to make up for it.”
Chanel remained quiet. It was still hard for her to open up about that night.
Bacardi read into her daughter’s concerns and fears, and she was able to put two and two together. “Was it God and Fingers who hurt you?”
Hearing those two names made tears leak from Chanel’s eyes, and a stream moved down her face. She nodded. Yes. She knew it was them. She felt it deep inside her gut. It was so embarrassing and degrading that she couldn’t say the words out loud.
Bacardi’s face changed from gentle to absolute anger and rage. She jumped from the table up
set and exclaimed, “I’m gonna kill that nigga!”
“Ma, please . . .” Chanel faintly uttered.
“This nigga thinks he can rape and assault my youngest daughter and fuck my oldest, and stay inside my home, smiling in my face after what he did to you!”
“Please, don’t mention it,” Chanel pleaded.
But how could Bacardi not mention it? She wasn’t one to let shit go, especially not this. The nigga was a monster—he was two-faced, and she wanted to make him pay.
“He hurt you, I fuckin’ wanna hurt him.”
“I just want to focus on helping Mateo get better right now, that’s all.”
“He needs to fuckin’ pay for this, Chanel.”
“And he will. But not now. I-I just want him gone from the apartment.”
“Oh, he’s gone, all right. I can promise you that, Chanel.”
It was good to hear. But Chanel knew that with God gone, she wasn’t out of the woods yet. She continued to confide in her mother. She was worrying about Mateo, and she worried whether he would still want her if he survived this—would he still want to be with her after finding out it was her fault? She allowed Charlie to come over when he’d forbidden it. She was an emotional wreck and she blamed herself for everything—the shooting, the home invasion, even her own rape.
Bacardi saw that Chanel was truly a wreck and that she would need some counseling in the future. Bacardi was familiar with her daughter’s horror. Having been an ACS employee for several years, she’d done seen it all—the nightmares that some of these young girls go through—rapes, molestation, abuse, abandonment, starvation, some even committed suicide. She was familiar with counseling.
“Until you get through this, Chanel, I’m right here,” she said sincerely.
Chanel smiled.
“You think I could stay here with you till the time’s up? I don’t trust myself not to go after that muthafucka with a knife and butcher that son of a bitch from head to toe—cut off his dick and balls and carve him up like a fuckin’ jack-o’-lantern.”
Bacardi also questioned her parenting skills. How could she raise a daughter that would be okay with this? Who was Charlie? And why would she do this to her own sister?
Day after day, Chanel, and sometimes Bacardi, would go visit Mateo. He had been transferred from ICU and placed in a private room. Chanel would sit by his bedside for hours and take his hand into hers and kiss it. Sometimes she would climb into bed with him and kiss his face, and she would whisper loving things into his ear, play music for him, read to him, and, most important, she would pray for him.
Pyro continued to pay for the hotel room, and he managed their drug empire alone. He knew about the apartment Mateo had bought for them, but he figured that Mateo would want to be the one to take his new bride there if he ever woke up from his coma and fully recovered. It was supposed to be a surprise for Chanel, and he didn’t want to take that away from them.