La Familia 2 Read online

  La Familia 2

  Paradise Gomez

  www.urbanbooks.net

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One - Mouse

  Chapter Two - Sammy

  Chapter Three - Mouse

  Chapter Four - Sammy

  Chapter Five - Mouse

  Chapter Six - Mouse

  Chapter Seven - Tango

  Chapter Eight - Sammy

  Chapter Nine - Tango

  Chapter Ten - Mouse

  Chapter Eleven - Sammy

  Chapter Twelve - Mouse

  Chapter Thirteen - Sammy

  Chapter Fourteen - Mouse

  Chapter Fifteen - Tango

  Chapter Sixteen - Sammy

  Chapter Seventeen - Mouse

  Chapter Eighteen - Tango

  Chapter Nineteen - Sammy

  Chapter Twenty - Mouse

  Chapter Twenty-one - Mouse

  Chapter Twenty-two - Sammy

  Chapter Twenty-three - Tango

  Chapter Twenty-four - Mouse

  Chapter Twenty-five - Sammy

  Chapter Twenty-six - Tango

  Chapter Twenty-seven - Mouse

  Chapter Twenty-eight - Sammy

  Chapter Twenty-nine - Mouse

  Chapter Thirty - Tango

  Chapter Thirty-one - Sammy

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  Click!

  The loaded clip to the 9 mm easily slid into the chamber like dick into pussy and the tool was ready for death. The hammer was cocked back and the safety switched off. The gun, in the hands of a killer, was ready to create a homicide on a cold Friday night. The young boy with the gun in his hand was only sixteen years old, and already was a hardcore gangster to the bone: wired for murder, being numb to violence and taking a human life by the gun. He had already seen things that scarred his mind for life: murder, rape, violence, and jail. His eyes and heart were cold as frost forming on a car windshield on an early winter morning.

  The burning weed was being passed between the four hoodlums riding in a stolen Chevy Impala with tinted windows. The four young hardcore hoodlums with rap sheets as long as their arms were part of a notorious gang who called themselves the Bronx Mafia Boys, one of New York’s most infamous and violent gangs with over 2,000 committed members. They intentionally drove into enemy territory seeking out their rival to kill, the Young Gangster Crew.

  Rap music blared inside the car. It was a dark and wintry night; the Chevy slowly turned corner to corner, seeking to destroy. Young DJ took a pull from the weed between his lips and inhaled the potent drug to soothe his mood. He took several more pulls and then passed the joint to one of his cohorts next to him and leaned into the back seat of the car. He gripped the gun and was ready to see some action. The Bronx was his home; the gang was his loyalty and nothing else in his life mattered but his street family and his violent reputation.

  For months now, both of these violent drug crews, The Bronx Mafia boys and Young Gangster Crew had been warring over northern territory in the Bronx and residents and the neighborhood found themselves in the middle of World War III. Since the life sentence Rico received in his RICO trial, the streets and the drug market was left wide open for fledging gangsters and drug crews making their way up the ladder and solidifying a position on the streets. Bloodshed started to become a regular in the Bronx streets. People were scared to leave their homes. Edenwald was starting to look like Baghdad; gunshots and bloodshed was becoming a common thing like children playing and traffic going by.

  Muppet, the alpha male in the car, took a pull from the blunt and exhaled. His attire screamed hardcore gang banger: red bandanna tied around his head, the dark teardrop underneath his eye, jeans sagging, Timberlands on his feet, and an automatic resting on his lap. As the car moved about, he kept a keen eye out on the streets. The members were going head hunting, meaning first rival they saw on sight, it was a shot to their dome.

  “Yo, damn it’s a slow fuckin’ night, ain’t nobody out this bitch,” the driver said.

  “It’s cold as fuck out here, that’s why,” Muppet replied.

  “Been drivin’ around this bitch for an hour and ain’t no action happening,” Young DJ chimed.

  “We gon’ find sumthin’.”

  “Shit, we better. I’m gettin’ tight just drivin’ around this bitch,” the driver said. “Gas ain’t fuckin’ cheap.”

  “Doe shut the fuck up! This ain’t even ya fuckin’ car,” Muppet hollered.

  “I’m sayin’, Muppet, we almost riding on E out this bitch.”

  “And? We gonna keep ridin’ out this bitch until we prove our point, and I don’t give a fuck if we gotta ride around on fumes, fuck that shit, I’m tryin’ to make this money out here and ain’t no fuckin’ body stepping on my ends! Ya niggas fuckin’ hear me?” Muppet exclaimed.

  “Yeah, we hear you,” everyone answered simultaneously.

  “So shut the fuck up, stop acting like some whining-ass bitches, and let’s do this shit.”

  The driver and Young DJ nodded.

  Everyone knew not to argue with Muppet. He was crazy, a fuckin’ lunatic, and his violent and deadly reputation preceded him. The entire Bronx borough heard of Muppet’s name; from Sound View to Yonkers, he was a stone-cold killer. And the reason why he wasn’t locked up yet for his transgressions was because he had the streets on lock with fear and there weren’t too many folks lined up at the district attorney’s office ready to snitch on him. He beat two murder cases, one drug case, and seemed to be the urban Teflon Don.

  Now Muppet had his sights set on Rico’s old hood. It was highly profitable; the traffic in the area was rich, from 233rd Street stretching to Laconia Avenue, down to 225th Street, and it was a fuckin’ goldmine. And every crew looking to expand into Edenwald wanted control of it.

  Muppet took a strong pull from the blunt and sat back. His eyes were glued out the window. The cold didn’t seem to affect him. He wore a T-shirt along with his gang attire. He made his affiliation strongly known wherever he went, making him not just a mark for other rival gangs, but to the police also. But Muppet had this agenda: come up by any means necessary.

  The Chevy slowly rounded the corner on Baychester Avenue and headed south. Weed smoke engulfed the car, and another joint was lit. As they approached Boston Avenue, the group spotted three young hoods exiting the KFC on the corner. It was dark and frigid and everyone was bundled snuggly in their winter coats and wool ski hats. One of the men leaving the fast food KFC lit a cigarette and laughed with his cronies. They were members of the YGC (Young Gangster Crew), and it was written all over their street garb like walking advertisements.

  The three men paid no attention to the dark Chevy slowly approaching their way. The traffic on the street was sparse because of the winter month and the cold. KFC was closing up; the trio was walking toward a parked Dodge on the street.

  Muppet lit up like a Christmas tree when he noticed his foes out in the open cold like the wind blowing. He gripped his automatic with a steely glare and sang out, “It’s time for some action. Time, time, time for some action. Get up real close on these clown-ass niggas, yo,” he told the driver.

  The car came close; the window slowly came down with the cold rushing into the car like hurricane wind. Muppet flicked the dying joint out the window and focused his attention on his targets. The men walked and talked unknowing of the danger. Muppet leaned out the window with his arm outstretched with the pistol at the end of it. He set his sights on his kill. The cold and the late night made the streets empty. Muppet aimed as the car he was riding in approached closer, his foes had their backs turned to him. He smi
rked, shouted out, “Punk-ass bitches!” catching the men’s attention and when they turned around to see where the insult was coming from, Muppet didn’t hesitate to fire.

  Bak! Bak! Bak! Bak! Bak!

  The five gunshots echoed through the cold night and all three men dropped to the cold pavement like timber wood being cut down. Muppet hit all three like the deadly marksman he was. But it was evident that they all weren’t dead. Only two lay lifeless against the cold concrete; the third was still alive, crawling to some unseen safety on his hands and knees. He was bleeding badly being shot twice in his side.

  Muppet told them to stop the car. He wanted to finish the job. He didn’t want to see any survivors. He had a deep-rooted hatred for the YGC and wanted to send them all to hell. He climbed out the car with the smoking gun in his hand and hurried toward his helpless foe. Muppet was about to enhance his murderous street reputation by tenfold. He stood over the powerless soldier smirking, then aimed his gun at the back of the man’s head and fired multiple rounds. And when he saw the back of his head explode in bloodshed it gave him a pleased feeling of accomplishment; three less YGC niggas to worry about in the Bronx.

  Muppet climbed back into the car and jubilantly shouted, “Now that’s how you kill a muthafucka!”

  His peoples weren’t shocked; it was their way of life since they knew how to walk. Their enemies shot at them, and they shot back.

  The Chevy sped away, leaving the bloody crime scene behind for police to figure it out. But it was obvious to the hood that the shooting would be considered gang related. And the boys murdered in cold blood ranged from fifteen to seventeen years old.

  Chapter One

  Mouse

  Despite having an incarcerated and asshole baby father, he gave me the best thing a woman could ever want in her life: my daughter Eliza. She was my world of joy, the best thing ever to come into my life. I had no regrets in giving birth to her. She was my shining star, my angel, the joy of my life, and she was the only person I cared for. Everyone else could kiss my ass and stay the fuck away from me. I’d been through so much shit in my life, and been down and out so many times that there was no other way but to go up for me, and with Eliza to care for, I didn’t have a choice. I wanted better for me and for her.

  Eliza was one year old, and it was hard to believe that a year already had passed since she was born. Time flies, but I wasn’t having fun. She started walking around eleven months and she was becoming good at it. Regardless of her falling down and crashing into things, my baby girl didn’t cry and she would continually pick herself up and try again. I was proud of her already, because she wasn’t a quitter; she mastered what life was about. You fall, but you don’t stay down. You continue to get up, dust yourself off, and try again. I emulated my daughter. I was down, but it wasn’t over for me. I’d been bruised, but I wasn’t broken. I’d been up and down like a rollercoaster ride. I’d been beaten and broke, but I was still standing and pushing forward, in spite of living in a Harlem shelter for women with kids. This wasn’t the end for me, but only the beginning.

  My options were either living on the cold streets with my daughter or taking residence in a shelter that a friend told me about. Of course I chose to stay in a family shelter. If I was on my own, I could tolerate the streets of New York. I’d done it before when living with my crazy fuckin’ father became too unbearable and Sammy wasn’t able to take me in. But now that I was a mother, things were different; I had to think of my daughter’s well-being too.

  The women’s Samaritan family shelter on 155th Street provided transitional housing for up to twenty-five women and their children. And comprehensive services included individualized treatment for those who suffered from substance abuse, domestic violence or HIV/AIDS, and more. And emergency services were also provided for up to five women each night.

  The shelter I was temporarily staying in was comfortable to some extent, but it would never become my home. We had our own tiny apartment, a kitchenette, TV, no cable, twin beds, and a place to do our laundry. The women here had been through hell and back, some worse than others, and I shared some of their pain. The abusive boyfriend, or absent father, drug addiction, gangs, probation, STDs : we been through it all and were only trying to find our way in a world that had forgotten about us or considered us undesirables because of our circumstances or background. A few were living with the monster, and hearing their story reminded me of Sammy’s mom who was living with that sickness. I was thankful that I never caught it. I was healthy and my baby was too.

  The staff in the women’s shelter was cool, working to prevent homelessness through programs that provided budget management counseling, housing referrals, rent and legal assistance to more than 300 families each year.

  From where I was over a year ago, living the high life with Rico, experiencing the glamour and finer things in life, and for the first time in my life, living in a luxurious home, to becoming pregnant and ending up in a family shelter for battered and abused women, I would have never thought in a million years that it would come to this. At one time in my life, I was on my way to reaching stardom with my best friend Sammy. We were two talented bitches from out the hood with a growing reputation in the music world. We had great management via Search and great material that we were writing ourselves. But then it all fell apart by the seams, and Sammy and I became bitter rivals. How and why? Rico.

  He was the master of destruction, fucking and deceiving us both, turning friends against each other, and us both having his babies. We were out here trying to survive while becoming new mothers. We were hungry, and trying to find our way back to the road paved with gold and wanting better for ourselves and our kids. But every day it seemed things got worse. Every day it felt like I was drifting further away from my dreams and losing touch with hope.

  I hadn’t heard from Sammy in months; the last I heard about her was that she was stripping in some seedy club in the Bronx trying to make ends meet. And she was frequently taking her son upstate to visit Rico. It was her life and her son. I refused to visit Rico and take Eliza anywhere near him or a prison. She didn’t need to know her daddy. I was her mother and father. Rico was hell in my life. He was shit disguised as sugar, and he would never taste like sugar no matter how many flavors he tried to add, and I wanted to eradicate every thought of him, but his daughter was the only exception, and thank God she was looking more like her mother than her daddy. My genes were strong, like the woman I was, and my daughter was going to be stronger. I was going to raise Eliza to stay away from men like her father, muthafuckas who were only wolves in sheep’s clothing.

  But dwelling on the past wasn’t going to get me anywhere. I had to focus on my future, and this shelter, the people in it, the condition I was in; it wasn’t going to be my future at all. This was not going to be forever. I had hope and was ready to scratch and crawl my way out of the ghetto like I almost did when Sammy and I were Vixen Chaos.

  I sat in the family room in the shelter viewing an episode of Love & Hip Hop: New York. I sat among many female residents staring at the mounted TV in the room. It was the only place in the shelter where they had cable playing and Love & Hip Hop was the show to watch inside the shelter. It seemed like every bitch in the place would stop everything they was doing for that one hour and be glued to the TV show like it was some religious program on how to catapult your way into their world. These catty bitches on Love & Hip Hop were idolized by the majority of women in the shelter. They lived a life that we all dreamed of, and yearned to date and fuck the men they found attractive, and longed to wear the stylish outfits, shoes, and jewelry manifested on the show. I briefly lived that life, and I can’t lie, it was fun for a moment, especially when Rico took me on a shopping spree on Fifth Avenue, spent thousands of dollars on me, and had me dining in some of the finest restaurants. But I was never on the level that some of the women on the show were on. They had their own: their own money, owned homes, and ran successful businesses, and had some respect in the industr
y.

  I lived that life briefly, but I never had my own. I wanted to have my own. It was a dream of mines, to become like Yandy or Chrissy. These bitches were beautiful, bad with attitudes and smart, and they had a man holding them down and vice versa. I thought I found that with Rico, but it was only a lie.

  “Damn, Joe Budden look like he got a big dick,” Theresa said loudly, being the loud and obnoxious bitch she always was. “I know he can fuck a bitch right. That bitch Tahiry don’t know what do wit’ that dick, because she can’t even hold on to her man.”

  The girls around her laughed at her blunt comment. I wasn’t amused.

  “Yo, I can’t stand Erica trifling-ass. First off, that bitch can’t sing for shit, and she’s a fuckin’ slut,” Whitney chimed.

  “True dat,” Melanie agreed, slapping Whitney a high five.

  They talked reckless about the female characters on the show, but in true life, they envied them all because it wasn’t them living the life of luxury, having great sex, and going on lavish shopping sprees. Some of these ladies in the shelter were so broke down and battered that even a miracle couldn’t help them out.

  I watched the show, but I was in my own world. Eliza was asleep in my arms. I had just fed and bathed her, and now it was time for a little “me” time. But me time was useless when a bitch was broke, homeless, and with a baby on her hip twenty-four/seven. So me time was watching cable quietly while everyone else talked loudly and ridiculed each and every bitch on the show they deemed not keeping it real or was a whore.

  During a commercial break, one of the young girls in the shelter came into the TV room looking upset. I saw her wipe a few tears from her eyes as she went toward some friends seated in the room. My focus went from the television to them knowing something went down somewhere. I knew the girl with the tears streaming down her face. She was a teen mother with twin girls and she was from my part of town, Edenwald. She was known to run with some heavy hitters on the streets. Her parents had kicked her out for selling drugs in their apartment. She was fighting with her parents for custody of her twins.