A Gangsta's Son
Authors: Rio
A
Gangsta
’s
Son
By
Rio
Copyright 2013 Rio
Published by Sullivan Productions LLC
Edited by Mia Rucker
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written consent from both the author and publisher Sullivan Productions LLC, except brief quotes used in reviews, interviews or magazines.
This is a work of fiction. It is not meant to depict, portray or represent any particular real person. All the characters, incidents and dialogue in this written work are the product of the author’s imagination and are not to be considered as real. Any references or similarities to actual events, entities, real people living or dead, or to real locations are intended for the sole purpose of giving this novel a sense of reality. Any similarities with other names, characters, entities, places, people or incidents are entirely coincidental.
~PROLOGUE~
July 4
th
, 2013
Chicago, Illinois
“You alright, son?”
“I’m good. Just hot as hell with this mask on.”
“Well, it shouldn’t be much longer. That nigga got off work at six. It’s almost six-thirty now.”
Adjusting my itchy black ski-
mask, I leaned my shoulder against the side of Mone’s stainless steel refrigerator and gazed at my father, forty-year-old Michael Love, Sr. He was sitting on a crate beside me, right in front of Mone’s splintered back door, which I’d kicked in a few minutes earlier. Pops had his trusty old nine-millimeter Glock gripped tightly in his right hand and I was holding my AK-47. Both of us were wearing black Nikes, black jeans, black hoodies, and black ski-masks.
“Man,” I said irritably, “why don’t we just search through the rooms now? We can find the work and get the fuck up outta here before that nigga get here.”
Pops shook his head and stood up. At six foot two, he loomed two inches over me.
“I just did eight years in prison ‘cause of three punk ass niggas—Mone, his cousin Manny, and that nigga David
. Robbin’ these snitches ain’t enough. I’ma put the fear of God into—”
He got quiet very suddenly.
From maybe a block or two away, I could hear the rumbling bass in the trunk of Mone’s 1971 Chevy Impala. I knew it was Mone because there weren’t many banging sound systems in Englewood; and Mone was the only nigga I knew that drove around at six o’clock in the morning bumping Chief Keef.
“That’s that nigga right there,” Pops said, turning to look toward the living room. “I’ll stand behind the front door and snatch him up soon’s he walk in.”
I didn’t say a word after that. Pops had his mind made up and I was rolling with him regardless of how shit popped off, even if we had to kill a nigga at six-thirty in the morning.
“Don’t know why you brought that big dumb ass gun,” he muttered
as he strolled into Mone’s gray-carpeted living room.
I studied the dark gray curtains that covered the wide window at the front of DaMone “Mone” Smith’s
south side home. It was pretty well-kept for a stash-house that hardly received a visit. Pops and I had been scoping the place for nearly a month now, and we’d only spotted Mone’s candy-painted burnt orange Impala pulling up and leaving twice. Both times he had entered the house carrying large duffle bags and he’d left without them.
As the sound of Chief Keef’s “Love Sosa” drew nearer, I walked into the living room, laid flat on my stomach behind the gray leather sectional sofa, and took a deep breath to calm myself down. My heart was racing, pounding my muscle-laden chest like a battering ram. My face felt hot and itchy behind the ski-mask. I focused my eyes on the AK-47 beside me and wondered if I had filled the fifty-round banana clip. I knew that I had, but my mind was in second-guessing mode.
A minute later, I heard Mone’s car pull up and park out front. The music ceased and the car door slammed shut.
Then came the sound of another closing door.
‘Damn,’
I thought,
‘he got somebody with him.’
**********
Lacresha Radcliff was all smiles as she stepped out of the old-school Impala and shut the door behind her. Cresha’s rich, brown, model-type frame was draped in a snug-fitting pink mini-dress. Her short hairstyle showed off her beautiful cocoa face. She was a project chick, hustler by day, stripper by night. She knew she’d struck gold a week earlier when she had slipped her phone number into Mone’s hand during a late-night lap dance at Arnie’s Idle Hour.
“Nigga, how many houses you got?” She asked Mone as he joined her on the curb.
He had his head down reading something on his smartphone. His Polo outfit was as fresh as the braids in his hair. The small yellow diamonds in his gold Rolex watch were glistening in the warm sunlight. His coal-black face was impeccably groomed and halfway attractive. But Lacresha wasn’t admiring his face; her eyes were glued to the bulge on the left side of his hip.
‘Damn,’
she thought to herself.
‘I gotta warn my brother. This nigga got a gun.’
“This just one of my low-key spots,” Mone said. “You gon’ have to find us a bedroom set for this one. I only got the livin’ room and kitchen set up in here.”
“Well I ain’t doing it today, not with the way my legs feelin’ right now,” Cresha said, glancing to her right and falling in step behind him as he headed up the walkway to his front porch.
She spotted her brother, James’ dark green Tahoe parked at the corner of 64
th
and Peoria. James and five more Gangster Disciples were strapped up and waiting inside the old SUV—waiting on Cresha to give them the word.
They wanted some of that money Mone was so fond of bragging about. The money that had paid for his 1971 Impala and the sparkling chrome 28-inch DUB rims it hovered over; the money that had him buying up to twelve kilos of cocaine every month or so; the money that had his entire click of Black Disciples riding around in foreign cars.
“I hope them legs ain’t too tired,” Mone said looking back at Cresha’s lower half. “You know I just worked a twelve-hour shift. Gotta get me right before I go to sleep.” He smiled his ugly smile and opened the screen door. “I’ll take you shoppin’ when I wake up; spend a couple bands on you.”
He put his key in the lock and turned it… But the door was snatched open before Mone’s hand could even reach the doorknob.
Lacresha’s eyes opened wide with fear as she witnessed a tall masked man step from behind the door and raise a gun to Mone’s face.
“Payback’s a bitch, ain’t it?”
The masked man stated coldly.
He snatched Mone into the house and, just as Cresha was turning to run, a second masked gunman grabbed the back of her neck, pulled her into the living room with them, and slammed the door shut.
~Chapter 1~
Pops started pistol-whipping Mone as soon as I kicked the door closed. The first blow hit Mone’s jaw and put him to sleep, but Big Mike kept beating him with the gun until his face was hardly recognizable.
I shoved the pretty girl’s face against the hallway wall.
“Please don’t shoot me,” she cried hysterically. “I swear I don’t know nothin’ about nothin’. He just picked me up from the club.”
“Sshhh.” I turned her around and studied her frightened brown eyes. “All we want is the drugs and the money, a’ight? Ain’t nobody gotta die about this shit.”
“But I—”
“Sshhh,” I repeated and pushed her down the short hallway to an open bedroom door. “Just help me find the work.”
Though my adrenaline was pumping rapidly through my every vein, I could not help staring at the girl’s generous curves as she preceded me into an empty bedroom; black curtains over the window, white walls, gray carpet, and nothing else.
I looked at the closet and grinned. The door was wide open, and there were four gray duffle bags sitting side by side on the closet floor.
“Unzip one of those bags,” I said, nudging the assault rifle barrel
into the girl’s lower back. “And hurry up.”
She rushed to the closet and dropped to her knees, sobbing and sniffling, and unzipped one of the
duffle bags. The sickening sound of my father’s gun slapping against Mone’s head was still echoing through the house.
The girl opened the
duffle, dragging it out of the closet; she looked at me with tear-filled eyes. “Please tell your friend to stop beating on Mone like that. He’ll kill him,” she said.
But her plea went in one ear and out the other; I was far too focused on the cash-filled
duffle bag. The stacks of rubber-banded twenties and fifties held me spellbound.
“Old man!” I shouted. “Come on! I found the money!”
“Don’t kill me. Please,” said the girl.
“Shut the fuck up and lay down… on yo’ stomach.” I aimed the AK-47 at her face. “Close your eyes and count to five hundred, a’ight? We’ll be gone by the time you’
re done countin’.”
She followed my orders quickly.
I was already picking up two duffle bags when Pops walked in. The first thing I noticed was the blood dripping from his gun.
‘He probably did kill that nigga,’
I thought to myself as he grabbed the other two duffle bags.
I took a moment to gaze at the girl’s ample thighs before following my father out of the bedroom.
That’s when the gunfight started.
~Chapter 2~
BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM
The flashes stunned me. One of the bullets zipped past my left ear and the rest of them etched holes in the wall near my father’s head. Instinctively, I threw my arms around Pops’ shoulders and dove back into the bedroom. In the process, through a cloud of shattered drywall, I caught a glimpse of Mone’s horribly bludgeoned face as he sat with his back against the living room wall squeezing off shots from a chrome-plated nine-millimeter.
Blood was spilling profusely from the numerous gashes in his grotesquely swollen head.
As soon as my back hit the bedroom floor, I scooted away from Pops, let go of the
duffle bags, lifted the AK-47, and opened fire at the bedroom wall hoping one of my bullets hit Mone before one of his could hit me.
The girl curled herself into a fetal position and screamed.
When Pops realized what I was doing, he started shooting at the wall, too. A dense fog of gun-smoke filled the room. Steaming hot 7.62 millimeter shells were spitting out the side of my assault rifle and my arms were jerking uncontrollably, but I kept pulling the trigger until I had emptied about thirty rounds. Then I stood up, ran to the door, and quickly peeked out into the living room.
The sofa was full of holes, so was the wall-mounted flat-screen television above Mone’s head.
And so was Mone.
Slumped to the side, with a stream of blood pouring out his mouth, Mone was still breathing
, but just barely. He had bullet holes in his chest, arms, and legs, and his blood was splattered all over the wall behind him.
Pops peeked out beside me… which is when I noticed the gushing hole in the right leg of his jeans.
“Pussy nigga shot me,” he said, touching a gloved hand to the bullet wound.
“Come on, Pops. We gotta hurry up and leave ‘fore the law get here,” I whispered, picking up the two
duffle bags.
“Shit,” Pops muttered. He grabbed the other two
duffle bags and limped out of the bedroom.
I followed him, feeling more alert than ever. I kept the assault rifle trained on Mone as we approached him.
Pops put his Glock to Mone’s battered forehead, and I did the same with my AK-47. We pulled the triggers simultaneously, blowing Mone’s brains out the back of his head.
Then Pops and I rushed out the back door to the alley and hopped in my jet-black 2007 Monte Carlo. We snatched off our masks, and I sped away.