The Mob: Shio Cuppacio (Put it on the Mob #7)

Prologue

Shio Cuppacio

Three years prior

One… two… three… four… five… six.

One… two… three… four… five… six.

I'd been counting the blades on the fan for the past few hours. No matter how many times I repeated the numbers, the number of blades whirring around didn’t change.

It was six—had been six since the first time I’d lain in this bed and would be six until the light fixture was replaced.

Instead of counting sheep, my back was sunken into the mattress, left arm folded behind my head, while I counted the blades.

Not missing a beat, I tracked the spinning fan creating the air that circulated the room, but those weren’t the only numbers running through my head.

There was a long list of shit that had been weighing on me.

My body was screaming rest, but my mind was telling me I could do that shit when I was dead.

Even though the AC unit was probably in the sixties and the fan above was working overtime, I felt warm.

To the untrained eye, a fan on maximum speed was a big blur, the blades vanishing in motion.

But, given my focus, they were perfectly visible to me.

I was able to see not only the blades, but also the chipped paneling, the black specks on the light cover from the grape soda that exploded months ago, and the slight warping of the fan’s frame.

It could have been from the roof that needed replacing or the wear and tear on the ceiling.

Either way, the room felt warm, and it had nothing to do with the body lying next to me.

When work needed to be done, I couldn’t relax.

For years, all we Cuppacios did was get things done.

Child labor laws didn’t exist in our world when we were growing up.

Every day brought a lesson to learn, a task to finish, and a punishment to accept.

Even as a child, no matter how fast or disorganized life got, I could always focus.

Knowing how to concentrate at an early age led to my rate of maturity speeding up.

I was overly aware at all times, so while living became a distraction for most, I was the one who used it as an opportunity to marinate in my worries and hop the fuck out before the flavors soiled me completely.

I’d taken this trait with me into adulthood, and although it had saved me from a lot of bullshit, it didn’t reduce the childhood trauma that existed.

We’d been free from the terror of our fathers for years; however, the damage had already been done.

While everyone else in the family walked around content, I was always thinking about how we could do and be better.

Selling this dope—depending on what we could get our hands on, whether it be weed, pills, or crack—was cool, but it wasn’t enough.

Until it was.

A bunch of kids, not knowing much but the fucked-up ways their father taught them, being pushed into the world was a recipe for disaster.

We had no real direction, no solid plan, and barely any fucking money when we became the sole providers for our family.

We started searching for plugs, but nothing ever really stuck.

So, we used what we could get our hands on and tried our best to make it work.

Things started looking better when we landed a solid plug.

But like all good things, it was too fucking good to be true.

After all the shit we went through as children, we deserved more.

There was a time when the Cuppacios were on the map.

Our fathers had been the most feared mafia in the United States, and money was plentiful.

Did they do right by the money? No. Did they steal all of their underage wives?

Yes. Did they treat their children like slaves instead of heirs?

Fuck yes. But we came from a dynasty. Getting the scraps from the bottom of the barrel was fine for my cousins, but not for me.

So, sleep was rare and far between. I was always plotting, planning, and setting up plays for the future that I knew was on the way.

I didn’t know exactly what it was, but it was coming, and I had an ass of cleaning up to do.

My mother used to drill into my head, even when she was going through her own hell back then, that you couldn’t cook in a dirty kitchen. It took me becoming an adult to realize that Mama wasn’t talking about dishes.

“Ummm.”

Groans coming from the left side of me broke my trance, shifting my orbs.

The comforter that had been covering my bottom half pulled away, exposing my navy Ralph Lauren pajama pants.

The TV across from the bed powered on, and the last thing that I’d been watching began to play.

Now that there was light in the room, the curvy silhouette of the opposite sex could be made out.

Even though she was now wrapped in the cover like a burrito, her figure couldn’t be hidden.

“What I’m about to preach is going to tick some of you off in here.” Clothed in a tan suit with chocolate pinstripes, dark brown gators, and a plain-faced Rolex, Pastor Washington stood.

Whenever I missed the word, I made sure to watch the service on the church's YouTube channel and sent my offering via CashApp to my mother. Whether the money made it to the church's account or not was between her and the Lord, but I did my part.

The pastor paused for dramatic effect, used the white towel resting on the transparent lectern to wipe his face, and took a sip of water.

To his left, I could see a Jessica Simpson heel fastened around a foot that I knew belonged to my mother—The First Lady.

She sat on the pulpit behind her husband at every sermon. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Bending his six-foot frame so that he was level with the microphone attached to the lectern, he continued, “There are two verses I want to touch on. Y’all still with me?”

Yeah, Pastor!

We with you!

“All right. Y’all saying that until I say what the Lord has called me to preach this Sunday morning.” He paused again, scanning the crowd.

The camera panned to the audience. Women, in their Sunday best, fanned themselves with the paper fans that had been passed out by the ushers and held the church’s logo.

Niggas I’ve served on more than one occasion sat in the back or posted up on the back walls, garnering nasty looks from the ushers.

They wanted to get the word, but the importance of keeping their heads on a swivel outweighed the protection of the Lord.

Chicago niggas didn’t give a fuck. They’d bust up a funeral if that meant laying down an opp.

“Keep your eyes free from the love of money…”

My body stiffened as he repeated the nine words.

“Hold up… y’all didn’t hear me. I said keep your eyes FREE from the love of money, and be content with what you have because… God has said, ‘Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.’ That’s Hebrew verse thirteen, chapter five. Can I get an amen?”

Amen

Amen

Amen, Pastor

“I ain’t done yet.” He smirked. “Just hold on! Y’all about to be mad at me.”

The camera switched to my mother, who was fanning while nodding, dressed to the nines, face not giving any indication that she’d once lived a life that was half heartache and half love. As if she knew I was watching, she grinned a little harder.

“Timothy six, ten. For the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil. Some people, eager for money, have wandered from the faith and pierced themselves with many sorrows.” He slammed the bible shut, removed the mic, and tucked his hand in his pants pocket as he glided across the pulpit.

“See, a lot of y’all want more. More money.

More cars. More clothes. More jewelry. A bigger home.

But God said, be CONTENT! Be content with what you have!

See, you don’t need more! What you need is to be happy with what you have!

For in the end, we can’t take none of this with us.

” He spread his arms wide to represent the “this”.

“Sometimes, receiving more comes with more problems that we aren’t prepared for. You are exactly where you are meant to be—”

“Why is the TV so loud?” the feminine voice interrupted as the sermon was paused, freezing Pastor Washington, whose arms were still outstretched.

A gentle hand on my chest made me turn my face away from the TV to the pink, short, manicured nails on the bark-colored hand. Shea butter drifted up my nose as she moved the covers aside and swung her leg over my torso. My hands went to her meaty thighs as she sat on my sore abdomen.

I’d been working out recently, focusing on changing my eating habits and how I spent my time.

The workouts were tough, but I knew that in time, I’d be used to it and where I wanted to be physically.

There was a plethora of shit I wanted to do, and the angst of it all weighed down on me heavier than the curvy body resting on my frame.

“You rolled over on the remote, Bahati.”

Rolling her neck to ease away the stiffness that sleep had created, her braids cascaded down the left side of her body.

They were bra-length long with the ends curled.

Being an East African Kenyan, Bahati had all of the exotic features of an African girl.

Her skin was like black marble: dark, smooth, and shiny.

Her lips were nearly double that of a typical woman’s, but they looked good on her round face.

No matter what time of day it was, her skin always looked glossy, like she’d not only bathed but slept in oils and butters.

She purred. “I’d much rather listen to music. Alexa, play ‘Charm’ by Rema.”