35. Rico #4
“Gio doesn’t want me walking home alone, but none of his security is here this morning. Would you walk an old woman home?”
Holding out my crooked arm, I nod. “Of course. That gives me time to put you up on game.”
The weather is mild since the sun is still rising.
Her church is only down the street from her house, a selling point I’m sure.
Still can’t believe a woman as religious as Fiorella Jackson is cool with her son being bi, but now, it makes me wonder why he isn’t out yet.
Fredo’s been dead for years, and while they probably had been messing around since they started being all buddy-buddy, the way them hoes Haze ran through got down, I would think Slime at least got his rocks off while he was mourning my brother.
Or maybe not, since he’s trying to be the next Black president.
“You have to come see me more often, Richard. You kids grow up and forget about those who was changing your dirty diapers.” Fioerlla lightly pinches my arm before rubbing her hand to soothe the invisible pain.
“I would see you more if you didn’t move out the Towers. Came all the way down to the South East to be with the Italians. You know you a project baby.”
She laughs in earnest now, shaking against me. “Richard! I just would rather be close to my church. I’m always in the Birch, whenever Gio does outreach.”
I grunt, over talking about her oldest child. While Fiorella has unknowingly spared herself, all that means is someone else near to him will have to pay.
“Well, I’ll be by soon, fasho. Um, well, Fredo… he had a kid before he died. Well, Mars was born after he died, but–”
“A child?” she whispers, stopping her walk to stare with stretched eyes.
“A son,” I nod.
I can hear the gears turning in her head, before a wide smile spreads, her eyes turning into slits.
“With the girl, huh? The young one?”
I arch my brow, and continue our walk. “All I can tell you is, he’s six, and he looks just like Fred, and you’ll probably be bawling when you first meet him.”
“I can’t wait,” she sniffles. “I’ll bet he’ll love my cannoli like his father.”
Her front door opens, and G barrels out. It only takes half a second for him to see us, and Fiorella stiffens, almost sliding behind me as we stop on the corner of her lawn.
“Ma. Get in the house,” he barks.
“You don’t need to talk to ya mama like that, nigga,” I bark back, my hand sliding to my back holster.
“I-It’s okay, Richard,” Fiorella stammers, and tries to walk off, but I bring her back to me, and opt to walk her inside myself.
G glares at me as we slowly pass him. His eyes flit to where my hand is, his tongue passing over his teeth, but his feet stay rooted in the ground.
“I’ll see you soon and bring that for you,” I say, loud enough for G to hear, before I close her wooden and security door for her.
G’s on me before I can even turn, but I still reach out and grab his wrist. He freezes, his eyes comically wide as I cackle.
Leaning in, I whisper, “You know with a simple flick I can end all yo culinary dreams, Guiliano.”
“Why the fuck you got my mama, nigga? Huh?” He grits, his teeth clenched trying to stay as still as possible. He’s rumored to be on track to getting a Michelin star this year. A shattered wrist would certainly hinder that shit.
“You niggas sicced some Babies on me and my lady two weeks ago after Reem’s wedding. I just thought that meant it was no rules. I’on abide by them anyway, but it’s really on and cracking now.”
“Ain’t no one–”
I squeeze his wrist, just a little more, to kill the lie on his tongue.
“You know what type of time I’m on, and you know how I get about liars.
I’m the only muthafucka ‘round here who can lie about some shit. Now, I was gon’ send ya mama to where you was tryna send Snow, but I’ve had a change of heart…
just like I won’t end your weak ass cooking career. ”
My other hand grips his elbow, and I jerk him closer to me. He’s shaking, and I feed off his fear. G is as sadistic as his brother, and his sick ass mind is part of the reason Foe Dub has the rep we do.
But again, like Slime, while I would rather not make these niggas enemies, if they really ‘bout it, then it’s nothing for me. Niggas is bored anyway.
“Tell ya brother to stand the fuck down. That lady in there pray for her sons every day. Don’t make me show her them shits is in vain.”
He not listening to me, though. And my shoulder begins to throb, even though I wore a damn sling for the two weeks like they told me to.
Muthafuckas can’t even have a conversation like adults.
Niggas ain’t even asked one question about the pussy Mars came out of.
Niggas jumped straight into wanting to jump me, like damn.
I wasn’t even out the Marines when a lot of this shit was happening.
But common sense clearly isn’t common among my niggas.
Letting go of his wrist, I grab his upper arm instead. Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip, I twist both my arms, and yank his shoulder out of its socket. He cries out, just as I push him to the grass.
“I mean it, G. Tell yo brother to stand down. I’m not finna spare yo mama twice.”
It’s tempting, but I don’t kick him as I step over him, and start a nice morning stroll to my whip, two blocks over. It really is a beautiful morning. Even my shoulder stops hurting, like all the pain transferred to G.
I’m feeling so good, I break out into a light jog.