Free A Gangsta's Son by Rio Page A

for years.
    “Sorry to hear about Big Mike. My niggas at the shop fixed you up nice, though. Real nice,” Lil Cholly said, stepping aside so I could see the car.
    Parked behind Lil Cholly’s pearl-white Panamera, my father’s four-door Caprice was so stunning that I momentarily forgot all about my kidnapped girlfriend.
    It was painted a dark, candy orange, and the thirty-inch rims that had it sitting so high above the ground, were the exact same color. A picture that me and Pops had taken at a family reunion before he went to prison was painted on the trunk. The passenger’s side doors were open, exposing the orange leather interior.
    I grabbed the keys from Lil Cholly and headed down the stairs with him, skimming my eyes around the street, watching my surroundings. Several cars were driving by slowly; their passengers were eyeing the Caprice and shouting compliments.
    “Yeah, this muhfucka cold, bruh,” I said, walking around the car to admire it further. “On King James, this muhfucka serious.”
    Lil Cholly showed me how to open and close the stash-box. He also showed me the 15-inch speakers in the trunk, and the twelve TVs that had been installed inside the box Chevy. I was truly amazed. Now I had the flyest whip in the hood.
    “Ay, lil fam,” Rose shouted from the porch. He was watching a brown Buick that was racing down Millard toward me.
    I moved out of the way just as it came to a screeching halt beside my brother’s Escalade, which was parked behind the Caprice. Manny pushed open the driver’s door and hopped out holding a wooden baseball bat. His face was swollen and bloodied from the beating he’d taken at the funeral.
    “You niggas wanna fight now?!” He shouted, approaching me with the bat cocked back.
    I did not hesitate.
    I drew the Glock and quickly shot him four times in the chest. Then I stood over his grounded body and emptied the clip in his face.
    “Police-ass nigga,” I said, glowering down at his exploded head.
    Without a word, Lil Cholly snatched the gun out of my hand, go t in his Porsche, and sped off.
    I turned and ran to the porch, glancing at the dozen or so shocked eyewitnesses that were running away from the murder scene. I wasn’t worried about them snitching; from the infants to the elderly, everyone knew better than to go against the mob.

~Chapter 32~
    Sitting beside his wife, Aesha Jenner, in the back seat of his matte black S600 Benz, King Royce was focused on the Dodge pick-up that had just pulled into the drivew ay of a modest two-story home, a block ahead of him. There were fifty kilos of cocaine stashed in the back of the pick-up. He had two of his Latin King soldiers delivering the drugs to Sosa, a young Black Disciple who had recently gained fame as a ruthless Chicago rap artist.
    They were in Bellwood, Illinois, a suburban area not far from the Windy City where King Royce had long ago risen from the slums to become the multi-millionaire birdman that he was now. His wife was also wealthy, though she had earned her millions as the lead shoe designer at Prada, while his had come from getting kilos of cocaine and heroin from Mexico’s reigning Costilla Cartel and selling them to gang leaders all across Chicago.
    He donned a dull gray Tom Ford business suit; his wife, a form-fitting red Prada dress and matching five-inch heels. She was handling some business on her iPad and he was biting down on an unlit Cuban cigar, his stern eyes hidden behind the d ark lenses of his expensive sunglasses.
    “You need to hurry up and get our car back from that girl before the police get to her,” Aesha said, her attention never shifting from the iPad. “I don’t know why you’re taking care of her in the first place. You’re always trying to save those hoodrats. Leave them in the ghetto where they belong.”
    “I can’t just leave her out there like that. She knows too much.”
    “And that doesn’t bother you? What do you think she’s going to tell the prosecutor to get her