One of Vincent’s men was positioned beside the rear passenger door with his arms crossed in front of him and his legs gapped slightly, all militant and shit. I approached the door and he opened it, allowing me to climb inside. Maneuvering to the open seat next to Vincent in the third row, the Suburban pulled off as soon as the other man climbed into the truck.
“Alright, Money Man, you fuckin’ my niece, so you got one shot to prove you got what it takes to keep her and my nephews safe,” Vincent demanded.
“I’m not just fucking Marissa. I love her. In fact, I asked her to marry me tonight. So when everybody is together at the hospital tomorrow, she will be wearing a new rock that I put there. What I’m about to do is out of love for Marissa and her boys. I’m not riding to prove shit to you. Matter of fact, I was giving you a courtesy of not handling them niggas on my own. When I get in bed with Marissa tonight, I want her to kiss the top of my head knowing that I sent all the niggas that would ever touch something as precious as her sons to hell.”
“How the fuck you even end up with my niece?”
“She pulled up at my company anniversary party and slapped me in front of everybody,” I detailed.
Vincent laughed, shocking the shit out of me. As long as I’d known him, he was stone cold and never so much as cracked a smile. I actually thought the emotionless nigga might’ve had some form of autism. The only reason I knew Vincent fucked with me is because he told me during our quarterly calls and extended his family protection to me and mine.
I knew enough about the nigga to know that he didn’t repeat himself or explain his actions. He just made quiet examples. Vincent was winter cold, and I knew this.
Once we formed our partnership, I quickly learned that Vincent was the head of one of the most feared families in Florida. Vincent did not believe in boundaries. If you crossed a Marucci, it did not matter who you were. They had a reputation for hitting women and children without any remorse if they were in the way. Even with all that said, after Marissa put that pussy on me in Miami, it was worth the risk.
“You talk a good game, you better be about it,” Vincent gritted, tossing a mini Uzi into my lap.
“Aye, you think you can get me a clean one as a congratulations gift?” I queried, examining the gun. It was sexy as fuck.
His neck snapped in my direction, dark eyes piercing my soul, but I didn’t give a damn. I was dead for real. “You pushing it already with my niece, motha fucka.”
I laughed and looked out the window to see where we were as I allowed my hand to get a feel of the gun. The truck slowed down to a stop in front of a house on a well lit street.
“It don’t take a nigga shit to jump in that monkey suit, and drop that ski down and make that choppa do what it do,” Vincent rapped Plies lyrics, pulling a ski mask over his head and slapping one against my chest.
I squinted my eyes at this nigga because he was clearly unwell. He continued rapping the lyrics as we filed out of the truck, and I said a prayer that my child wouldn’t inherit whatever the fuck he had going on mentally. Once we were outside the truck, Vincent did a few hand signals as he continued rapping. Two men went around each side of the house, and we approached the front door.
Vincent’s stocky ass lifted his right leg and kicked the door in. He didn’t skip a beat despite the brute force of his kick, rapping the verse at his own slow, deliberate pace, completely out of sync with the pace of the song. The door flew back, and a gun was raised in our direction. I squeezed the trigger and waved my arm from left to right laying down everything moving in the house. A burst of gunfire erupted in the back of the house as Vincent crossed the threshold, pulling out his burner phone, placing the phone next to each dead man’s head, confirming their identity one by one.
“How many in the back?” He questioned his men that came through the back.
“Three back there,” one of them replied.
There were four lifeless bodies on the floor in the living room. They were in this bitch smoking weed, watching college football highlights, and drinking 1942 straight from the bottle.These niggas were spending all of Quinten’s money because I definitely wired that money from one of his offshore accounts as soon as that email came through earlier.
“Check the rest of the house,” Vincent ordered, then picked up right where he left off in the verse as he continued through the small one story house.
The house had only two bedrooms and one bathroom. By the time Vincent did his thing confirming the last two men were deceased, his men were confirming that the house was clear. One of the men in the living room gurgled blood on our way out, and Vincent pulled the trigger on his Desert Eagle, sending a bullet between his eyes while still rapping the song.
As we piled into the Suburban, two black trucks sped onto the block. They stopped beside us, and the rear driver window came down, exposing Quinten’s mug.
“You too late nigga. We handled it,” Vincent said, approaching the other truck that Quinten was seated in.
Once he was within arm’s reach, Vincent’s massive hands yanked Quinten through the window by his neck. When Quinten was out of the truck, Vincent lifted him off his feet with one hand and slammed him onto the pavement. He landed with a skull crunching thud that sent Quinten’s eyes rolling to the back of his head for a second before he blinked hard, dazed and groaning in pain. This was some shit straight out of an anime, and I was pissed I didn’t have a bucket of popcorn to enjoy the show.
“You put yo fucking hands on Marissa?”
“He did what?” I roared, stepping back out of the truck.
“You didn’t know? Quincy told me he choked her,” Vincent spat. “That’s actually why I was questioning your ability to protect them.”
“See you playing on my top. I shot him in front of Marissa, she knows what type of time I’m on behind her,” I divulged, walking over to them.
“Vincent, please…”
I pulled my own gun from my waistband and silenced his pleas by sending a bullet through each hand.
POW! POW!
