Angel's Revenge (10 page)

Things had moved too fast for Young World, going from a block lieutenant to a don damn near overnight, and he simply wasn’t
cut out for the responsibilities. His ego wouldn’t let him accept it even though his heart was beginning to agree.

He pulled his pearl-white Aston Martin convertible into the horseshoe driveway of his crib in West Orange. He turned off the
car and sat back, taking in the landscape. The six-bedroom, eight-bathroom, ranch-style house was the type of house he’d always
dreamed of owning ever since his block hustling days—chasing dimes and nickels, day and night, grinding hard, showering every
two or three days and sleeping in hoopties on lookouts. His only goal was to get money. He would hustle all night then take
the money to Lana’s mother’s house, catching her before she went to school. Sometimes he’d talk her into playing hooky. They
would go downtown to buy clothes or look at jewelry. Then they’d sit on her porch and watch bigger hustlers drive by in their
Benzes and BMWs.

“I’m tellin’ you, girl. That’s gonna be us in a minute, word. We gonna have it all, baby,” he’d tell her, and she would reply,
“I already got it all.”

Now look at me
, he thought. He had two homes, this being the larger of the two, complete with a swimming pool and full basketball court.
His three-car garage held the $230,000 Aston Martin DB9, a $135,000 CL 55, and a $70,000 Cadillac Escalade, not to mention
Lana’s $120,000 760Li series BMW.

“You’ve come a long way, son,” he said to himself. But deep inside, he wondered if it was all worth it.

So what if Ceylon cut him off? In his three-year run, he had stacked NBA-type paper. What else did he have to prove? And to
whom? Roll? Duke? Lana? Himself? Young World leaned back against the headrest and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands.

Maybe it was time to get out, take Lana somewhere quiet and exotic. Logic and reason pointed him in that direction, and he
had almost convinced himself. Until he felt the weight on his chest.

The dragon chain.

His chest filled with foolish pride and impotent rage. He cursed himself for even thinking such thoughts.

“Fuck that! I ain’t runnin’ from these bitch-ass niggas!”

Dutch had left him the dragon to represent, and like a diehard gangster, he planned on repping his jeweled flag to the death.

Young World entered the house with his mind set on his course of action. All he had to do was put Lana on point to his decision,
because she’d have to relocate.

“Lana!” he yelled loud enough to be heard all over the house.

He got no reply.

“Lana, you here?”

Young World noticed the TV showing her favorite fitness channel. The leotard-clad women were jumping and stretching to a muted
beat. He smiled to himself. Lana had an hourglass figure and flawless skin, which she attributed to her vegetarian diet and
workout regime.

He turned off the TV and looked out to the patio where he saw Lana sitting at the edge of the pool. He started toward her,
then stopped in his tracks.

Lana. Suppose something were to happen to her?
he thought.

The game he was playing wasn’t only with his life but with hers as well. It had always been in the back of his mind and with
the decision he was about to implement, he knew shit could get real ugly, real fast. God forbid if they came for him through
her. Young World would never rest until he avenged her death, but revenge wouldn’t bring her back. Again he questioned his
stance, but his pride wouldn’t let him reconsider.

He walked over poolside and heard Jaheem’s CD playing in the background.

“Lana.”

She jumped, slightly startled. “Oh, hey, World.” She smiled and stood up to hug him. She kissed him. “I didn’t hear you come
in.”

“How could you with this bullshit blastin’ like you in the Projects or somethin’,” he snapped.

“You know it ain’t that loud, boy. Quit trippin’.”

“Did you hear me come in?”

“No.”

“Then it
was
that loud. I coulda been fuckin’ anybody. I warned you about slippin’,” he scolded.

Lana watched Young World go to the minibar and pour himself half a glass of Remy Martin.

“What’s wrong, Sha?” Lana asked.

“You! I tell you all the time, watch your…”

His words were silenced when Lana pulled out a .25 caliber pistol concealed in her bikini bottom.

“Happy now?” She smirked, then laid the gun on the bar.

“You still ain’t hear me come in,” he grumbled, downing the Remy in one gulp.

Lana studied her man. “What’s really wrong, Shahid? You can’t talk to me no more or somethin’?”

World looked into her face and his heart melted.

“Long trip,” he said before sitting down on a chaise longue.

“And I see you still on it,” she quipped as she eased onto the edge of his chair.

Young World didn’t reply. Instead, he stared into space for a few seconds, thinking.

“You movin’.”

“What do you mean I’m movin’? Moving where? For what?” Lana asked with a frown.

“ATL.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

Lana chuckled to hide her annoyance. “Why don’t you just say how high when you want me to jump?” she remarked snidely.

World knew he wasn’t playing fair with her, but he had already made his decision and he wouldn’t allow her to sway him.

“Do you trust me, Lana?” he asked sincerely.

“With my life,” she replied without hesitation.

“Then don’t ask questions about this, okay?”

Lana sighed hard and stood up. She had a lot to say but she held her tongue.

“Whatever,” she said as she tossed her hair back nonchalantly and walked away.

“Lana!” He called her just like she knew he would. She had been with World long enough to know how to manipulate him when
she wanted something. And she really didn’t want him leaving her alone tonight.

“What, Sha?” she answered without turning around, her arms folded across her breasts.

Young World admired her delicious frame in the peach bikini she was wearing. It wasn’t a thong, but her ass was so round,
it might as well have been.

“These niggas want a war, so I’ma give it to ’em. I don’t want you nowhere around when it pops off.”

He broke down and explained, not knowing it had already popped off and war had already been declared on him.

“What about you? Where you gonna be when it pops off?” she turned and asked.

“On the front line where I’m suppose to be,” he declared, like he was some kind of hero.

“Like I said, whatever,” she replied, tears welling up in her eyes.

“Look, baby. I ain’t running from nobody. I just can’t. As much as I love you, I can’t. If I did, then I’d be a target on
every hungry nigga’s plate! I ain’t goin’ out like that, ma. Word. You can’t ask me to.”

Lana loved him for his strength and confidence. But she was beginning to fear that those traits would become his weaknesses.

“Please, World. Don’t…”

He couldn’t explain his motives to her. It was what he felt he had to do. His hand was forced. There were no words. So he
responded with a hard and passionate kiss, taking Lana’s breath away, replacing it with his own. He attempted to console her
with his embrace, soothe her with his caress, and fulfill her needs with his manhood.

In the background, Jaheem’s “Just in Case” was playing, and Young World indeed made love to her like it was the last time.
The energy was so intense, Lana cried tears of passion as Young World filled her with his seed of life.

“I love you, My World. Please don’t go, not tonight. Stay with me, okay?” With all his heart he wanted to, but he needed to
act, and the sooner the better.

“I won’t be gone long. As soon as I can, I’ll be home.”

“Promise me?”

“I promise.”

Rahman lay on his back and looked at the bottom of the bunk over him. His celly was locked down in what everyone called the
“bing” or the “hole.” In the hole you were locked down for twenty-three hours with one hour to take a shower and have recreation.
So Rahman had the cell to himself. All he could think about was the
Don Diva
article and Angel. She said she had won her appeal. He figured she had probably already touched ground by now. The interview
didn’t take place yesterday. Because his case was based on the same evidence as hers, it was certain that he’d go home soon,
too. Or at least that’s what his lawyer told him. He knew he had the perfect plan, but he couldn’t help but wonder if he was
ready for the streets again.

It was easy to be righteous in prison. But once freed, it was another story. Like a crackhead in jail, he could easily believe
he had conquered his addiction. However, when faced again with the powerful substance, the sound of the sizzle, the sweet
smell of its burn, and its mind-numbing effects, could any addict resist taking that welcome-back hit? It was just like that
with the streets, and Rahman knew the game was just as addictive. It was like stealing. Half the niggas he knew didn’t steal
because they needed to. They stole because they liked the rush they got from stealing, the sneakiness in the take, and the
thrill of getting away. Money is a high of its own. The art of the deal, the
brrrap
of the money counter flinging bills as it counts, the intoxicating effect of being “that nigga”—rims spinning, jewels gleaming,
the VIP status everywhere he goes, and oh my God, the chicks on his dick!

Addiction. It’s what Rahman feared. Not just the streets but
him
on the streets. Freedom was the ultimate test for a recovering addict of the game. But even worse was a nigga with options.
And Rahman had plenty of them.

He heard a cart squeaking along the corridor and looked out of his cell. It was Donald from the library, collecting books.

“
As-Salaamu Alaikum,
Rahman.”

“
Alaikum As-Salaamu,
” Rahman replied.

“Here you go, brother,” Donald said as he passed
Huckleberry Finn
through the steel bars to Rahman.

“What I want that for?” asked Rahman, annoyed.

“Page
137
contains a valuable message, my brother,” Donald said as Rahman relieved him of the book.

“
Shakron
.”

“
Afwan
,” Donald replied as he rolled his cart away.

Rahman opened the book to page
137
and found a folded piece of paper tucked in along the spine. He opened the slim piece of
paper and read to himself:

How you? I heard our young friend came to check you. You don’t have to tell me how it went because I know the mind of a young
gangsta. Remember, we already wore those shoes. Now you see firsthand what you’re up against. Your freedom is near and the
moment of truth is upon us. Everything is in your hands. Move wisely. You know I’m here for you. Everything I have is at your
disposal if need be. Stay focused and keep Allah first.

As for our friend, he chose… now you must choose as well.

Salaam Alaikum, Akbar.

Young World guided the pearl-white Aston Martin through traffic like a missile. His theme music pumped out of the surround
sound system, banging like a war drum.

What you think the game is for?
he reminded himself.

World’s destination was a strip club on Sixteenth Avenue. He was part owner of the Eleganza. His many businesses included
other strip clubs, but the Eleganza was Newark’s player’s club of choice. The girls were top notch, no stretch marks, sagging
bellies, or droopy titties allowed. You had to be a dime to even walk through the door. The girls were hand-picked after being
interviewed, usually by one of the other partners. The interview was to strip naked and give a lap dance along with a sample
of the goodies. World had interviewed some of the girls himself. He had sampled the goodies from most of them but hadn’t gotten
around to knocking off the rest. It was like being a jockey and walking into a barn full of stallions in every flavor and
every shade of the rainbow. Only the biggest ballers, athletes, and entertainers could afford a table at the Eleganza.

Downstairs, ballers gambled for pots that easily exceeded fifty grand, game after game, night after night. It was always the
same—alcohol, gambling, and pussy. What more could a man ask for?

Young World placed his cell phone back in his pocket. It was the sixth time he had tried to phone Duke with no success.
Why this nigga not answering his phone?
He figured Duke was at the El, his home away from home. That’s why he made it his first stop.

He entered the club and approached the bar, greeting the bartender.

“What up, Tank? What’s good?”

“Same ol’, same ol’, Young. What up wit’ you?” the big bartender asked back.

Young World glanced around the club. Five of the girls were working the floor. One of them, Tania, saw Young World and her
heart leaped with lust. Not for him, but for the five thousand dollars Roll had offered her if she called him the moment he
came into the club. Tania was Roll’s cousin, and she knew Roll was looking for him. She knew Roll had ordered a hit.

She watched World at the bar.
Where’s his army? He just walkin’ around like it ain’t nothing
, Tania thought to herself as she slipped away from her lap dance and placed a call to Roll. It rang twice.

“Who this?” Roll’s gruff voice rumbled through the phone.

“It’s Tania.”

“Tania who?” Roll barked, wondering how the ho had gotten his private number.

“Your cousin, nigga! And guess who here?”

“Who?” Roll asked, not interested in playing twenty questions.

“World.”

Roll sat straight up. “Where?” he asked with murderous anticipation.

“The Eleganza. He just walked in and he by himself,” Tania said, ready to get her five thousand.

“Hold him! Whatever you gotta do, hold him. If you got to put that nigga’s dick in your mouth and hold him with your teeth,
do it!” he ordered and hung up.

“That nigga really think shit’s sweet! He at the El right now, alone!” Roll said as he turned to his main man, Nitti.