there was no time to mourn because the streets wouldn’t let him.
Dutch’s final words to him replayed in his head and made Young World put his gangsta down in a way that would make Dutch smile in his grave and make the streets bow down. While he relaxed with the love of his life in Cancun, Mexico, the streets of Newark were on fire.
“Young World, muthafucka!” the masked gunman yelled from the chrome black Ducati. His fully automatic Israeli Uzi spat round after round into both the driver of a droptop Lexus coupe and the girl sitting in the passenger seat. They slumped like Kennedy, and the Ducati gunner sped off, leaving the bodies nodded at the light.
Lana’s deep-throat game had Young World feeling like he was about to bust all over her tonsils, but he wasn’t ready to nut. He wanted to feel that bomb shot of hers that had him so in love. He lifted her chin and pulled her up until she straddled his hips and slid down on him, riding him like the stallion he was.
The young hustler wasn’t a stranger to the county jail, but with the paper he was making in the McCarter Highway Projects, bail was like candy money. His mama posted his bail. He knew it would be just a few hours more before his paperwork was processed and he was released. He stretched out on his bunk without a care in the world, knowing his name would soon be called. He didn’t know his number would come up before his name did.
Youngen closed his eyes to catch a quick nap. He never saw Duke slip into his cell like the Phantom of the Opera, gripping a homemade shank tight in his palm. Duke quickly snatched the pillow from behind the man’s head and put it over his face. The short struggle ended quickly when Duke plunged the shank into his victim’s heart, giving it a deadly twist to seal the deal.
“Tell ’em Young World sent you,” Duke whispered menacingly.
“Ooh, World, don’t stop, daddy. Ooh, I love you, World, I…” Lana groaned as she rode World like she was raised riding broncos. Her ass slapped against his thighs.
“Say my name, ma!”
“World, Young World, nigga!”
The black-clad Charlie bellowed before she let off a rain of black talons into a crowd of Irvington Bloods on the corner of Groove Street. They never knew what hit them. Their bodies jerked and twisted like a crew of break- dancers before they dropped to the ground, dead and smoking.
Just like that, Jazz’s murder was avenged and the Charlie disappeared into the shadows.
Lana gripped the dragon chain like the reins of a horse bridle and rode her stallion wildly. Young World grabbed her ass, spread her swollen lips, and plowed into her, matching her, thrust for forceful thrust. Lana screamed out in a mixture of pleasure and pain while Young World long-dicked her into a sensual explosion that drenched her thighs and the satin sheets beneath them. She collapsed on top of her man, covering his face with gentle kisses.
“I love you, World.”
“I love you, too.”
Young World lay back and relaxed. While he was getting his dick sucked and fucked on all night, he felt secure knowing that back in Jersey he had a team of hungry wolves working to ensure that he had an empire to go home to.
Their murder game was not to be fucked with, but World made the mistake of thinking murder was enough to hold an empire together.
THREE YEARS LATER
CHAPTER FOUR
One-eyed Roc stood in his prison cell at his sink, brushing his full beard in the mirror. It glistened with the Muslim hair oil he used on it almost as brightly as his freshly shaven head. Roc stepped back and admired himself. His gentle expression reflected a magnetic edge. They say prison preserves your youth, and at thirty-three, Roc still looked like he was in his mid-twenties. The only difference was his slightly protruding belly and the extra bulk prison food had put on him.
He was six foot three and a solid 235 pounds. His celly nicknamed him Suge Knight because of his resemblance to the music mogul, along with his deep booming voice that commanded attention whenever he spoke. Roc was, however, far from a Suge Knight. Islam and his sincere adherence to its beliefs had mellowed him, perhaps not all the way, but enough for him to be recognized by the prison administrators and his fellow convicts, who were well aware of his past street reputation. In fact, no one called him Roc anymore. They called him by his Islamic name, Rahman, which meant merciful in Arabic.
Rahman felt in his heart that he was no longer the murdering gangsta that he was when he had first arrived to prison. He now possessed a sincere passion for Islam and for the plight of the inner city that he had spent so much of his life terrorizing and dehumanizing.
When Rahman had gone to prison, he had saved a hefty stash, a little over five million dollars. But in the three years he had been locked up, he had given away over a million dollars to needy families, single-parent homes, battered women, and orphaned children.
His wife, Ayesha, who was faithfully sticking by her husband, managed the money, doling out cash as Rahman instructed. Things had been rough for Rahman and Ayesha with Rahman away and Ayesha raising their three children alone.
Despite the distance and the apparent hopelessness of his life sentence, she would often tell him, “You’re with me even when you’re away. Allah will bring you home to me.”
And it seemed that Allah would do just that.
“
Rahman turned around to find Akbar standing in the doorway of his cell.
“
“Then you slippin’,” Akbar chuckled. “You hear a ninja walkin’,” he joked.
Akbar was Rahman’s mentor. They had similar backgrounds. Akbar was older than Rahman and also from Newark. Both had been heavily into the game, but now both were dedicated to Islam.
Akbar walked into Rahman’s cell and held out a magazine.
“What’s that?” Rahman asked, looking at the rolled-up magazine.
Akbar showed him the cover. It was a copy of the new
“Come on, Ock. You know I don’t keep up wit’ that anymore,” he told his friend and grabbed his prayer rug and kufi.
“Naw, nephew, I think you’ll want to see this one,” Akbar said as if it was absolutely necessary Rahman read the article.
“Page fifty-six, Rah. I’ll get it from you after Jum’ah,” Akbar said as he walked out of the cell.
Rahman sat down on his bunk and flipped to page fifty-six. The article was entitled “Angel Alvarez.” And he read:
What’s really good, yo? You know Don Diva always comes with the exclusive exclusive! “You heard it here and nowhere else”-type shit, ya heard? Our topic today? That mysterious street legend, Dutch. It’s been three years since his alleged (and we do mean alleged) death. Now we have a one-on-one interview with Angel Alverez, the only female to run with the notorious Dutch. The following came from a taped phone convo from West Virginia, where Angel is currently housed.
DD: What’s up, mami? What’s your life like?
Angel: You know how it goes wit’ a bid. You put it on your back and troop it like a boss bitch. Ju don’t know?
DD: Aiight, if only these snitch muthafuckas understood the principles of this shit. But yo, I hear congratulations are in order! You won your appeal.
Angel (laughs): I can’t believe that shit either. Fuck man, my lawyer ain’t even expect it! You know how the
