No Honor Amongst Thieves

by Brick, Storm

Genres: African American Urban

Synopsis

"My husband was down on his knees, bloodied, battered, and beaten to the point he could barely hold himself up. He'd always been a warrior, my warrior. They would kill him, I knew that. I felt it with everything within me. My husband was going to die, and it was all my fault...."

Meet Marcel and Sabrina, a hitman and a bookkeeper for the Mob. The couple should have never met, let alone fallen in love. When they decide to go against the grain, all hell breaks loose. Somebody wants them dead; they just don't know who. It could be Leo, Marcel's jealous older brother; Othello, Sabrina's crooked father; or it could be The Family, a roundtable of the top contenders in the underworld. There is no honor amongst thieves. Marcel and Sabrina will find the old adage to be true the hard way.

Release date: February 26, 2019

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

August 2009 . . .

I heard the man walking behind me before I saw him. . . .

Being alone in my neighborhood was never a good thing. Especially when you were 19, taller than most girls your age, no hips, no ass, and had dark skin. I had breasts, but nothing to go with them. My clothes fit awkwardly, and my hair was a natural ’fro, which wasn’t all that popular then. It was like I was a walking advertisement for something fucked up to happen to me.

Daddy had left Mama for something younger and more willing to be in the traditional housewife role that he wanted. That meant we had to move back to Georgia where Mama was from originally. A house full of dark-skinned women in the South. While my older sisters looked like they had been crafted by God herself, I was the ugly duckling. Mama tried her best to get me to see my beauty back then, but it never worked. I was still the proverbial, awkward, and ugly dark-skinned girl.

My older twin sisters could be assholes when they wanted to be. I’d just gotten out of study hall on campus at Clayton State and was expecting them to wait for me the day I met him. But they were in their second year of law school and had other important things to do. I ended up having to walk home. We lived on the Southside of Jonesboro, Georgia, in a neighborhood that had been built to resemble Harlem with brownstone-type houses. When it was first built, it had been the talk of the town, but as always, with anything government funded and advertised for black people, shit went downhill fast.

Walking in that neighborhood no matter what time of day it was, was never a good thing, especially for a girl. Rain poured down on me, and I was thankful for the plastic book bag I had. My hair had been in a short ’fro, so I didn’t too much care about my hairstyle. All I wanted was to get home out of the rain. A white man in a coat passed by me quickly. It wasn’t unusual to see the scarce white face in my hood, although he did look a bit out of place. It wasn’t them who often made me hate walking to the store around the corner or to the bus stop.

I’d heard tell of the shadows that sometimes stalked the streets. There had been people who came up missing who no one thought to ever look for again: men, women, and children. That time was scary around our hood. I glanced behind me to see the man again. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew it was him. Broad shoulders, built like he worked out for fun. He wasn’t a bodybuilder type, but more like a basketball player’s build or a track runner.

The hood of the black leather coat he had on hid his face. His hands were gloved, and combat boots were on his feet. Which was odd.... He had on combat boots, but there was a sound, almost like taps on the bottom of his shoes. He had followed me for at least two miles by then, and I had another four to go. I was scared. Didn’t want to come up missing like those who people didn’t speak about around the way.

I sped up to put some distance between us. I’d never been raised to be a pussy of a woman. I’d learned to fight early on. Growing up in Flatbush dictated that I throw hands like the hardest of niggas if I wanted to survive. Still, I was new to the area and didn’t know the man following me from Adam. I felt goose pimples rise on my arms. My breathing became erratic.

At that moment, I knew I wouldn’t make it home if I didn’t get the upper hand. I slid my hand in the pocket of my raincoat and gripped the pocketknife there. I flicked it open, then spun with swiftness to catch my “would-be” attacker off guard. But to my surprise, he wasn’t there. I turned back and forth quickly, trying to see if he had somehow gotten in front of me, and I didn’t know about it. There was nothing; just a few cars passing in the distance, rain, and wind.

Normally, people would be out, but I guessed the weather had everyone inside. I turned back around and found myself face-to-face with a maniac. His breath was tart, eyes cold. Face pale and scaly. He smiled coolly at me when I tried to punch him with my hand holding the knife. He blocked the hit, and the weapon fell. Looking at the man, I knew he was a different kind of evil. Instinct told me to run, and before I could scream, he clasped a hand over my nose and mouth. I couldn’t breathe, so I panicked. I clawed at his face, trying to do anything to make him let go of me. He had a strong arm around my waist as he dragged me into an alley, then into an abandoned storefront.

“Nooooo,” I screamed. “Let me go,” I yelled.

He grabbed a fistful of my ’fro and threw me headfirst into a wall. I crumbled to the floor like a sack of potatoes. My world tilted, then spun as I moaned. I slowly rolled onto my stomach so I could crawl away. My vision was blurred as I watched his booted feet thud against the concrete floor. I hadn’t crawled an inch when the man straddled my back and cut my shirt from my upper body.

The cool brisk of wind I felt chilled me even more. I tried to turn and fight back, but another yank of my hair and my head beating the floor put an end to that. As the man yanked my pants and underwear down my thighs and legs, tears burned my eyelids. The man stood, then pulled me by my arms across the room. Debris cut into me. I could feel my skin ripping and tearing against the broken glass, wood, and whatever else was on the floor. I had floated in and out of consciousness by the time he handcuffed me to the wrought iron bedrail.

At that moment, I blamed my father for what was about to happen to me. If he hadn’t run off and left us, no man would be able to do what was about to happen to me. I think it was at that moment, I knew what animosity was as I began to hate the man who had donated sperm for my creation. It was the budding disdain for my father that created a burn within me. I kicked one of my long legs out, striking the man in the face. I kept at it until he grabbed my ankles.

I had no idea what he was about to do when he pulled a blade from his pocket, but my heart stopped at the thought. I was going to die. I knew at that moment, he was going to kill me.

“Damn shame that a man has everything and still wants more,” a voice spoke out.

I didn’t know where the other man’s voice was in the room. The voice was deep and settled over me like a warm blanket. If there were only men in a room, you’d be able to tell who this man was as his voice was that distinctive, a honeyed-type voice. There was that sound again. The distinct sound of taps on the bottom of a shoe. It was then that I realized the man who had been following me hadn’t been the one who snatched me.

The man who had been about to kill me jumped back, fell on the ground, then rolled around until he was up on his feet. He took a defensive stance, the knife out in front of him as he looked around, panicked because of the voice he’d heard.

“This ain’t none of your business, boy,” the man with the knife shouted. “Who sent you, nigger? Who sent you after me?”

The man with the knife was spooked, just as I had been moments before. I sniffled and tried yanking my hands from the cuffs on the bedrail, to no avail.

“Antonio Sepriani, your father wants you to know he can no longer afford to have you out here snatching young girls up in this community and killing them. You’re causing too much heat around this way, making it hard for him to do business with the blacks,” the other voice spoke, closer now than it had been before.

The man who I now knew as Antonio frowned. “My father?” he asked, confusion on his tanned face. “My father sent you to kill me, boy?”

“Would you like to say any last words, Antonio Sepriani?”

Antonio laughed maniacally and hopped on the mattress. “You ain’t smart enough to take me out, boy,” he spat with a scowl.

He yanked my head up by my ’fro and placed the blade against my neck, forcing me to kneel in an awkward position in front of him. I could feel the blade piercing my neck. I held my breath, believing that if I breathed too hard or swallowed the wrong way, the blade would cut deeper.

“Tell my father,” Antonio yelled and spittle rained down on me, “tell that fucking old-ass bastard that his time is coming. The Family will have him dead, and when I take over, I’ll run shit the way it should be run! Won’t have no nigger doing my dirty work for me because I’m a man! And a man always handles his own affairs. Ain’t that right, bitch?” he asked me, dragging his tongue across my head. “When I handle this here boy, you and me gonna have us some good old fun. Gonna teach you how to fuck—”

Before the words left his mouth, a loud sound came whizzing through the air. Antonio’s voice creaked, then stopped. His hold loosened on me, and the blade fell from his hand. Something wet and red trickled down my face and chest. I glanced around the room quickly, then looked up. My scream got caught in my throat. A dead man was behind me, slumped over, arrow between his eyes. I panicked, started screaming, and yanking at the rails on the bed. I’d never seen a dead body before. Piss stains had saturated the front of the white man’s jeans and the muscles in his hands jerked every so often.

“It’s never about smarts in my line of work, Antonio. It’s about skill,” the other man said coolly, his voice calm and even like he hadn’t just killed a man.

It was safe to say that I had probably pissed myself too. That tapping sound kept coming closer and closer. The nearer it got to me, the more I screamed. I moved, angled my body to semi-face the rail. Terrified, I glanced over my shoulders, then back to the wrought iron headboard. I’d yanked and pulled so hard my wrists were burning and bleeding.

I kept my head turned when I felt him behind me. I stopped screaming as shivers and shakes had overtaken my ability to do so.

“I didn’t see nothing,” I spoke up quickly. “I didn’t see nothing. I swear.”

“How old are you?”

“Ni-nineteen. I didn’t see anything. I swear to God. I won’t say nothing,” I pleaded. Slobber and snot rolled down my lips while sweat covered me.

The man walked around to where my hands were. I turned my head so I wouldn’t see him. I heard keys jingling in his hands.

“Where do you live?” he asked me.

“Golden Gates.”

“The pseudo Harlem?”

I nodded slowly. He yanked the cuffs, unlocked them. I fell back on the bed, keeping my face down, eyes closed.

“Address?” he wanted to know.

“1964 Brushwick Lane. Door 6111.” I was so terrified, I told him whatever he wanted to know with the hopes that it would spare me.

“Name?”

“Sa-Sabrina.”

“Sabrina what?”

“Sabrina Lanfair.”

I felt when he tossed my clothes at me. I grabbed them close to my chest and covered up.

“Do you know why I’m asking you all these questions, Sabrina Lanfair?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Now I know where you live. I know where your family lives. If you tell anybody about me being here, I’ll make my presence felt in your life. Understand?”

That was a threat. I was smart enough to know that. So I nodded.

“Count to one hundred, then leave. You do not leave this room until you reach a hundred. If you do, I will know. Start counting, Sabrina.”

I did what he said, started to count silently. He must have known that.

“Out loud so I can hear you.”

“One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven,” I went on counting slowly and at the top of my lungs until my voice was ready to give out. Finally, I reached a hundred.

I had no idea if the man was still there or not as I didn’t hear that tapping sound. As I counted, I stood and pulled my jeans back on, then my shoes that the man had snatched off. Grabbing the ripped shirt, I slid my arms through the sleeves, then tied the shreds in the back. It would do until I could make it home. I pulled my raincoat back on and grabbed my book bag. He must have brought them along so no one would find them. I would have been truly one of those who just “disappeared.” When I made it to one hundred, I ran out of that abandoned store like a bat out of hell.

As the days followed, I was a paranoid mess. I jumped at every sound. Couldn’t tell anyone about what had happened to me as I truly believed the man in the room would find me and kill me. I wrapped my own wrists and wore long sleeves. My mama rarely paid attention to me as she was working two jobs, one day and one night. My older twin sisters were focused on doing their own things. None of them paid attention to me. I was left to deal with the demons of what happened to me alone.

It would be two years later when I ran into that man again who had been in the room, the killer who had saved me. Two years before I would hear that voice again and know I was in his presence. Funny thing was, he would know me too.

People are shaped by either their environment or by specific situations that happen in their lives, or I should say, can be shaped. My life, shit, it was good. I had both parents in my life, grew up valuing education, sports, and making a man of myself in the DC area. Yeah, around me wasn’t that squeaky clean. I mean, back in the day, like any kid, I tried to fit in every day, but I also soaked up the street life because I could and was bored with the perfection of my home. My family taught me about love and support, but the streets taught me about survival and loyalty. However, after all those lessons, what I did learn from scrapping in whatever hood I found myself in never was very deep. Not until I graduated from college and found myself homeless in the streets of Atlanta, Georgia.

A brotha was hungry, sleeping in my ride, and looking for work in an environment that wasn’t seeking to hire my ass. Shit, it was tough. But when I found a job in a small restaurant, I never thought that it would lead me to becoming a killer, but it did, via my boss. I was reluctant at first, but due to the upgrade in pay and the opportunity to get out of the backseat of my car, I accepted the job on the spot. Hell, I never thought I’d enjoy it, but I did, and it all started back in that small room. I was 21 then, and that’s when I unintentionally met Sabrina for the first time.

That was two years ago, and it seemed that Karma had a hand in crossing our paths again because she walked into the same crowded room I was in. I stood amongst a diverse set of snobby-ass people who were supporting several city officials running for government positions in Atlanta. Two years was all it took for me to move up in the game. My boss’s son, which also made him my boss by proxy, was one of the running officials, and I was his aide. My degree in communications helped me get that position.

Keeping my eyes on the woman I recalled being an awkward-looking female with a wild thicket of hair on her head and justifiable fear in her eyes, I tried my best to keep my distance from her. I wasn’t sure if she saw my face back then. I mean, yeah, I spoke to her, but through it all, I tried to keep my appearance as incognito as possible. As I was trying to do now.

I was a six-foot-tall, dark-skinned brotha, the tone of espresso. The well-trimmed beard that lined my defined jaw was there to keep my identity low-key. It ran right up into my, what I liked to call, a fuck-boy fade. You know the one, low-cut fade with the S-curl and curved part in it. That’s how my mane was. I was on what my pops would call, my Billy Dee Williams tip. Casket sharp in my hand stitched Italian suit, thanks to my boss’s tailor, and Italian leather shoes that were polished so nice that I could see myself in them.

My size was not that big at all. I was a muscular, lean type. Not so skinny that you’d have to worry about a brotha, but big enough where I still looked as if I could handle my own in a brawl fight. I wasn’t ugly, but I wasn’t a pretty boy. For tonight, I had a distinguished, rugged, hipster look, and I had plenty of women trying to get in my face. But I wasn’t paying them any attention. First off, I was at this event to learn more about my latest mark, and second, since Sabrina walked in, she drew my attention elsewhere.

Baby girl had grown up. People chattered and chuckled around me while I studied her. When I saved her life back then, I had decided to do my homework on her. I had to just make sure she never talked about me. I learned her people were nobodies, who had just moved to the A. Once that was made clear, I didn’t think that I had anything to worry about. Now, I was questioning that.

Sabrina moved around the room with a bright smile upon her face. Where there once was nothing but a boyish frame, meaning flat all around, except for her chest, which was different, was now framed by some mini-curves. She had a body like Rihanna, just with bigger breasts. Petite and cute. Her small ’fro had grown and was now straight hair that fell down her back. From how lush it was, I knew it wasn’t permed. Blame that on me having a sister and mother who stayed in the salon and had my father and me stressing about it.

“Marcel,” I heard a soft-spoken but deep baritone voice call my name. It was the son of my boss, and I had to comply. Turning my attention to the tall, handsome, swarthy Italian dude dressed just as casket fresh as me, I stepped his way.

“I’d like to introduce you to some very important people,” my coboss said with an outstretched arm.

My co-boss, Leo Giulio, was one of the popular political candidates running for alderman in my area. What made him popular wasn’t just his charisma, it was that his mother was a well-known South African opera singer, and his father ran the best Italian bistro in the Metro-Atlanta perimeter. It also was because he could persuade anyone to do what he wanted, and because he was a young, 30-year-old, good-looking dude. That part was what made him extremely dangerous in the world I was coming from, but no one knew the brotha’s dark side, and it was my duty to keep it that way.

Keeping a warm but expressionless manner to me, I stepped forward. “I’m honored, Mr. Giulio.”

It was an effort for me not to fall into my relaxed state of slang, but as Senior Giulio always said, if I want to move up in this world and make the money I needed, I must be a man of many faces. Therefore, I made sure to follow that model and embrace my role. I stood back watching as an older brother, around my height with wispy grays in his hair, beard, and temples, came my way. I knew who it was immediately as my mind hit me with an old memory.

“Marcel Raymond, meet future Commissioner Othello Lanfair. He just settled into Atlanta from New York,” Leo explained.

Grasping Mr. Lanfair’s hand, I gave h. . .