Array Ashley - The Cartel

Carter thought that she was apologizing out of respect for Monroe. What he didn’t know was that she was apologizing for the death and pain that she was about to cause his family. She was going to become his only weakness and then use it against him. He didn’t know it yet, but he was going to contribute to his family’s demise.

Leena’s eyes shifted back and forth frantically as her blurred vision became clearer by the second. She didn’t recognize where she was. Tubes were coming from her nose, and the steady beep of the heart monitor echoed through the room. The last thing she remembered was Mecca pointing the gun at her and hearing a loud blast.

Instinctively, she began calling for her man. “Mon-Monroe,” she whispered as she blinked her eyes rapidly, trying to regain clear vision. She tried to sit up, but an excruciating pain shot through her body. She felt the tenderness in her arm and then realized that was where the bullet struck her.

She immediately began to think about the unborn child that she was carrying. She nervously began to feel on her belly and wondered, was her child okay. That was when she heard the unfamiliar sound of a man’s voice, and she instantly grew terrified.

She saw a tall, older man with a beer belly. He had on an expensive silk shirt with the first three buttons unbuttoned, typical gangster attire for older Florida natives. An unlit cigar hung from his mouth as he stood up and walked toward her. The man was of Dominican descent and had slick hair that was neatly brushed to the back.

Leena tried to scream, but she was too weak to project her voice. She immediately tried to reach for the emergency call button next to her bed, but she was unable to move her arm.

The man loomed over her and gently tapped her, whispering, “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

Leena quickly smacked his hand off her, and tears formed in her eyes. She knew one of Mecca’s goons was there to finish what he had started.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you, Leena,” the man said as he sat at the edge of her bed.

“Who are you, and how do you know my name?” Leena scooted to the opposite side of the bed, trying to get as far away from him as she could. She grimaced as she felt the pain in her arm. She clenched her stomach, all the while keeping her eyes on the man in front of her.

“My name is Emilio Estes. Monroe was my grandson,” he said as he dropped his head, noticeably saddened.

“Was? What do you mean, was? Where is Money?!” Leena’s face frowned up.

“He didn’t make it. He’s gone.”

Estes stood up and wiped the tear that threatened to fall. The thought of Monroe’s death made him weak. He quickly regained his composure and stared into the eyes of the woman who would birth his great grandchild. He had been with her throughout the whole time she was in a coma.

When he got to Leena’s house on the night of shooting, he was the first to discover that the Haitians had left Leena alive and that she was carrying a child. He’d arranged for Leena’s status to be kept a secret and got her moved to the top floor of the hospital, where they usually admitted celebrities and people of prestige. The doctor told him that the baby would be fine, and he was determined to make sure Leena would be taken care of until she delivered his first great grandchild.

Leena stared aimlessly in complete shock. The words that left Estes’ mouth sent a dart straight to her heart.

“He’s gone? No, he can’t be,” Leena said as her voice began to shake. Her whole world had just crumbled, knowing that the only man she ever loved was gone.

“His funeral was a couple of days ago. Sorry, sweetheart,” Estes said as he stepped closer to the bed.

Heartbroken, Leena broke down in tears and cried like a child.

Estes put his hand on her hair, slowly stroking it to comfort her.

She gripped her stomach, remembering that she was carrying Monroe’s child. Fear sunk in as she wondered if her baby was okay; it was the only piece of Monroe she had left.

Estes noticed the sudden look of worry in her face. “The baby is fine, Leena,” he said.

Leena took a deep breath and buried her face into her hands. “Thank God. Thank God, my child is safe,” she whispered as she continued to cry a river.

Estes wanted to be supportive of Leena, but revenge was the main thing on his mind. He wanted to affirm that Ma’tee’s Haitian mob was responsible for the killing.

“I know you are going through a lot right now, but I have to ask you a question. Who killed my grandson?”

“Your grandson,” she repeated as she briefly stared him in his eyes.

Estes took the cigar out of his mouth and slightly frowned, “What did you say?’ he asked in a heavy Dominican accent.

“Mecca killed Monroe. Mecca did it.”

Estes was at a loss for words as he clenched his teeth and involuntarily balled up his fist. He was hurt by her words, and his anger got the better of him. He angrily grabbed Leena by her hand and squeezed it tightly. “Don’t fuckin’ lie to me!” he yelled.

“I’m not lying, I swear to you. Mecca shot both of us. He went crazy. Monroe and I were fooling around and he walked in. But I wasn’t serious with Mecca. Monroe was the one I loved.”

Estes caught himself and released Leena’s hand. He shook his head from side to side and remembered the look in Mecca’s eyes at the funeral. He knew something wasn’t right with his only living grandson. Estes was a firm believer in family morals and loyalty.

What Mecca had done was the ultimate betrayal, and Estes quickly disowned him. Estes was from the old school and played by the rules. If you went against the family, you weren’t considered family anymore. The thought of vengeance was the only thing he could fathom. He motioned to the man that was in the corner of the room to come to him.

Leena was startled. She didn’t even realize that they weren’t alone.

A Dominican man emerged from the shadows of the darkened room, and Estes whispered something in his ear. The man quickly exited the room, and Estes sat next to Leena and instructed her that he would look after her, and everything would be okay. Unbeknownst to Leena, Estes had ordered the death of his only remaining grandson, Mecca.

Mecca sniffed the long line of cocaine, using his nostrils like a Hoover vacuum. His hair was unbraided and wild all over his head, giving him the look of a crazed man. He quickly jerked his head back so that his nose wouldn’t run. He stared at the items on the table-a bottle of Rémy Martin, two Desert Eagle handguns, and a bowl of pure coke. He had already sniffed two grams and was high out of his mind.

He reached over to his end table to grab the picture of himself, Money, and their father. It was a picture that was taken when they were little boys, both of them sitting shirtless on their father’s lap. He remembered that day and smiled. That smile quickly turned into a saddened expression, which was then followed by tears. He was deeply remorseful for his actions and continued to shed silent tears as he picked up the bottle and took a big gulp of liquor then another line of blow.

“I’m sorry, Money, I am so sorry, bro,” he said as he broke down crying hysterically. “I love you, man,” he whispered as he stood up, almost falling back down. He looked around his tri-level condominium that overlooked the sands of Miami’s coastline. He staggered over to his balcony with the bottle in one hand and the picture in the other. He forcefully pushed open the door and stumbled out. He looked into the sky as the moonlight shined down on him. He felt worthless, like he was the scum of the earth.