Angel's Revenge

CHAPTER THREE

Whose world is this?”

“Mine!”

“Whose world am I?”

“Mine!”

“Then say my name, ma. Say my name.”

“Young World,” Lana purred as she posed in the bathroom doorway. She had the curves of two letter S’s facing each other. Chocolate from head to toe, she stood bowlegged, wet and naked, tantalizing Young World as he lay back on the spacious bed in their Cancún hotel suite.

“Do my dance, yo,” Young World told her.

Lana began to slowly and sensually gyrate her hips to the rhythm of her own lust, palming her full breasts and pulling at her tender brown nipples.

“Like this, World?” She smiled, loving the feeling of her man’s eyes all over her.

“No doubt. Slow motion, ma. Move it slow motion for me,” he replied with gangsta charisma. He licked his lips and grabbed his crotch.

Lana complied as she crawled on the bed like a black panther in the jungle stalking her prey. Young World parlayed like the young don Dutch made him, wearing only two things: a pair of burgundy silk boxers and Dutch’s dragon chain gleaming off the reddish-brown skin of his bare chest.

He watched Lana take his erect member into her warm mouth and wrap her juicy lips around his shaft, relaxing her throat, and curling his toes. Her head bobbed as if his dick was licorice and she was addicted to sweets.

Young World had definitely come up lovely. It had been nine months since the courthouse massacre and things had gone just as Dutch predicted they would.

The streets is gonna be wide open like pussy after this. Niggas you thought you could count on either gonna flip and try and go for dolo or nut up under pressure.

The streets lit up like the Fourth of July as street niggas and greedy crews scrambled for the crumbs off Dutch’s table. Young World had one of the sickest teams in the game, but even he took losses. His right-hand man, Jazz, didn’t have the killer instincts it took to ball on World’s level, so seventeen shots later found him on a basketball court in the park. Jazz and Young World had come up together so his death hit Young World hard, but there was no time to mourn because the streets wouldn’t let him.

The rest is up to you.

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 Cancún, 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.