Keisha & Trigga 4

Leo Sullivan, Porscha Sterling

Sujets

• Urban Books

Informations

• Publié par: Sullivan Group Publishing, LLC
• Date de parution: 24 février 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781946789402
• Langue: English

Extrait

© 2016
Published by Leo Sullivan Presents

All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Unauthorized reproduction, in any manner, is prohibited.
Contents



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Synopsis


Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Epilogue


The saga continues!

More Gunplay & LeTavia!

Thanks From Leo Sullivan

Thanks From Porscha Sterling

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Synopsis

The epic saga has come to an end…but has justice been served?
After finding love in the midst of the most treacherous circumstances, Keisha and Trigga decide to leave everything behind them and focus on their marriage and new baby. But when Trigga overhears interesting news regarding the baby’s paternity, it leaves him doubting the loyalty of the only woman he’s loved. After all they’ve endured to be together, will this new challenge ruin them?
Lloyd, still the thorn in everyone’s side, is more merciless than he’s ever been being that he’s a street king with absolutely nothing to lose. But luck strikes when someone comes to his aid to finally nail Keisha and Trigga for good. However, it’s the last person anyone would suspect.
Austin’s intentions when it comes to his cousin’s empire, slowly begins to come to the light and the more they are revealed to Lloyd, the more he is unwilling to let Austin run free in his streets. When Lloyd calls on his infamous Ground Patrol to teach Austin a lesson, he feels that he’s finally rid himself of his conniving cousin for good. The problem is, Austin has never been one to not get his way. And, just as he plans to show NeTasha, if he claims something as his, he won’t stop until it is. Even if that means joining with an unlikely ally.
Prologue

A bright sun shimmered on the south side of metro Atlanta over a modest two-story home where the neighborhood was luxurious, something you would see straight out of a Better Homes and Garden magazine. The lawns were trimmed and well-kept, expensive automobiles lined the driveways. Majestic royal blue clouds floated high in the sky like cotton candy, bringing forth the promise of what should have been a glorious day but would end in cold-blooded murder.
A dark blue BMW pulled up to the side of the house with the blare of rap music pulsating so hard from the speakers in the trunk, that you could hear them rattling from the back. The occupant removed a .9mm handgun from the glove compartment, along with a pair of black gloves, and then exited the vehicle after doing a second scan of his surroundings to make sure no one was watching before walking to the front of the home. There was a soft knock on the front door as a wind chime serenaded a gentle breeze.
The moment lingered like heightened heartbeats of anticipation.
Finally, the door opened with a squeak, a gospel song could be heard coming from inside the house. The occupant of the home, seventy-eight-year-old Louise Mitchell, answered the door.
“May I help you?” she asked, then her eyebrows knotted up into a frown.
“Yes, I came to see Dior and my daughter,” Lloyd said as he finger-fucked the trigger of the .9mm snuggled in his pocket, prepared to come up shooting at any minute.
“I…I don’t know ‘bout that. Dior said you and her been havin’ issues.” The old woman began to fidget with her dress hem.
“We ain’t got no issues. Those issues have been resolved,” Lloyd responded and peeked over his shoulder. A postal truck was passing.
“Who is that at the door?” a throaty, deep voice asked. The voice belonged to Ed Mitchell, Dior’s father.
“It’s—”
Before the old woman could get the words out her mouth, Lloyd pulled out the gun and shoved her in the house.
“Who is it?” her husband asked, annoyed.
What was the sense spending nearly eight hundred dollars of our social security savings on a hearing aid and she still couldn’t damn hear? he thought as suddenly his wife stumbled into the living room.
He looked up from the paper, about to ask her if she had started back drinking again, when the man he hated more than anyone in the world came and stood in the living room doorway. His heart thumped in his chest and instantly he was furious to the point that his entire body began to tremble with rage. He reached for his walking cane on the side of the La-Z-Boy chair, prepared to get up and start swinging.
“Boy, is you done lost your fuckin’ mind? Coming up in my home when I can’t stand the sight of your ass!” Ed exhorted, getting up from the chair.
At seventy-nine years old, he was a fragile old man, a mere husk of himself in younger days but you couldn’t tell him that. The thing was, he never liked Lloyd dating his daughter and he had no problem letting Lloyd know. On more than one occasion, he had openly expressed his hatred for Lloyd.
But their hatred was mutual.
The last time Lloyd had tried to come to their home to get Dior was after a bitter argument. The old man tried to spit on Lloyd and strike him with the cane for just knocking at the door. On the strength of his feelings for Dior, Lloyd gave the old man a pass.
This day would be different.
“If you don’t get the fuck outta my house!” the old man said with grit and reached back to whack the shit out of Lloyd with the cane.
It was as if Lloyd had lived for this very moment, savoring it. In a swift motion, Lloyd reached out and struck the old man across his cranium with the .9mm, opening up a deep gash and causing him to crumble onto the floor in a heap as blood spilled from his head.
“EDDIE!!” his wife screamed as she raced over to him and was met with Lloyd’s vicious backhand which sent her sprawling to the floor, dazed and semi-unconscious.
“Where is Dior and my muthafuckin’ daughter at?!” Lloyd growled menacingly as he turned towards the woman, prepared to kick her in the face.
Lying next to her, her husband struggled to get back up but he was disoriented.
“She is not here! I promise. Please, don’t hurt us, pleeeaaaassse!” The old woman began to cry. Mr. Mitchell managed to sit up with the help of the wall he clung to.
“I’ma kill your ass,” he said in slurred words as he wobbled back and forth with blood streaming down his forehead, turning his face a horrific sanguine red.
Lloyd wasted no time. In two quick strides, he was upon the elderly man and struck him with his fists, twice, breaking his nose and opening a deep gash underneath his right eye. The injury caused him to groan in agony. From somewhere in the house, a gospel melody, a Mahalia Jackson song, crooned as the old woman cried pensively for Lloyd to stop his brutality.
“Where the baby at?!” Lloyd yelled as he frantically looked around the handsomely decorated home.
“She is asleep over there in her pen,” the woman pointed with a shaking, gnarly finger.
Lloyd reached down and snatched the old woman up by her long hair, pulling brittle strands and flesh from her delicate head and causing her to shriek in pain. Once she scrambled to her feet, he relaxed his grasp, and chunks of hair, in large tresses, fell to the floor.
“Show me!” Lloyd barked and marched Louise to the other side of the room.
In a pink bassinet was the baby, just as sweet and adorable as she could be. Her short legs and arms flailed as she goo-gooed, smiling to herself as if the angels were playing with her.
She looked just like him. Lloyd’s heart swelled with joy, then suddenly with dread when he thought about the drastic mistake he had almost made, placing the child in the oven, prepared to burn her alive because he’d thought she wasn’t his. He reached his hand inside the bassinet as the child cooed. She grabbed onto his finger and wouldn’t let go.
Unbeknownst to him, Ed had began to scoot to the other side of the room. In a desk drawer near the corner was his military .45 Colt. It was old but it would shoot. Lloyd was so preoccupied, he never detected the old man’s movement.
There was an old stereo playing an album with a nickel on the turntable, causing Mahalia Jackson’s record to replay. The music was terrible but, suddenly, Lloyd had a bright idea. He strolled over to