Page 1 of The Millionaire Mortician
You’re still alive, still that nigga. Nigga, you survived, still gettin’ bigger,” I rapped long to Jay Z’s “Holy Grail” song.
Sucking the fluid out of the abdomen of a deceased woman, I suddenly felt a movement behind me. The music was loud while the bass shook the room, but my senses were always on point.
In one swift motion, I dropped the trocar, slipped my hand under my apron, and grabbed my gun. I turned around as my barrel almost touched the forehead of the person who looked exactly like me — my twin brother, Maverick Marcano.
“The next time you point this muthafucker at me, you better pull the trigger, nigga,” he spat, before slapping my hand down.
“Ain’t nobody told yo’ stupid ass to come in here unannounced. You, of all people, know better,” I gritted. “Alexa, turn off the music.” I turned my back on him.
Resting my Glock on the counter near me, I returned to what I was doing as if he and two of our soldiers weren’t in the room.
“What do you want, Mav?” I questioned as I pushed the cavity fluid into the woman’s torso to treat the organs.
He walked around to the other side of the table so we were facing each other. “I got two bodies that need to go,” he simply stated.
Looking up at him while still working, I raised a brow. “Where did the bodies come from, Maverick?”
He sighed out loud, like I was the one bothering him. “We found out who was skimming. Long story short, the situation was handled.”
I didn’t say a word or look his way. The part of embalming I was conducting was vital, so I didn’t want to overly inject fluid into the body. Had that happened, the woman would’ve swollen up and looked unrecognizable. I had one shot to get the shit right. There was no room for fuck ups.
A few moments later, I pulled out the trocar, plugged the incision with the trocar button, and began sewing the other incisions. Mav still stood there, looking on.
“I’ll be out in a minute,” I calmly told him. “Alexa, turn the music back on.”
“I just know her pussy was A1. Look at her titties,” Mav blurted out over the music as he walked out. I just shook my head because that nigga had no filter whatsoever.
Jay Z’s lyrics started to blast through the speakers as I continued my work. I moved on my timing and no one else’s, especially not Maverick’s.
Once I finished the embalming stage, I covered her, removed my protective gear, and made my way out of the room. I stillhad a few other things to finish on the woman, but I also knew that burning those two bodies Maverick bought was going to take some time — anywhere from ninety minutes to three hours. I thought about getting a head start on things, so I stopped working on her to get the bodies inside the crematorium.
When I made it out to the garage of my funeral home, I saw Mav and the guys just chilling outside two SUVs. As I approached them, they stopped what they were talking about and turned their attention to me.
Everyone was dressed in black and had masks pulled over their heads.These muthafuckers had a plan, I thought.
“You cut the cameras?” I asked Maverick.
He nodded. “Yeah, son. Of course I did.”
Although I owned my own funeral home, it was just a precautionary measure. If the law had wanted to see any footage, there wouldn’t have been any for them to view.
“Come on. Bring ‘em in,” I instructed as I turned to head back inside.
We entered the private crematorium that I had on the same floor as the morgue and embalming room. The guys placed the two bodies on the metal rolling tables and rolled them in. Luckily, I had two cremators in that room and didn’t have to wait to burn them one by one.
I instructed them on how to place them inside the cremator, closed and secured it, then pressed the button to start it up.
When our two soldiers left the room, I stopped Mav. “You sure you got the right niggas?” I eyed him.
“Facts. I’m sure, bro,” he assured me.
Maverick and I were in the streets, heavy. We’d dealt with all kinds of drugs since we were teenagers. When we started, it came naturally to us, then before we knew it, we were running parts of Brooklyn at a young age. Some shit was just for certain people, and it was clear for us.
Fast forward to age thirty-seven, and besides pushing weight, I was a mortician and funeral home owner. Maverick owned a luxury car dealership selling top-of-the-line foreign whips. It was the perfect cover-up for all the money we made and the lifestyle we lived.
“You need me to rock back?” he questioned.
I looked at the time on the wall, which read9:42 p.m.“Nah, I got to finish up shorty, anyway. Go ahead,” I told him.
