Page 10 of Mafia Kings & Wedding Rings

Breccan ‘Brick’ Marek

“ P ussy, you think I give a fuck about you and yo’ little weak ass crew? You know who the fuck I am?”

The viral video of me whupping some niggas in the club was everywhere I clicked now.

That shit had made it to every podcast discussion and Shaderoom-type platform for the past few weeks.

It was the third altercation overall that I’d had this year that resulted in my spending a night in the drunk tank.

Seated on the couch inside my bedroom, with one leg propped up on the table, I pulled from the blunt I brought to my lips and shook my head while studying my phone screen.

“We have to nip this shit in the bud, Brick,” my producer and publicist, Armon, sighed.

He sat across from me on a big recliner with his MacBook open on the center table.

The bedroom at my parents’ house was like my own little apartment.

I didn’t have to leave the room most days if I didn’t want to.

Our cook would send food up, and I had a bar and mini fridge and my own private bathroom with a walk-in closet.

“What I’m supposed to do, Mon? Muhfuckas want to keep coming for me. Am I supposed to sit back and be some bitch ass nigga and let them pop off about me and my people? I wasn’t raised like that.” Shaking my head, I tapped out of the clip and tossed the phone on the table.

Shit was growing more frustrating on top of the reading of my pops’ will.

“You have to figure out a way to clean this up. Right now, it’s looking like you’re reckless and arrogant, using the Marek name to wield fear and power over everyone else. It makes you look heartless and mean. Like a bully.”

“Muhfuckas don’t know me. They only know the image I put out there for them to see. That’s only part of it.”

“You’re right. I know that, and so do you. The world doesn’t, and that’s how you’re getting paid. You have to show them there is more to Brick Marek than what they see. Now, the bottom line is you are a Marek, and that does mean something. You have a legacy to preserve.”

Sucking my teeth, I hopped up and took another drag of my blunt.

“Now you sound like my pops and this shit he left in his will.”

“What you mean?” Armon asked, leaning back in his chair.

“According to him, if I want to get my hands on my inheritance, I have to be married in the next twelve months and produce an heir twelve months from then.”

Speechless at first, Armon stroked his beard, and I could practically see the wheels moving in his busy brain.

I’d known this nigga since high school. He was ahead of his time with technology back then, and now he was a genius with the shit.

He was a one-man show to me, able to do all kinds of shit, even though he had put a few people on in the background so that he had more time to be available to me.

He was good at delegating, negotiating, and making shit happen, so I trusted him with my career.

In all these years, he’d never led me wrong, even when I didn’t agree with all of his ideas.

“Okay, I can work with that.” Armon stroked his beard before moving his face closer to the screen of his laptop and clicking away.

“How?”

“We can do like a blind date type of situation. Like reality shows used to be, but we take it to the next level. You can do lives and add different women and interview them, then take them on dates if you feel like you’re compatible.

We can make a whole promo roll for it too and get a video shot for you before it takes place.

I think you need to start looking, the sooner the better though.

We want it to be organic, not no fake shit. ”

“But it is fake shit, Mon. This the definition of that, bro.”

“We know that, but the rest of the world don’t. Whoever you pick will sign an NDA and receive a monthly stipend for pretending to be your girl. How much you willing to pay to clean up your image?”

That was a loaded fucking question. All this shit was crazy and had my head spinning, or it could have been the good ass kush I was blowing.

“I don’t know. Like twenty racks.”

“A month?” Armon’s jaw nearly hit his chest.

“Yeah. I mean, whoever I choose gotta be as fly as me for one. So the maintenance on a baddie for that is about that much.” I shrugged casually. “And at some point, she has to agree to marry me. That’s what all this has to lead to.”

“I forgot you wipe ya ass with that in endorsements for skincare products alone,” Armon joked, shaking his head and focusing on his computer.

“I hit Jason with the notice, so he’s going to have an official contract drawn up.

We need a timeline though. So say you’re looking for Miss Right for the next month.

Thirty days to find your future wife sound about right? ”

“Yeah, that gives me enough time to figure out if this chick is crazy or not, and I can drop her ass for somebody else,” I said from behind him, watching him click away on his keyboard.

“You need to come up with a list too. Likes and dislikes so we can weed these bitches out,” Armon advised.

“You know what, this shit just might work. When we shooting the promo video?”

“I’ll get with Bodhi and see what his schedule is like and let you know.”

“Bet. I gotta go shower and get ready for this damn meeting at Marek Headquarters. I don’t know why I need to be there when I ain’t the one running shit, but I gotta show face.” I stood tall behind him, thinking about my pops and brothers.

Shit was crazy that he was the reason Staten stayed away so long, and now that he was gone, Staten was close enough to touch. I hated that they were beefing but wouldn’t dare put myself in the middle of it.

“No problem. I need to go grab this merch anyway from our custom chick.”

“You just trying to see if she finally gon’ let you smash.” I nudged him playfully, and he gathered all his work and shoved it in the black leather Prada bag he regularly toted around.

“As much as we spent on t-shirts, hats, and fucking tote bags, the bitch better have her panties off when I get there.” Armon slung his bag over his shoulder, and I threw my head back in a fit of laughter.

“Aight, bro. Just get at me when you got all the details worked out.”

“Will do.” He dapped me up and trotted to my bedroom door to let himself out.

When I finished smoking, I took a ten-minute shower. While in the mirror brushing my teeth, my phone rang. It was Ivo facetiming me. Annoyance sent my eyes rolling back before I picked up and propped the phone against the toothbrush holder on the counter.

“Brick, the fuck you doing? The meeting is in forty-five minutes.”

“I know what time that shit start.” I spit toothpaste into the sink and reached for the Listerine. “I’ll be on time. I had to discuss some shit with Armon, but he came up with an idea on this whole finding me a wife shit.”

Ivo pinched the bridge of his nose, and I could tell he was sitting in his car having a smoke session.

“Do I want to know what he came up with?”

“Shit’s brilliant. I’ll tell you when I see you though. I’m getting dressed and about to head out now. You think Stat really gon’ show?”

“He better. I can run this shit, it just looks better with him here too,” Ivo noted.

“No doubt. United front and all that shit. Plus, with him and the kids in Chicago, anything can fucking happen. Having them close is better. I think he just needs some time.”

“And a damn phone. The nigga walking around with that 1999 flip phone and shit. I got him an iPhone and just added him to the family plan.”

“Do me a favor, don’t give him that shit until I get there. I want to see him cuss yo’ ass out.” I chuckled, and Ivo shook his head.

We ended our chat, and I flossed and did my facial routine.

The skincare products came from a company called Glo Works that I fucked with and represented on my page for a bag.

The shit was legit, and when something worked, I didn’t have a problem promoting it on my platform.

When I finished, I stepped into my room ready to get dressed.

Since we were meeting at the office, I decided to step my business casual up today.

Usually I was a jeans, t-shirt, and fly ass sneakers kind of nigga.

Today called for some more grown man shit.

If I was going to be taken seriously and find a wife, I had to also look the part.

The media was going to eat all this shit up.

I slipped into the charcoal-gray suit with a royal blue shirt and matching Ferragamo loafers.

After sizing myself up in the mirror, I approved the look.

Grabbing my cell, wallet, and keys to my Mercedes coupe, I started downstairs.

Our housekeeper, Marcie, was busy dusting the many expensive statues on the accent tables arranged in the hall and foyer.

I heard her humming a tune, not even realizing I was there at first.

“Good morning, Mr. Brick! You look nice and professional.”

“Bet, that’s the look I was going for,” I told her with a smile.

She was a heavy-set woman, with the warmest cinnamon-tinted eyes that crinkled up when she smiled.

I deduced she was probably in her late 30s or early 40s, but Marcie had been around for the last five years cleaning and taking care of the house for us.

My mama adored her so much that she let her live in the gatehouse on our property.

On Sundays when we had family dinners, she was always welcome and usually brought some bomb ass dessert she made.

I checked the time on my watch and saw that it was almost six thirty a.m. I knew I was cutting it close, so I went against grabbing some coffee and breakfast from the kitchen and marched right to the front door.

“Have a good day!” Marcie called after me.

“Thanks, Marcie!” The sun was barely cutting through the sky when I hopped into my car and started her up.