Angel's Revenge Read Online Free

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.

CHAPTER FOUR
    O ne-eyed Roc stood in his prison cell at his sink, brushing his full beard in the mirror. It glistened with the Muslim hair
     oil he used on it almost as brightly as his freshly shaven head. Roc stepped back and admired himself. His gentle expression
     reflected a magnetic edge. They say prison preserves your youth, and at thirty-three, Roc still looked like he was in his
     mid-twenties. The only difference was his slightly protruding belly and the extra bulk prison food had put on him.
    He was six foot three and a solid 235 pounds. His celly nicknamed him Suge Knight because of his resemblance to the music
     mogul, along with his deep booming voice that commanded attention whenever he spoke. Roc was, however, far from a Suge Knight.
     Islam and his sincere adherence to its beliefs had mellowed him, perhaps not all the way, but enough for him to be recognized
     by the prison administrators and his fellow convicts, who were well aware of his past street reputation. In fact, no one called
     him Roc anymore. They called him by his Islamic name, Rahman, which meant merciful in Arabic.
    Rahman felt in his heart that he was no longer the murdering gangsta that he was when he had first arrived to prison. He now
     possessed a sincere passion for Islam and for the plight of the inner city that he had spent so much of his life terrorizing
     and dehumanizing.
    When Rahman had gone to prison, he had saved a hefty stash, a little over five million dollars. But in the three years he
     had been locked up, he had given away over a million dollars to needy families, single-parent homes, battered women, and orphaned
     children.
    His wife, Ayesha, who was faithfully sticking by her husband, managed the money, doling out cash as Rahman instructed. Things
     had been rough for Rahman and Ayesha with Rahman away and Ayesha raising their three children alone.
    Despite the distance and the apparent hopelessness of his life sentence, she would often tell him, “You’re with me even when
     you’re away. Allah will bring you home to me.”
    And it seemed that Allah would do just that.
    “
As-Salaamu Alaikum
, Ock.”
    Rahman turned around to find Akbar standing in the doorway of his cell.
    “
Alaikum As-Salaam
,” Rahman replied, returning the greeting. “I ain’t even hear you standing there.”
    “Then you slippin’,” Akbar chuckled. “You hear a ninja walkin’,” he joked.
    Akbar was Rahman’s mentor. They had similar backgrounds. Akbar was older than Rahman and also from Newark. Both had been heavily
     into the game, but now both were dedicated to Islam.
    Akbar walked into Rahman’s cell and held out a magazine.
    “What’s that?” Rahman asked, looking at the rolled-up magazine.
    Akbar showed him the cover. It was a copy of the new
Don Diva
magazine with a picture of Dutch, Craze, Angel, Zoom, and Rahman himself on the cover. It was a photograph Rahman recognized,
     but he turned away from its nostalgia.
    “Come on, Ock. You know I don’t keep up wit’ that anymore,” he told his friend and grabbed his prayer rug and kufi.
    “Naw, nephew, I think you’ll want to see this one,” Akbar said as if it was absolutely necessary Rahman read the article.
    “Page fifty-six,