A Dark Place (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 5)

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  Clearly, the dentist is unaware that I am too busy for her frisky little mouthguard.

  I hate the fucking thing.

  Cruz thinks the problem stems from my need to be in uncomfortable situations, such as getting my ass pounded and my backside smacked around, but the balance of that need manifests in grinding my jaw.

  He thinks it’s all psychological, and his solution is to stick something—his belt, his wallet, his fucking cut—in my mouth while sinking balls deep into me.

  I’ve been silenced.

  “Flip over,” he demands, ripping out of me. The emptiness sends a chill through me. His hair is soaked as he blinks at the spot on the comforter. “Shit…”

  “Ya, I’m going to need my resident shopper to replace this.”

  “The rate we’re going,” he huffs, lubing up his cock and slowly thrusting in. “We’re going to have to replace the whole damn bed.”

  “Have you told Iris?”

  I stretch my arms out above my head. “Have I told Iris what? That you’re gay, and I’m your lover? I think she got the memo.”

  “No, you harlot,” he snickers. “That we’ve been quite active during her honeymoon.”

  “I would assume she knows,” I reply as he lowers to kiss my lips. “If you are politely asking if I am taking care of business with her, then the answer is affirmative. I gotta get all I can before entering into the priesthood.”

  He laughs. “You’re so full of it.”

  “I’m expecting a hooded cape.”

  “Like Little Red Riding Sal?”

  “Sure,” I say, clenching my fingers into his ass cheeks. “But black or dark gray. Not red.”

  “Oh, for sure, not red,” he agrees. “It will clash with all the blood splatter.”

  He steadily pumps away, making thorough love to me. We slide against one another, kissing and grinding. My cock rubs against his washboard, enjoying an intense scrubbing. I love this guy. And I will never love another like him. He is my one.

  With my arms wrapped around his chest, I whisper, “How bad will it be?”

  He slows his pace as his hands rub over my damp hair. “Sanctum’s Nero?”

  “Ya,” I say, slightly on edge. “Is this going to harm us?”

  “It’s not going to be easy,” he replies. “But we’ve killed before.”

  “We,” I repeat. “This is a solo act, more like taking hit jobs.”

  His lips collide into mine as he tries to assuage my fears. “I am one phone call away. One quick flight away. I’m just down the street.”

  “You will be in France,” I point out. “That would be up the street from Italy.”

  “Fair enough, but you get the point.” His denim eyes blink down at me. “This is nothing you cannot do. You are more than qualified for the task.”

  “Ya, my crazed killer resume is a shining gold star.”

  “I’m serious, Sal,” he says, shifting his hips and his tone to a softer, gentler one that I rarely hear. This must be bad if he is coddling me. “We’ve made it through much worse than you doing a stint with Nero.”

  “What was the worst? After Kaci’s death? Getting out of prison?”

  “You letting Dale Archer fuck my hole,” he painfully admits, thrusting in solid. “This is mine. And I will never share you again.”

  “And if accidents happen?”

  “There best not be any accidents,” he warns, pausing. “Or I will take your wife, your child, and your life. Don’t fucking hurt me again. I forgave you once. I won’t forgive you again. You want to go flirt and dance and have some fun, that is one thing. There is only one I would forgive.”

  “I know who…”

  “So do I,” he clearly says. “You do anyone else in good conscience again, jeopardizing this love we have, and we won’t survive.”

  “You sound unforgiving…”

  “I have forgiven the moment you whored yourself out,” he honestly mutters. “And I knew why you did it. Look at what you accomplished with it. But that doesn’t negate the infidelity factor. It hurt. How would you feel if I went out and let some schmuck have at me?”

  I clench my jaw. “You had at Rowan in Japan.”

  “Did that hurt you?”

  “Kind of,” I confide as tears fill my eyes. Real conversations hurt. Best to avoid them. I mumble, “I don’t want you with anyone else but Iris and me.”

  “I’ll end it with Tuls when I get to France.”

  “But I don’t want you to do that if that’s not what you want,” I plead my case, trying to make sense of it all. “If you want to be with a girl—alone or still with me—I have to accept that.”

  “You still don’t get it, do you?” His fingers rub my tears away. “If I had my way, Sal…there would just be you and me. I embrace Iris because she’s Iris. If I need to marry Rowan or any other girl to achieve a goal, I will do that…for you.”

  “Just like I let Dale Archer fuck my ass,” I speak the truth, knowing the words will sting. “To achieve a goal…for you.”

  He licks his lips, thinking about what I said. “You did that to have enough money to start a war with your father. Not for me.”

  “No,” I correct. “I did that to make sure you had everything you ever fucking wanted. I did that to make sure I could right the wrongs that were done to us as children. I did that for you. I didn’t enjoy it. And if you think I did, you’re wrong. I consented, but on an emotional level, it wasn’t much different than being raped. I was violated, used.”

  “You didn’t have to do that for me,” he tenderly whispers. “We would have been fine.”

  “I would do it again if it meant uprighting things,” I admit as my crazy takes hold, and he cries massive tears.

  “Fuck…Lucas…”

  “I love you that much.” I lift my head to kiss his lips. “What if someone takes it?”

  He sniffles and pops his jaw, agonizing through the shit pile we accidentally ended up in. This is the bad and good part of our relationship. The intensity of our passion fosters intimacy and the bond. I can’t get pillaged by his pirate without opening up my heart, and he plays my strings like a skilled harpist.

  “You are not the same kid you were in the alley, Raniero.”

  I don’t want to think about it, but there are facts I cannot erase or change. I may be a stocky little shit, but there are much bigger guys than me. Muscles will only go so far before street cred comes into play.

  In many ways, Cruz is a lot tougher than me. He’s damn sure meaner, even though I’m more muscular than he is. He has got me beat by miles, and a considerable part of that is upbringing, being raised as an MC club kid, knowing he preferred boys, and fighting to make people fear him.

  They naturally feared me.

  I grew up with the Raniero name. I was the mafia kid no one wanted to fuck with. My place within The Suits was heavily guarded, an established absolute, which made everything in my life much easier than his. He needed help to the top of the hill that I already stood upon.

  “I know, but…what if…”

  “I will kill them with my bare fucking hands and love you hard until we are back on track,” he insists, unwavering. “I will protect you the same way I do, Iris. The rules of engagement are no different. People behave around the Raniero’s, or they will regret meeting your dirty biker boyfriend.”

  “You’re so fucking sexy when you’re bad…”

  He suggestively smiles, playful, and flirtatious. “Hey, Sal…”

  “Hey, what?”

  “Don’t ever forget that I love—you—more than words.”

  8

  Give My Regards to the Old Bastard

  The Master

  “Are you going to be okay, hot stuff?” Georgia says as we wait for our ride. I lean against a cement square pillar and stare at the tranquil views. Propping my foot against the post, I light a smoke, watching Deacon and Iris scoping out the place we’ve never been—Stockholm. “You sound beyond stressed.”

  “M
eh,” I mumble, inhaling. “It’s not like I planned on landing in Sweden. Maddy is on the way from Berlin. They’re stopping to pick us up.”

  “You should have been on a private jet, to begin with.”

  I already know, but the trip to Norway wasn’t on the itinerary. It all started because I’ve been having nightmares. They show up when I’m sober like little demons chasing me. They typically ebb and flow, but since the shootout at The Dollhouse, they won’t leave me alone.

  Our first night in Mass’ villa, I had a terrible one. I woke up drenched in sweat. I went to the kitchen only to find Cruz, smoking out on the terrace.

  “God, you look like shit,” he said.

  I plopped down in the chair beside him. “I am going to fuck this up, and she’s going to end up dead.”

  His hand clasped mine. “Another terror?”

  “Ya,” I acknowledged, stealing a cigarette from his pack. “I need to do something without you feeling insulted.”

  “Salvatore, this is me.”

  And thus began a strategic plan to hire those I trusted most—Lars and Hilda Hanson, David “Marshall” Hope, and Yumi “Tai” Kim. We would contract them to watch over Iris during my Nero tenure.

  I brought on Madeline Grace to keep an eagle eye on everything. After all, my beloved wife was running Etienne and planning on battling Allegiance for the major European hubs, which wasn’t a bad idea if I am honest.

  What was a bad idea?

  My pregnant wife running it.

  Don’t even get started with the I-can’t-accept-a-woman-in-a-position-of-power argument. This is not that. I am fine with my wife running Lotus to max capacity and superseding anything I could ever do. I welcome her majesty. But for fuck’s sake, that is my pregnant wife.

  One more time for the people in back.

  After all this time, I, Lucas Salvatore Raniero, married Iris Amarie Nakamura on June 22 outside of New Orleans. And if that wasn’t enough, I planted my seeds in her beautiful, lush garden and sprouted a baby Raniero-Nakamura.

  I am a husband.

  I am going to be a father—an expectant Daddy—in the traditional meaning. I do not want my wife waging war against the Bratva. Not right now. Maybe after the baby is done nursing…but by that point, I may have her knocked up with Raniero baby round two…

  Okay, my view is a bit antiquated.

  But it’s mah babeeee!

  “You need anything else, Sugar Pops?”

  “Do not call me Pops.”

  Georgia laughs. “I will be out of the office for the next two weeks.”

  “I remember. Enjoy your vacation with Huck the Fuck…”

  “Salvatore Raniero,” she scolds. “His name is Buck Brinks, and he is a nice man.”

  “A nice man with a place in Hawaii,” I tease, grinning. “Is Brody going with you?”

  “Why would his older brother be joining us on our sex-cation?”

  I snort. “Never know with you math whizzes.”

  “Fuck you, homeboy.”

  I burst out laughing. “How serious is this thing with Buck the Fuck full of spunk?”

  I can hear her heavy breathing as I imagine the steam fuming from her ears. It’s all in jest as our playful reverie lightens the load. We’ve been together so long, and I cannot imagine having any other assistant.

  “We’re serious enough that I met his parents in Houston.”

  “Shit,” I mutter, shocked. Brody has always been a player, and while I know of Buck, I have never had a reason to meet the guy. “What does he do?”

  “Investment banking,” she says. “And you would know that if you ever checked your email. I sent you his profile when I met him.”

  “Good girl.” At least, she is running background checks. “Is he the only one you’re dating?”

  “While you’re off galavanting the world and getting more beautiful by the year, I am getting older and need to find someone serious enough to settle down with.”

  Holy crap.

  I’ve missed so much…

  “G?”

  “Yes, S?”

  “… Don’t get hitched until I get back?”

  “I wouldn’t think of it, Sal. I need your fine ass to walk me down the aisle.”

  “Thank you, doll,” I say, smiling as I watch my wife and lover holding hands. They’re happy and giggling and close. “Have a great vacation!”

  “You want anything from the Aloha State?”

  “Some nuts.”

  “You got it,” she chirps. “Keep that sex kitten satisfied!”

  “I plan on keeping Cruz plenty busy, thanks.”

  She laughs. “I love you, sex machine.”

  “Have a good time, doll. I love you, sweet thang. Bai!”

  I pocket my phone as I catch Cruz gazing longingly—at me. The sex kitten is more of a panther on the prowl with penetrating blue eyes and resilience like no other. Leaving him behind will hurt as much as leaving her and my baby.

  And maybe it shouldn’t.

  But some things are meant to last.

  Salvatore Raniero-Cruz and Deacon Cruz-Raniero—we’re going to make it. As for the beautiful angel smiling in my direction, we’ll make it too.

  … If she can sit down, shut up, and listen.

  Old-fashioned, Nah. Misogynistic, Nah.

  Just cocky as fuck and right.

  We leave Stockholm with as much fanfare as we arrived.

  None.

  Everything was comfortable and calm.

  Of course, this can only mean one thing—a bomb of mass destruction was about to detonate somewhere. I’ve done this enough to sense the quiet before the blast. I hate the anticipation, waiting with bated breath, for something disastrously bad to occur.

  Iris’ act of war on Cinco caused a magnificent rift. Her orders—“Level the Cinco compound. I want their table red. Make it fucking rain blood.”—to Georgia were sent to both Kill Rat and Morpheus.

  Irish. Black.

  It would’ve been fine, except Stroker Mullins is a piece of work. And by that, I mean, he is a fucking dick. Not like me, either.

  His father, Gregory Mullins, was a former IRA before assuming his position at Juliet. We haven’t been able to find any proof that he was infiltrating our little established mafia residence. However, I’d bet some serious coin he was. And I’d bet my life that my Dom Daddy had everything to do with his unfortunate heart attack.

  Whoops.

  I’ve quickly learned that if I don’t know who is to blame, it is most likely Dominic Gennaro’s fault. He’ll never have blood on his hands.

  No, they’re far too pristine for that.

  It must be those weekly manis.

  Suffice it to say, just because he sold the family business of Angelo Gennaro off to Marcello Campanelli, it doesn’t mean Dom isn’t playing a wicked back alley game.

  He is responsible.

  For far more than anyone believes.

  Essentially, my double-D’s—Deacon and Dom—serve the same role, keeping my hands clean. But they can only provide for so long.

  The problem is inherently based on my legacy.

  If I had never left home when I graduated, I would have taken on a lesser role for Cesario until I earned enough cookies in the jar to get a suit.

  Ahh, yes, The Suits.

  I should’ve been walking alongside the Raniero gang in a three-piece, but instead, I chose a different path where ripped jeans and white t-shirts became my calling card.

  Cesario sending my ass away was perhaps his biggest mistake ever.

  Because someone took an opportunity.

  Opportunity is such a cool word. The act of using resources to one’s advantage, attaining goals through situations, and staying in a good position for success. Unlike possibility, which I cannot fucking stand. I was never one for the statistical outcomes; I want advancement.

  I want favor.

  Fuck math.

  Vinny Veramonte was my biological father and Cesario’s right-hand man. He
was a known hitman for the Raniero outfit, and I was destined to find and follow those footsteps. It was a fucking given. I am the product of a hitman and a whore, and those two things are never going to change.

  I discovered it because Kaci Hope left a trail, using the opportunity to her advantage. I picked up the pieces and built the fucking puzzle. There are still missing pieces, but I am investigating my life like a damn crime scene…because I want to propel…launch…skyrocket.

  Goals—remember.

  My mother, Stella Raniero, is another piece of work. She’s been fucking Carlo Torrente’s right-hander, the young Durante Costa, who just so happens to be the grandson of Juarez “Muerte” Herrera, leader of Immortal. And (because who am I kidding? That is not enough for a whore.) she is screwing Vinny to keep him in the dark.

  In a nutshell, by default, she invites Torrente and Muerte to dip into her honeypot, all with the hope of ascertaining a credit card with no spending limit. That’s what it boils down to.

  Now, I don’t care much for Stella with her spreading thighs and spreading herself too thin maneuvers. Sure, I have leftover, what I believe are “sibling” feelings for her, but if she dies...shrugs.

  Her funeral is just another reason to eat cake.

  However, I care quite a bit about Vinny cause he was “Uncle Vinny,” and he always threw the biggest parties with the finest women and handed over the best drugs.

  Here is a new principle: Everything we do is based on memory—programming.

  We get up out of bed and eat breakfast. Two codes right there. If we’re getting up, we’ll assume an alarm was used. And we can blame our mothers and theirs for cereal consumption before the next five thousand programmed memories input into our daily existences.

  I stopped eating breakfast years ago.

  Break the code.

  Eat when hungry or eat every three hours or fucking fast for twenty-four hours, but do not eat breakfast right after waking.

  Reprogram the brain.

  I remember Stella chasing me through the house with a hammer. Thankfully, Cat stopped her, but the emotional scars exist, little notches hiccuping the transmission.