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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  Those glitches—human falterings—manifest in all of the senses. The smell of peach cobbler sends me back to Nonna’s house. The touch of Dom’s smooth hands put me back under his watchful eye. And the taste of Iris’ lips flings me back to our first whiskey-drenched kiss on a hotel floor.

  And I remember sitting and watching sunsets with Vinny and Old Poppa.

  My loyalty remains with Raniero-Veramonte because I honor my ancestors—Luca Raniero and Pietro Veramonte. Both were heavily involved with The Commission, Sanctum, and Nero. My dad, Vinny, would have been if he could’ve kept his dick in his pants, but then I wouldn’t be here harassing you. Grins.

  Stella’s lateral gameplay is significant, with zero interest in saving the Raniero crime syndicate. She is willing to move anywhere other than forward in her current venture, but will happily assist Torrente and Herrera in their movement.

  In my book, despite all the issues with Cesario and Stella being groomed to take the helm, she is expendable.

  “Raniero,” I answer the phone as I scan through my email on the plane. I’m searching for damn Buck Brinks profile in several thousand emails from Georgia.

  “I need to talk to you,” Jason Torrente mutters on the other end. “Privately.”

  “I’m on a bird,” I mention, pulling off my glasses and shutting my laptop. Buck will have to wait. Iris squeezes my hand as I slip to the back of the Sibyl jet. “What’s up, Tor?”

  “Dad is…” His voice hitches, devastated and broken. “He’s not doing well, Sal.”

  “Go,” I instruct, not even caring that this will leave me without Georgia or Jas guarding my command at home. “Get on a plane, Jason.”

  “He’s going to die.” I hear the pain, a gut-wrenching agony of hopelessness, feeling helpless, and full of despair. I know it all too well.

  “Fuck,” I mumble, keeping my composure temporarily. “I’m sorry to hear this.” Lucas, his good friend, genuinely means that. Sal Raniero, well, he’s already foreseeing the movements of the players when a God passes.

  Regardless of anything else, the offspring will never run the show the way the elder wanted. It’s simply not possible because extenuating circumstances and other variables get involved. “How long?”

  “A few weeks at most.”

  Shit.

  A lump forms in my throat. Not because I like Carlo Torrente, but because my family members will not live forever either. I met Jas Torrente a decade ago on the streets of New Orleans when I was beyond messed up, living on a fifth a night and not much else. I puked in his hotel room for two days straight. That bastard, who should be my biggest competitor, stayed with me. Regardless of our last names, the love and respect between Jas and I are real.

  “I will call you when I get there.”

  “Be careful.”

  I know Cruz is standing in the aisle, waiting for my crash when the phone drops out of my hands. He won’t be here to catch my ass much longer. We’ll be separated for the first time since prison. I squat low on the floor, and he follows suit.

  His blue eyes hold every moment from the first swing of fists to our last passionate kiss.

  Cruz brings me back.

  Programming—remember.

  “Carlo is dying.”

  “Shit…” His hand grips my forearm as Iris walks toward us. “What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t fucking know. Jaid is in Colorado. Dom is…”

  “Where is Dom?” she asks. We don’t respond. “… Salvatore?”

  Deacon glances up at her very pregnant belly. “Dom is here to make sure Sal doesn’t get in trouble.”

  “Call Mock and Naby. Pull them from Nebraska, leave Kevyn to watch over Je Suis and The Mean,” she quickly remedies. “Then call Ronnie and Jamichael to run extra cars around Juliet. Send the bill to Lotus. You have resources, Sal. Might I suggest using them?”

  She turns away as I’m caught in her tsunami. That is the difference between being a Nakamura and being a Raniero. If she misses notes during her performance, no one notices because her business acumen is cold like the sea. Not to mention, she is stunning in any capacity— jeans, pencil skirt, or royal kimono.

  But if I miss notes, one of my D’s—or sometimes both—has to scrape me off the floor because I’ll burn down the forest to save one sapling.

  Everything is not comfortable and calm.

  Morpheus and Kill Rat are at odds, Torrente and Muerte are warring over possession of Durante Costa, and my mother is waiting to feast on a cock with a bottomless wallet.

  And I’ll toss her a bone with poison marrow.

  This is my life.

  Welcome home, Dear.

  9

  Table for Eleven. Tea for One.

  His Ride

  There are moments when experiencing life alongside Sal Raniero elevates to a monumental standing. These times I will never forget. They will stay in my memory bank until the day I die. Such as now, sitting at Hilda’s kitchen table where half of the guests have fucked my Italian boy.

  Lars and Hilda Hanson are at the opposite end from Iris, Sal, and I. To our left, Madeline Grace, who shares the same father—Delarte Cristos—with Pris “Jaid” Grace, the lovely goth Asian chick, Yumi “Tai” Kim, who was Sal’s first, and David “Marshall” Hope. To our right, we have the surprise of the weekend—Lars and Hilda’s, green and purple-haired daughter, Astrid, her darling daughter, Sabrina (she is blonde), and her beautiful bride, Bertrand “Bertie” Miles Jameson.

  Oh. Yeah. Good. Fucking. Times.

  I am sitting pretty with one hand on Sal’s knee, and all the while having an engaging conversation with Ms. Kim concerning my beloved’s knowledge of explosives.

  Who would have thunk it?

  Iris seems about as uncomfortable as I am.

  The fixins’ for sandwiches scatter the table, amongst the coffee cups, and ashtrays. I do not doubt that every person, except Sabrina, carries a weapon of some kind.

  Who has he slept with?

  I’m having so much fun; it’s like playing the gopher game at the arcade. Only it’s which hole Sal stuck his schlong in.

  Tai, Maddy, Bertie, Iris, and me.

  I could be wrong with Lars, Hilda, Astrid, and Marshall, but I don’t think so.

  We’re strategizing, eating, and smoking—all at one time. There is a lot of chattering, reminiscing, and shit I really don’t care about going on.

  “Sabrina,” Hilda, in her heavy Norwegian accent, says, “Come and help me gather the Tilslørte bondepiker.”

  I lean forward to look at Iris, who has hardly eaten anything. She blinks with concern back to me as Sal lights a smoke between the two of us. “She was not asking if you want a blonde biker…”

  “Thank God!”

  “I can’t take you anywhere,” he teasingly scolds. Iris giggles. “You’re an uncivilized hound.”

  “When are you due, Iris?” Astrid questions.

  “Christmastime,” she meekly responds, playing the perfect arm candy to the gun-toting, black-ops lunatic that I enjoy boning until he uncontrollably sobs.

  It’s interesting because this table isn’t much different from the Reckless Rebellion table. Their brainstorming ideas to keep Sal’s Lotus safe—replace biker leather with Kevlar and Velcro strapping, swap stolen guns with military-grade ballistics, and switch whiskey shots with java strong enough to grow hair on your dick—and we’re the same/same.

  Curiously, I am remarkably warmed by all of it because I’m getting to see a side of Sal I have never witnessed. I’ve seen his swift ninja moves, but I never understood exactly where they came from until now.

  He may have been born with a golden mafia spoon in his mouth, but these people—at this table—they raised him. Tai is bubbly and energetic, filled with enough snark to spark up a conversation with anyone. And Bertie is fucking gorgeous. I mean, if I didn’t know…I might even tap that.

  But there is something strange about a gay biker wanting to go to p-town with a fully transitioned
female. It’s just beyond my level of comprehension. I definitely would if she still had the goods downstairs.

  But I love dick; I won’t lie.

  That all said, I can totally understand why my loverboy was so into him…her…yeah. His infatuation with all things “Cherry girl” makes sense, even if I can’t get the lingo right just yet.

  I’m working on it; I’m an old soul biker with a free-spirited stance, but that doesn’t mean I get everything. I accept it. I embrace it. I may not fully understand, but it’s hard to have never been in their shoes or experienced their life with them. And they don’t know what it’s like to be me.

  Respect—that’ll get me far.

  She’s fucking hot as sin when she stands up. “Lucy, can we talk?”

  Iris gives a harsh scowl, and I reach across Sal’s lap—thank God, he’s not hard, or I would be concerned—and grab her hand. My eyes plead for her to calm down.

  “Sure,” he says, kissing Iris on the cheek and scooting his chair back. He walks off with Bertie as I tap his seat, and Iris slides over next to me.

  “How is married life treating you, Iris?” Madeline asks with a note of disdain. “Is it everything you dreamed?”

  Iris politely wipes her mouth and sits up a little straighter. “Tell me, Maddy, when I kill your father, do you plan on taking over Cristos’ business with the Bratva?”

  Whoa. Whoa. Whoa.

  Slow down, girlie.

  But that’s the thing about Iris, she hides under cover of her mob boss boyfri—husband (still getting used to that one) until she finds an appropriate time to show her claws.

  And damn, the talons are sharp.

  “I want nothing to do with Cristos. Ask my brother. Ask my sister.” Madeline leans back and crosses her legs. “But do not confront me again, Ms. Nakamura.”

  Sipping her tea, Iris does not bother to correct her, because in this case, Madeline is spot on. “Can I secure your silence?”

  “There is no need,” she says. “I won’t be the one to fuck you over.”

  Propping her elbows on the table, Iris captures the essence of a fighter, and I am expecting her to go in on an arm-wrestling match any moment now. “Who will?”

  “Jaid,” Tai volunteers. “You need to watch her—she’ll strike when you least expect it.”

  I see the conflicted expression on Iris. She isn’t happy with the answer. “You seem to think she is a snake, Yumi?”

  Iris doesn’t bother with her nickname. The intentional move is to destabilize and gain ground, but Yumi “Tai” Kim doesn’t waver. “You may have been blessed with English skin and eyes, but you are just as yellow as me.”

  My eyes dart between the two women as they threaten to get into some sort of racial sparring match.

  “You were his first; I will be his last.”

  “And you are my new job,” Tai says, lunging her hand across the table to Iris’ fingers. “To keep your royal ass breathing.”

  “You don’t like me?” Iris questions. “You don’t even know me.”

  “I want you to trust me more than you did your last team.” Ouch. Yumi doesn’t stop there. “You murdered Kali Ose and Ho Hardone in cold blood.”

  With an uncaring, calculated blink, Iris shrugs. “I’m so sorry about that.”

  She’s really not.

  “Do you plan on killing me?”

  “It depends on if you plan on selling my secrets to the top bidder.”

  “You are the High Queen.” Tai quickly stands, forcing my soldier to the frontline. I put my hand on the gun at my side. She senses my unease. “I will not harm her,” she reassures me. My jaw is locked tight as she moves behind Iris and me. We swivel in our chairs to look at her. “It is with great honor to serve you, Lotus.”

  And the bitch kneels.

  I mean, bootlicking, down on the motherfucking ground, kneels.

  Iris tucks her fingers beneath Tai’s chin and lifts her face. “I won’t kill you,” she vows, turning back to the table and staring at Madeline. “But I have every intention of killing Delarte Cristos for the things he did to me as a young girl. He was the primary source of funding behind the CAE and Atticus Huit’s grand experiment on Entropy,” she recounts with a clarity I haven’t seen during her pregnancy. “And he will die by my hands.”

  Blowing smoke rings in the air, Madeline smirks with a sexy gloat. “You want some help with that, water girl?”

  The Master

  “Do you know how happy you look?” Bertie asks as we stand out on the front porch of the cabin. I say cabin, but the place is vast like a resort lodge with multiple structures set back in the woods.

  “You don’t look bad yourself,” I compliment as we lock fingers. “Marriage looks good on you.”

  “I could say the same.”

  “You didn’t call me out here to talk about wedded bliss...” I grin as her smile fades.

  “This came across my desk a few days ago,” she mutters, handing the folded up paper to me. I feel like we’re passing notes in elementary school. “I haven’t told anyone outside of Madeline. We have some serious concerns, Sal.”

  I unfold the page and scan the numbers. “What the hell is this?”

  “It’s a financial deposit.”

  “I know that,” I snap. “But how did you come across it?”

  “We have an agent on the inside.”

  “… In Russia?”

  “Yes,” she says. “We’ve been monitoring the Bratva’s movements for years. Russian Organized Crime (ROC) investors are typically from SoAm or conducted through untraceable virtual transactions.” She points at the name I know all too well. “This one stuck out like a sore thumb. And I thought you would want to know.”

  “Fuck…” I wad up the paper and stick it into the pocket of my hoodie. “This one hurts.”

  “I would expect no less,” she consoles. “And that is why I wanted you to hear it from me.”

  “Do you know the Pakhan?”

  She sighs, studying the view. “Over the years, we knew several of their foot soldiers, managed to infiltrate, and even extract. Sabrina’s biological father was a Russian soldier sent to do counterintelligence in Berlin. We snagged him because of his ties with the Irish gangs. He claimed to want to defect, and we facilitated that until he ran off. It was during that time that he and Astrid conceived our baby.”

  “His name?”

  “Are you going to kill him?”

  I lift a brow. “Only when I find him.”

  “Arsen Yahontov.”

  “Do you want to write it down?”

  “No need, I got it. He must be a pretty boy.”

  Her eyes tear up. “He’s incredible…”

  “You were in love,” I hasten a guess. “I know that look.”

  She smiles, just as beautiful as she ever was. “I fell in love with Arsen. We were going to leave for the states.”

  “Just you and him?”

  “Yes,” she confirms my worst fears. “I was going to leave Astrid because Arsen was everything to me.”

  “He still is,” I counter, offering her a tissue from my pocket. “I desperately wanted to have a baby with him, so I consented to Astrid…you know…”

  “Doing the dirty?”

  She sniffles and nods. “When we found out she was pregnant, he left.”

  There is nothing I can say to comfort Bertrand. She made a grave error with a steep price. We’re trained not to fall in love. I’d like to note; I failed this concept as well. Iris was my asset, and I was her target. She also failed this. Thank God she did, or I would be dead.

  “Are you pursuing the bank trail?”

  “You outrank me, Agent Raniero, tell me what you want to do with this.”

  “Stay quiet, I’ll handle it privately,” I somberly say. “If anything else shows up, send it to Deacon.”

  “… Not Iris?”

  “She is the Lotus.”

  “You are her husband.”

  “And I am Sal Raniero.”
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  Her blue eyes open wide. “You’re still in the game.” I subtly blink one time without saying a word. “And I just gave you an inside scoop that could make you millions, Lucy.”

  “Or,” I smugly remind, “you just put a target on someone’s back.”

  “ROC is everywhere,” she informs. “Sometimes, even in your backyard.”

  I stroke my chin. “And so are we, Kitten, so are we.”

  His Ride

  “This is my number,” Mad says, cornering me in the bathroom later that evening. “If you get in trouble or you think Sal is, call me.”

  “I’m taking a piss.”

  “That’s nice,” she cattily replies. “I’m trying to keep the two people you love alive.” I finish relieving myself and turn to face her as I fasten up. “I’m not interested in your dick size, Cruz. I’m interested in maintaining communication.”

  “Don’t you know,” I swagger to the sink, talking to her in the mirror. “Everything is about dick size.”

  “Your overinflated self-evaluation may be their greatest downfall,” she scathes, raking my ego over hot coals. “Don’t be the reason their blood is on your hands. Don’t do that to yourself.”

  “You’re kind of a bitch.” I spin to her and take the card. “And I appreciate your concern.”

  “Don’t be passive.”

  “You say—don’t—a lot.”

  “Because you keep encouraging them to do,” she acknowledges with a smirk, laying her hand on my shoulder. “We need some balance, biker boy.”

  “The only balance they need is in these two hands.”

  “I’m sending four extra units to Les Pétales,” she informs. “You’ll never notice them.”

  “I don’t want to share parenting duties with you, and I don’t need a handout.”

  “How about a hand job?”

  “Fuck. You. Lady.”

  I flip her off as I make my way to the door and hear her clapping. I do a one-eighty with a furrowed brow. “When you are ready for more training, call the number. I’ll deliver to the French countryside.”