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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  Sal turns to me. “I will see you very soon.”

  “I know,” I say with a smile as I hold back the tears. “It’s all going to be fine. Do what needs to done and get back to me so that we can go the fuck home!”

  “When you are done decorating here, you need to start thinking about what you want to do with your Swamp Shack.”

  “That’s not mine,” I argue, casting a glance to Deacon, propped against the bike and lighting a smoke. “That’s his.”

  “It’s ours,” Deacon assures in a cloud. “I bought that piece of shit for us.”

  “Just start thinking about it.”

  “Can you do all the work on the house with a baby strapped to your chest?”

  He takes me in his arms. “I can do many things.”

  His lips press to mine, and I invite his tongue to delve into my love. The passionate kiss strums the strings of last night. We aren’t done, and we won’t ever be, but I am missing things—little vacant fundamentals smoke with anger.

  I hate him.

  I hate him for being so goddamned perfect for me. I hate him for bending over backward, contorting and manipulating his psyche to protect mine. Because as much as I don’t want to admit it, he hit the nail on the head. If he cannot guard me, no child in my belly will matter.

  I am a mother.

  The children are his spawn too, but we serve different roles. I am carrying this growing encroacher in my body for nine months. The child cannot live without my body, and Sal cannot live without me. But what he won’t ever say is that in watching over me, he is vigilantly guarding the merger of our love.

  He lowers to kiss my belly, and I pet his hair. “I love you, Goblin.” I laugh at the name. “Daddy is going to go be a Goblin so that we can haunt the halls together for hours.”

  Tears stream down my cheeks as he steals his ball cap from my head. “I love you so fucking much,” I breathe into his mouth and close my eyes. “Don’t forget me.”

  “I will never forget the woman I love with all that I am,” he vows. “And this—my leaving—is about serving you.”

  “I know,” I say, wanting to hold him for the rest of his life. One goodbye embrace and kiss will never be enough. “Go, motherfucker.”

  With a grin, he turns away and straddles onto the back of the bike. He wipes the corners of his eyes, but it isn’t enough to stop the deluge of tears from cascading over his cheeks.

  Marshall and Tai appear from the shadows, standing on either side of me. Deacon nods with an affirmative gaze not requiring words—I will be back for you, and you can wail like a siren then. Not now, or he won’t leave. With his priceless white smile, Sal points at me. “I love you, Dandy.”

  “I love you, Trotter.”

  “You ready?” Deacon asks. “Cause Mass gonna be pissed if we’re late.”

  “Do it.” His hand closes at me as he yells, “More than words.”

  I watch the bike until I can no longer see it. I want to collapse to my knees, but I pivot between my two sentinels standing guard and march back into my chateau like the proper Lotus Queen. Sal isn’t the only one programmed to cut off the feeling.

  I am a soldier in this war.

  And the most underestimated bitch in the cavalry.

  His Ride

  We travel the backroads towards Paris, not for safety, but because I believe he needs time to think. The calm before his storm. We pass through communes, villages of isolated folks who have lived together for centuries, as I send the message loud and clear—this is who we are.

  It doesn’t matter if he shows up in Paris today. He can’t change the past or the facts. We were brought up in the underground. We breathed it. We lived it. We became it. We are no different from the villagers, waving as we pass by, with haggard tales of old.

  We have them too.

  Only ours are removed from the norms, raised by the depraved, lawless, and immoral souls.

  But the important thing is all of the crooked—good and evil from Iris Nakamura to Stanis Kozlov—were interconnected by an irremovable grid.

  It took years for his presence in the criminal landscape to surface, gulping the sickly sweet syrup down like a good little cultist, but he can’t—he won’t—deny it. There is too much on the line.

  Sal was born in the mafia.

  He will die in the mafia.

  It was never about admitting defeat or taking a loss. Accepting the blood we are given is triumphant. Being true to oneself is the first place blue ribbon. And in that, there is no competition—him versus his psyche.

  I should know.

  This drifter went through it too.

  We can fight it until the skin peels back on our fingers, and the sanguine seeps to the surface, but it won’t change a thing. And if we abandon our crime village, the only thing we’re guaranteed is a skeletal army infiltrating our recesses to drive on paranoia as we decay. We can look over our shoulder, answer the door, and uphold every safety precaution until the one ragged skeleton pokes into our world.

  And it’s all over.

  We pass by old churches, weathered by the elements, and soaked in history. The hallowed grounds are sacred to the denizens, just as Sanctum and Nero are to our dwellers in the murky tombs. The preachers speak of the revival and led the pilgrims to a holy land just as Sanctum does for Nero.

  Sal is a chosen one.

  The honor bestowed to few, mostly from nepotistic reasons. His bloodlines—Raniero and Veramonte—are undeniable, but they’re not the sole reason. His portfolio flickers like a beacon in the night during a hurricane. He is brightest in the chaos only to dim in the quiet, and someone was bound to pick up on the signals he was sending out.

  This son practices dark necromancy.

  He will excel in doing our bidding.

  Vehemently hostile, I kill people with a crowbar. Sal plans a calculated attack, ritualistic and commanding—a calculus equation with interrogation and red splatter on his shoes by the final answer, and therein, the difference between him and me.

  His racket…his brainchild…his hustle is in being Sal Raniero. He doesn’t need gimmicks or crowbars; the name brings fear. What will he do? Do I have his blessing? Am I his enemy? How do I get on his good side?

  In between the ghostly towns, I pull off to a heavily wooded area and cut the engine as Sal asks, “What are we doing?”

  Getting off the bike, I growl, “I’ve done some things I am not proud of…”

  “You’re going to kill me now,” he challenges. “This is how we end with my corpse rotting in the woods.”

  “No, baby girl,” I snarl like a bad boy, and he laughs. That’s it—relax. I’ll do whatever I have to do to soothe your tortured spirit. My lips crash to his with a dire need, stricken with a wanton fervor. The kiss vibrates deep in my core as my gales spread his embers at an alarming rate. “I hate that we are about to be apart.”

  “I know,” he whispers. “And, I am sorry.”

  “Don’t ever apologize for doing you.” My fingers swipe over his reddened cheeks. “You are…perfectly you. And I will love and defend your assets until the end.”

  “Kaci was just the tip of the iceberg…”

  “Yes,” I agree, flicking the lighter and taking a drag. I offer the cigarette to him. He shakes his head. His game face is strong with an unforgettable intensity. “Okay, how about this,” I suggest, attempting to crack into the safe space of his cortex. “Suck my cock.”

  His mossy eyes are shrouded with onyx shadows under the gray clouds as he blinks and rises from the bike. “Say it again, and I will lay you out.”

  I impart a wolfish grin. “More than I hoped for…”

  With a menacingly dreadful gaze, he radiates with a calm corruption. “Bend over.”

  “Yes.”

  His jaw tightens to a sharp line as his contempt roars, “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, Master Nero the Black.”

  “Don’t fuckin’ forget whose Old Lady you are.”

  My blonde lock
s blow in the breeze as I perch the cigarette between my lips and undo my belt buckle and jeans. The denim drops to the dusty ground. His eyes skim over my unzipped hoodie and t-shirt to the massive erection I’m rocking. “Nevah, Boss.”

  The top of his fingers brush over the length of the ridge. He pushes me over the seat of the bike, pinning me down. He assaults my cavity, seizing the opportunity.

  I don’t fight him. I don’t say a word. Each thrust is more impactful than the last. He painfully fists my dick, tormenting every nerve ending to scream his name in a benevolent prayer.

  “Come. To. Me.” On the precipice, I attempt to hold back, but his claiming my body feels too good. His swollen cock burns my asshole as his rapid strokes of mine temper the scald. I shoot cum over his knuckles, and he grunts, “Good boy.”

  “I’ll always take it.”

  Wiping his hand on my shirt, he contends, “Because you are a Saint.”

  “Only for the wicked one.”

  “We should do that more often.”

  I smirk. “Don’t push too far, hussy.”

  “If I am not pushing your boundaries, I am not the slut you love.”

  I fasten my pants and run my finger over his brow. “Do you know how much I love you?”

  “Don’t do this, Cruz.”

  I lick my lips. “Because we’ll end up sobbing like sissies in the dirt?”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “Because for you, there are no words.”

  “Come back to me,” I say. “I don’t care if you are bent or broken, just fucking come back to me.”

  “I never planned on doing anything else,” he whispers, snarling. “When I suck your dick, will you pull my hair?”

  “Is that even a question?” I wink and lean in close. “Not only will I pull your hair, but I’ll also smack your ass, show you who the Boss is, and call you Sally...” I kiss his cheeks. “I love you, fucking daego.”

  I back away to see the tearful pools floating on his emeralds. “I love you, Cajun Queen.”

  “I kind of like that,” I mutter as he gets on the bike. “It’s got a sweetness to it.”

  “You’re a sweet, sweet boy, Cruz.”

  “So says panache-y.”

  III

  Creeps Upon the Earth

  16

  All That I Am In a Lemon Meringue

  The Master

  Four days later, I am sitting in what amounts to a rectory with a dozen dorm rooms at some unknown location in the motherland. Set behind the opulent, almost two-century-old church, merely referred to as the Basilica, the modern retreat rings reminiscent of Sunday school classrooms or summer camp but with plenty of pizazz.

  As expected, Deacon dropped me off in Paris with little fanfare, a cheap bro-hug, and a slight wave were all we had. Our private goodbyes spoke in the woods. No one needed to know the depth of our relationship.

  We were none of their fucking business.

  We stayed hidden, not out of fear with Mass, but the likely onlookers outsourced by heaven only knew who. My life lived in the focus of a lens.

  Caution ruled until we were on our turf because that was how we played. It wouldn’t have mattered if we were in Italy or Indiana, we’d never flame with our freak flag showing unless we were at home, New Orleans, or someplace we deemed safe. San Francisco cause no one gets out like Castro.

  Mass and I flew by private jet to Italy. I was blindfolded, and my head was covered with a burlap sack. It wasn’t that I couldn’t know where I was because eventually, I would. But Nero rituals were steeped in old, and until I had my first ceremonial sacrifice—I was an outsider.

  But this was not Sibyl.

  Read that again.

  No longer a grunt, I was fed ten-course meals by a five-star chef and slept in luxurious accommodations. From the gold fixtures to the chandeliers in every room, the rectory gleamed with affluence and pomp.

  We were the servants to the collar, but they were not our Masters—an odd dynamic—as both sides maintained varyingly equal positions of Dominance and subservience, fluid and tranquil.

  Hardship? No.

  Relaxing, almost vacation-like atmosphere? Hell, yes!

  Nero didn’t have three-inch three-ring binders full of rules, but an actual hardbound book of their history and expectations. Sanctum wanted Nero to be freethinkers, capable of making decisions on the fly without supervision.

  They demanded it.

  Because of this, they were more forgiving than Sibyl. Our service wasn’t just another hit job, but a process in search of intel, or at least so said the good book.

  I leave my bedroom door at the Basilica open a lot, more than anyone else, I am sure. There have been a handful of people milling about, but I believe I am the only Nero.

  Gut instinct, maybe.

  “How are you doing?” Mass asks, stepping inside without an invite. He doesn’t need one. He isn’t a vampire, and I don’t mean that in a glittery way. Mass doesn’t profile as the type looking to suck anyone dry. At least, not like that. “You need anything?”

  “Whiskey.”

  “I’ll have some delivered,” he says. “Any questions?”

  “All these people…”

  “Many of them work for Sanctum, office personnel. You are the only Nero.”

  “I was about to ask.” I smile. “I read the good book.”

  “Let’s go for a walk.”

  Immediately, I understand it isn’t safe to talk here. I grab my hoodie, smokes, and ball cap as we head for the door. “Should I be concerned?”

  “Are you ever going to trust me?”

  And his razor-sharp fangs glimmer with interest.

  The wooded grounds surrounding the church paint a splendid view as the rolling green hills blend into the mountains in the distance. Heavy, gray storm clouds build overhead. The only sound for a good fifteen minutes is footsteps crunching on the gravel below.

  “How long will it be?” he asks, lighting a smoke. Massimiliano Vidal is a well-put-together man. In a word, he is smooth. I imagine before Dom’s horror story on two wheels, he flowed with the fluent presence of Mass.

  His mastery is of himself.

  The remarkable self-discipline and restraint he shows are unparalleled, and I long to sit down over coffee and swap stories to learn where he came from. He doesn’t waver in his beliefs, standing on two solid—remarkably large—feet. They’re at least the size of Deacon’s fourteens. I have been watching his stride, matching his pace, and wishing my legs were as long as his.

  Stopping, I pull out a smoke, and he lights it for me. I exhale and ask, “... Before?”

  “You trust me.”

  I shrug and glance away as his fingertips ease under my chin. I automatically turn to face him, realizing the error in my behavior. I play the avoidance card when under duress, continuously evading and hiding my true feelings. Deacon maintains the root cause is in my upbringing.

  “Answer me,” he mutters without a hint of an upper hand. He has it, and we both know. No use in shoving my nose to bottom-feeder status amongst the Nero. “Please.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you trust your father?”

  I chuckle. “Which one? I may as well have three. Cesario—my grandfather, raised me, Vinny—my biological father who I grew up believing was my uncle, or Dom—who has been my Dominant for a decade?”

  His icy hazel eyes light up with excitement. “All of them. Tell me about all of them.”

  “I don’t trust Cesario at all. He would give anything to eliminate Iris and Deacon from my life. Vinny, I trust…mais ou menos...”

  “More or less? How so? And where did an Italian boy from Boston end up with Portuguese?”

  I laugh. “I have had a lot of friends, associates, colleagues. I pick things up.”

  “It’s charming,” he quips as we continue strolling the property. “More on Vinny.”

  “He’s got some issues, my Uncle Vinny. I guess I should be calling him Dad by now, but ya…” />
  “You should call him Dad when you are ready. Your timeline, not anyone else’s.” He peers up at the sky which was threatening to erupt. “What issues?”

  “Drugs. Women. Booze. Gambling. Normal hazards of the trade.”

  “Addictions,” he announces as my skin warms. I am not without my issues. “I’m not going to dick you around. You’re a smart guy, Raniero. Do you think your issues spawn from environmental or genetic issues?”

  “Both.”

  “Good answer,” he compliments. “What about Dom?”

  “He is the closest thing to a skewed version of a Daddy that I truly know. If the definition of a Daddy is caring and providing for a younger version of yourself, he definitely fits the bill.”

  “And the fact that you submit to his sadistic inclinations?”

  We stop at the gate. “… Training for this?”

  He smirks and nods. “You’re sharp. The problem is you tend not to know what to do with that and end up inflicting cuts on yourself. We’re going to work on that. I will try to repair it.”

  “But, I have to go through hell first?”

  He grins. “Something like that.”

  “They sent you to invite me because Dom wouldn’t have been able to pull the trigger if I rejected the offer from Nero.”

  “That’s presumptuous,” he counters. “You shouldn’t assume anything.”

  “There is no doubt in my mind. You would have done the deed had I rejected the offer.”

  “Those who do not show for the party are no longer among the living.”

  “So, invitees accept the offer from Nero or are killed then and there?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Stroking my scruff, I ask, “How many times does that happen in a year?”

  “Less than three.”

  I pull off my ball cap and run my fingers through my hair. “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  “Someone would’ve come after you if I wound up dead,” I venture, staring off into the distance. “I wouldn’t die for free.”