I’m married, not dead.
And ya, I got the hots for Skeeter.
But that ain’t nothing new.
From the front seat, Mass tosses a glance over his shoulder. “Are you ready to go in?”
“Ya,” I say, leaning to kiss Skeeter on the cheek before opening the door. “Thank you.”
“Oh!” she says, getting my attention for one more thing. “What would you like to send Carlo Torrente?”
“On his death bed…” I mumble, thinking as she blinks, waiting for my response. “Send him half a dozen strippers and a box of Cubans.”
“Literally Cubans or cigars, Sir?”
Mass laughs. I tilt my head, considering her thought. “Send him flowers…irises. Send his sons the strippers and a nice bottle of Mezcal.”
“Budget?”
“Not more than ten.”
“Dollars or thousand?”
Mass chuckles as I reply, “K.”
“I will get that sent tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Skeet.” I shut the door and notice the mischievous glimmer in Mass’ eyes. “Is there a reason behind the overpriced tequila?”
“The Mariposa.” His brow forms a tight line as we light up in the night. Lightning zags across the sky, and thunder rumbles the land beneath our feet as the SUV departs. “The hypopta agavis or Comadia redtenbacheri is a night butterfly, a moth in the family Cossidae, feeding exclusively on the maguey plant, whose leaves are used to produce Mezcal. The larvae are gusano de maguey, placed one by one in the bottles of the hypnotizing beverage.”
“Do you walk around with this much shit in your brain all the time?”
“When it involves sending a clear and distinct message to the Torrente children? Fuck yes, I do.”
“And what is that?”
“Don’t eat the mother.” I crack my knuckles, preparing for what is to come. “Or the migrants will eat you.”
“You’re no migrant to these blood-soaked lands,” he states as we meander to Oscurità. “That is the difference between you and me.”
I snicker. “That I send warnings with expensive tequila?”
“Everything you do provokes a symbolic message.”
“I am a mafia son,” I mention. “I was born with a Glock and a vendetta.”
“And I am a hitman,” he reminds, winking. “We should hook up sometime.”
My eyes stay focused on the clouds and the church as the wind and dust bluster over the lands. “By hooking up, do you mean my bending your ass over, or are you applying to be Sal Raniero’s hitman?”
“I’ve been running your security detail for six months. I am open to the idea of a promotion.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I mumble, stepping out my smoke. “Clarity is necessary.”
“Anything else is up to you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind too.”
And unlike strigiformes and female humans, my grasp of the mariposa’s purpose and the request by Mass is quite clear.
He wants to shoot his gun…for me.
18
rites of tenebrous passage
The Master
The foreboding wooden door of the abandoned cathedral creaks on the cast iron hinges as the sky bursts open with a torrential deluge. Sensing my unease, Mass teases, “You always show up with this much fanfare?”
I play along. “This is nothing. Typically I have a couple of girls dancing in cages and a circle jerk of pretty boys.”
He lays his hand on my shoulder—a considerate, comforting move doing my psyche little good.
I am about to take someone’s life. An act I take very seriously. That was someone’s child, someone’s parent, someone’s loved one, someone’s friend, and I am the bastard breaking up their relationship with a permanent ending.
There is no coming back from the dead.
I’ve done that plenty, and those are my sins to bear, but in this act tonight, the gears are off, mismatched and clanky, grinding and seizing up the engine.
The machine threatens to rust from decay, perish from neglect.
We step inside the dimly lit church in our rain-soaked clothes as a man in a medieval monk-style robe appears. In the darkness with the cowl, his face remains obscured. He hands Mass a large plastic bag with a matching cape and sways into the bowels of the church.
“You will need to wear the robe at Oscurità whenever you are on the grounds. All weaponry and identifying jewelry should be placed in the safe before heading into the catacombs. They’re stored in here,” he continues, pressing his finger on the reader and showing the dressing room outfitted more like a techno-geeks locker room. I note the chandelier matching the ones in The Dollhouse and the Basilica. “The safes are by retinal scan and thumbprint.”
“Sanctum provides…”
“The Saint is a stickler for the latest in gadgetry.” He winks as I begin to realize how much control I’ve had over this place and these people without even knowing it. “The security measures at Oscurità are some of the best you’ll find.”
“Unless you’re on my hallowed ground.”
“What do you see?”
“What keeps me from running into another Nero while changing my skivvies?”
He smiles at my choice of wording. “The system does a lockout until you leave. The entrance from the catacombs,” he adds, pointing at the door at the other end of the hallway. “And the exit which we came in. One person at a time. There is a shower, toilet, and bidet in this room.”
“Nice on the bidet, Cruz.”
Snickering, Mass clicks on the light for my inspection. My fucking boyfriend decorated this morgue like he would my house. “You may stay in the dressing area as long as needed, but we ask you to be considerate.”
“No assassin worthy of the name is ever slow.”
“Precisely.”
“How many guards do you have on site?”
“None,” he cites. “You are on your own. When a call to arms is made, you will know.”
“Via text?”
“We prefer being untraceable,” he replies, standing by a table. “And it is better if you do not ask how it works. Think of it this way. We work for Sanctum with well over a thousand priests and their mafia families…”
“Letters aren’t unheard of…”
“The written way in hand script is the only way in Nero. There is no footprint. Forget everything you know about working cases with a hacker on one end and a detective on the other. Everything we do, every line of communication, every case handed over, is done via paper.” Picking a sheet up, he flicks his lighter, and I watch it burn. “Everything turns to ash.”
He deposits the burning paper in the sink as I close my eyes, trying to comprehend the magnitude of what I’ve managed to get myself into. “And the cases? Who decides who gets what?”
“Sanctum will sometimes put in a specific request,” he says, undoing his belt. “Sometimes it will be on a first-come, first-serve basis as to which Nero is available at the time. You will get targets you have no clue about, and some you may know. Your only job at the end of the day is your allegiance to Nero.”
“And if I need a hit?”
“I am Bianco Nero Massimiliano Vidal, formerly Gaspare Castillo’s hitman, and I would be most honored to work for the Salvatore Raniero crime syndicate.”
I smirk. “You made your point, but what happens when I want to kill you?”
“You can’t…or you fall on your blade.”
“I never much liked the idea of decapitation post-disembowelment, but I appreciate the reference to my wife’s Japanese ancestry.”
“Seppuku is a far cry from the cruel punishment delivered from forsaken Nero brothers. We are sadists, remember.”
How could I forget?
“So no quick and painless death?”
“None,” he replies as I pull off my hoodie and ball cap. “Change. They’re waiting.”
“Pants?”
“Depends on how you like to do your kills,”
he suggests, pulling off his pants and sliding on the silky, tight joggers. “Some wear these. Others go bare.” I pull off my shirt and feel his steady gaze on the Lotus brand, the ink, and the physique. “You’ve seen some shit…”
“You have no idea.” I strip down, completely bare, and turn to face Mass. “Is this what you want?”
“If you are asking if I want you,” he whispers, stepping too close to be comfortable. “My answer is I have never been more enticed.”
“The secrets held in these walls…”
“No one will ever know,” he says, breathing on my lip and tempting my senses. “Secrets stay buried in Nero.”
I toss my crucifix into the locker, and it pings against the metal and echoes in the room. “And I am fucking the banker.”
“Wise choice.” He nods and stands down. “Don’t forget.”
“Was that a test?” I laugh. “Really?”
“I don’t think you understand the amount of savage brutality within the catacombs and one of the best intoxicants…”
“Is in sex…” I fill in the blank, already knowing how violence and sex swirl in a mystical chalice, coalescing into a heady cocktail. “I am a married man. Twice over. You might as well think of me as a celibate sociopath because I am not buying into the equation or drinking the fine elixir while doing my time.”
“You won’t have a choice when the time is for the rest of your miserable life,” he warns with an experienced tone. “The demons will manifest in some form. Find an outlet and use it. And before you exhaust it, hunt for another. Do not let your well of opportunities run dry. Bad things will happen then. Bad things you may not be able to recover from.”
“You want to suck my dick? Preemptively toss some coins in my jar?” I rhetorically ask, pulling on the heavy brown robe. “I am sure I will spend them.”
“I’d love to, but you have an appointment.”
I cannot get out of this without a one-way ticket to the grave. This is my life. This is what someone signed me up for, but in a way, Nero offers the most exceptional protection ever. Someone did me a favor. The best stalkers in the world can’t kill me without killing themselves. And that’s a hell of a wicked price to pay for a Boston boy like me.
Who did it?
I ain’t got a fucking clue. For all I know, Iris, Dom, Rowan, Mass, Anna…hell, even Deacon could have signed me up to be a cloak-wearing minister of death.
I drop my wedding bands and all of my wrist bands into the marble dish.
“When you say catacombs…you mean, dungeon?”
“No, I don’t.”
From the exit, we follow several long hallways as I consider everything I know, which is probably insignificant. I cannot charm or weasel my way out of this one. We pass a small chapel with glass doors where I imagine women on their knees praying the rosary.
Serve us, Sal.
The delusion doesn’t dissuade my fears, but it does offer a reason for the heinous crimes I am about to commit under the umbrella of doing God’s work.
I am no fool.
Nero does not operate under any God unless that God is an assemblage of sketchy priests, also doing God’s work for the criminal underground. We are paid killers in hooded robes acting like we’ve found his holiness, but the reality…the truth…we are trapped within the Nero.
They finally got me in a fucking cage.
And I lost my Houdini skills at the L. Botham Wiggs Correctional Facility. I spent ninety days in prison because I refused to work by my father’s side.
Maybe he put me here—
Though this seems a bit advanced for the portly pasta aficionado.
Someone knew what the fuck they were doing with me.
And Cesario doesn’t know shit about me.
Becoming a Nero will either be the worst or best thing for me.
We march down to the basement and the wooden plank door. “No, scanners?”
“If you made it this far, no scanners are going to save you.”
I am the beast.
They feed me in this slaughterhouse.
He lights two torches, handing me one. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know,” I mutter as we walk the caliginous passage. The smell of dirt fills my nose until the stench of death reeks in every orifice. My mouth closes, and my eyes burn. The catacombs are my worst nightmare—the butcher, the smock, the machete, the blood. “Where is everyone?”
“The Nero are secluded, quiet,” he says as paranoia sets in. Maybe this was all a diabolical joke to confine me. Mass is going to kill me. This is the end. I am the victim in this crime scene; the robe and torch and theatrics are nothing more than distractions. My heart pumps faster and faster as my lungs speed to an almost hyperventilating state. We arrive at the door. “This is your initiation.”
I spot the man, dangling from ropes, and immediately recognize his face. “Who wants him dead?”
“Your sponsor.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I breathe a sigh of relief. “There is a light at the end of the tunnel.”
“You know what to do,” he whispers. “L’oscurità si trasforma in luce, Salvatore.”
I stare at the man. I have so many questions, but when I turn to ask Mass, he is gone. I hunker down low, wanting to cry, and praying for this nightmare to end, and then I laugh, realizing it won’t matter if he sees me.
Who is he going to tell?
He will be dead.
The robe isn’t to kill people; the robe is to protect my identity from one Nero to another. I can do anything to him I want as long as at the end he is nothing more than a corpse. There are no rules in the arena of the tomb. I can go slow or fast because I, alone, determine how and when he meets his maker.
The rush of adrenaline is an amazing high.
I am tough.
Tougher than I ever believed I could be.
Flipping back my hood, I glare at the man. “Kane Parker, we meet again.”
“What the hell do you want?”
“To send you home,” I announce, pulling off the robe as he intently stares. “No need to stain up the thing on your account.”
He seems like an infinitesimally small target for such a significant rite of passage. But I know the truth. And I know who gave me Nero.
“You hurt people. You did real harm,” I remind, cracking my neck. “Lots of people, and your wife, Poppy, and your son, Abel.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“We gave you a chance at redemption with one phone call. You could have called your son, but he was never worth it, was he, Kane?” With long steps, I pace the short distance as hate pumps in my veins. “Instead, you called your contact, giving me the worst day of my life. The time has come to pay for ruining my fucking day.”
“Tell Abel I love him.”
I lunge forward, backhanding his cheek. “You don’t know love, you son of a bitch!”
“I never expected this to get so out of hand,” he pleads, searching for a frayed string to latch onto. It does not exist. I fucking burned it. “I didn’t know who the fuck the girl was!”
“It wouldn’t have mattered if you had!” I fume, morphing into an insidious beast. “You didn’t know any of the hundreds of girls you sold off into slavery!” I wrap my hands around his neck, ceasing his airflow. “You ruined countless lives!”
There is nothing that can change his truth. He spoke words to one man, and they were daggers—sharp and unyielding, cutting pieces from a life. There is nothing he can say to me now. I don’t need anything from him.
I don’t even break a sweat because he isn’t worth that either. His eyes bulge as the constriction from my grip is too much. I gaze at my knuckles marked with MORE THAN, and I proudly snarl at the justice I am issuing.
About goddamned time.
His body turns limp, and I release my grip as his head lazily lulls to the side.
Scanning over the wall of implements—a sadist’s dream toolbox—I grab the katana from the top
row. With all of my might, I swing, severing the head of the man who said too much about someone I love to the wrong fucking person.
Blood splatters over my skin, baptizing my soul in cleansing revenge. I am christened with a new name—Bianco Nero Lucas Salvatore Raniero, the great-grandson of Luca Raniero and grandson of Pietro Veramonte. In their honor, I rise with sanguine stains of malevolence.
I am a fucking God.
“She has a fucking name,” I spit, dripping with his blood. “And I call her Ghost.” I kneel in reverence for the men who walked before me in the catacombs and sacrificed their sanity to rid the world of evil. I pray to a nameless God, knowing I am but his faceless minion to do his bidding. “Mea Culpa.”
Believing doesn’t pardon my sins, but his death brings closure, and I’ll pay the mortal fines.
Hell never met a brother like me.
19
純愛 p u r elove
His Butterfly
Sitting in the lavish room of the Yanagi hostess club in Tokyo, I sip on a club soda and wait for Amber. Certainly, Deacon Cruz didn’t think I would travel alone to Japan. She left the posh suite that my husband set her up in with one text message from me.
“I need you. Airport. Now.”
I don’t know these people Sal hired for me. And I don’t have an auto-trust button I can push. I understand going into this that Amber is arguably bad news, but at least I know her. I have slept with her, I have spread my legs for her, and she is part of the threesome—Jaid, Amber, and me. She could turn on me in an instant, but it’s worth the risk.
Remember to choose the team wisely.
There is a strange feeling being here in the Ginza district with a dozen Lotus swarming around my presence. They clear the path, making way for the future Queen. Perhaps I think too narrow, and all of Japan’s unsavory underground knows who I am.
“Okay, I know who the boys met with,” she says, dropping the curtain. She’s been bouncing between their dressing room and me. “And the three girls are here.”
A Dark Place (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 5) Page 15
