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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “I sent Cruz,” he confesses as the tears fall over his cheeks. “And I’d bet everything I own that the baby in her belly isn’t Abel Parker’s kid. And my baby shower gift was killing his father just to fuck him up.”

  “Oh, Jesus…would she do that?” I cover my mouth.

  “She’s Serene and Delarte’s daughter. What do you think?”

  “Fuck!” I mumble under my breath. “She’s setting up a lethal strike of dominoes.”

  “Because she’s angry at me,” he says, searching for an answer that doesn’t exist. “I should’ve been there. Not Deacon. Not Abel. Me.”

  “Have you tried talking to her?”

  “What do I say?” He braces his hand on my arm. “I hired her to run Sal Raniero. I barked off orders and made her take Raine and Merritt as soon as she got back. I shoved Abel at her like a fucking bandage after three months of being a sex slave to the Immortal cartel because I couldn’t deal with my feelings for her and survive the rising waters of Iris.”

  “Well, in a way, she is running Sal Raniero…” I sympathetically offer. He is unamused, but my accuracy is spot on. “Your level of safety increased with Nero.”

  “I don’t want to be Queen Cristos’ enemy,” he achingly pleads. “If her Dad falls, she will destroy me.”

  “Then you need to make contact. She isn’t an island. That is a girl you’ve held in such high regard for years, and I can’t blame her for being mad at you. You should’ve drowned in the flood of Iris and Emily and whatever else because Jaid has done everything you asked without question. She’s been as loyal as your Saint, but you didn’t ever want to see that. You only had eyes for Iris.” I take a long drink of whiskey and pour another. “I warned you she was playing.”

  “I know, but I don’t need any I told you so’s…” he says, devastated. “Serene is pregnant.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “And her scans came back abnormal,” he whispers, twitching. “All I can think is she’s going to lose just like her daughter.”

  “You need to breathe.”

  “I can’t,” he mutters. “My rock is getting on a plane in less than forty-eight hours, and everything I touch turns into hazardous waste.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  His hands steeple beneath his chin. “I need you to go home and not let anything else spin out of control.”

  “All I can do is try.”

  “Fuck Megan and love those three kids hard.”

  I glance out to the horizon, darkening with blue as haphazard swaths of pink cut and divide. “I’m screwing Oki.”

  “Does Megan know?”

  Holding my glass of whiskey, I inhale the aroma. “I’d prefer not to answer that.”

  “That was answer enough,” he remarks, flicking his lighter. “You keep my secrets, and I will do the same for you.”

  “Cruz doesn’t know?”

  “I don’t know,” he mutters. “He isn’t an idiot. He knows how to count. And he knows what he did. If that baby is a Cruz-Cristos, he is one of two people in the world who know. Neither of which have mentioned it to me.”

  “Would he have told Iris?”

  He pulls a cigarette from the pack. “No. Because it would’ve added more stress to her already depleted system.”

  “How much more can you handle?”

  “A lot,” he says with the unlit smoke perched on his lip. “Shoot.”

  “Deacon helped Iris leave.”

  The cigarette drops from his mouth.

  And his deafening howl sweeps across the olive grove with the force of an unyielding backdraft.

  22

  the meeting of the minds

  His Butterfly

  Cold shivers strike through my body as I pace the halls of the hospital. I’ve been in waiting for half of a week with Murasaki as we watched Baba disappear. We practiced matsugo-no-mizu, wetting Baba’s dying lips, not knowing when she will pass.

  “In everything, there is a process,” Murasaki said. “Follow the path and seek enlightenment.”

  A tough skill for the girl who never learned to meditate.

  The customs are unusual to my Americanized-self. I’ve attended numerous funerals, but never a Shinto one. Thankfully, my new Mama I’ve claimed—the former concubine of The Chairman, Murasaki Hada—is an excellent teacher. Well-spoken and full of grace, her vast pool of knowledge easily translates her Japanese rituals in a way my American mindset can comprehend. She understands my blended heritage more than anyone, and I have come to appreciate our blossoming relationship.

  My father’s former mistress is becoming the mother I never had.

  Baba goes in and out of consciousness, but she hasn’t been as aware since my arrival. I spend hours in silence, exchanging brokenhearted yet consoling glances with Reo Sato. His keen awareness of my fledging mental state is odd, reminding me in many ways of someone I dearly love.

  I miss Deacon.

  That is not to say that I don’t miss Sal because I do, but I also understand that he is securing our place in the world. His investment in our future is priceless, but I fear what is to come while he is not guarding the post.

  I spend my lunches nibbling and chatting with Raiko. I don’t eat much despite everyone constantly offering to feed me. Like a good son, he arrives every afternoon to spend time with his dying mother. He returns to work for a few more hours and sometimes shows up again later in the evening.

  I’ve witnessed the closeness between my father and Murasaki. Their ongoing relationship is evident with gentle gestures and hand-holding. Something is or has been going on. I always blamed Lydia for the dissolution of my parent’s marriage, but perhaps they were equally to blame.

  It takes two.

  The cafeteria is dimly lit and closed when I take a seat at a table late one night. The plentiful time spent alone does my mind well. I question why Sofu never comes. Not once. I want to believe he’s suffering from the loss, but I fear that may be an inaccuracy.

  He’s locked himself in the Lotus palace and not bothered to even communicate with Masa. We know he’s alive and eating because of the servant’s reports, but not much else. I’ve accepted his choices, but I don’t agree with them. And I don’t have to.

  Opening the lid of the styrofoam cup of tea, I notice my phone flashing with Deacon Cruz. He keeps calling, three times a day, but I have avoided answering. I’ll hear his rough voice softened by concern, and I’ll breakdown in a shower of tears.

  “Can I sit with you, Ms. Nakamura?” Reo asks from behind. I quickly conceal my phone, but it’s too late. “You don’t have to worry. Your secrets are safe with me.”

  I feign a smile. “… Are Keishi’s?”

  “Depends who is asking,” he replies, straddling his robust frame into the chair opposite me. “I will tell you whatever you need to know.” With an uncomfortable air between us, I glance away, staring at the vending machines. “Have you eaten?”

  I shake my head as he immediately gets up to go shopping. He takes the time to make me a cup of noodles as tears well in my eyes from exhaustion. The kindness of a stranger means so much.

  My grandmother is dying; my baby is starving. And this man I don’t know is feeding me, making me ramen without reason. I’m beyond touched.

  He grabs a soda, some crackers, and a chocolate bar along with the noodles. “Eat,” he says with a subtle, commanding tone as he hands the plastic ware to me. “Please.”

  The noodles are too hot to eat, so I stir them around. “How does a boy from Colorado Springs end up in Gifu?”

  He laughs, showing off his gorgeous white smile. “My brother is Oscar Sato.”

  “X’s boyfriend!” I shout too loud, shocked by his admission. I’d been so caught up in my own mayhem that it hadn’t even donned on me. I stare, wide-eyed with black circles and reddened cheeks, and see the resemblance. Oscar and Reo are both divine, God-gifted, beautiful men. “I didn’t make the connection, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s ok,” he says w
ith a shrug, opening the soda and taking a gulp before handing it to me. We’ve come along way from quibbling over a coat to swapping spit. “He got involved with our father’s business, eventually left, and I followed my brother.”

  “And what does your dad do?”

  “He grows MJ on a mass-scale, primarily in Colorado, but we have several established farms all over the country.”

  “Legal?” I ask curiously. “I’m surprised.”

  “Yeah,” he answers. “Oscar went another direction by contacting a few insurgent cartels. I was working security for Oscar until the gig opened with Lotus two years ago.”

  I take a forkful of noodles and ask, “Why Lotus?”

  “Mostly, heritage. I grew up visiting my grandparents in Okinawa and I’d always been close to them, moving to Japan was one of the best things I could’ve done. Although Oscar begs me every week to come work for him.”

  “And would you, Sato?” I question before taking the bite.

  “No, Nakamura.”

  With a mouthful of noodles, I grin and cover my face. I swallow and sip the soda. The bubbles feel good on my tongue. “Does Oscar only run drugs?”

  “For the most part,” he says, relaxing in the chair. “He has good relationships with his suppliers.”

  “How many cartels?” I swig another drink.

  “Over three dozen, throughout Mexico and South America.”

  I try not to choke, caught off guard by the sheer scope of the Sato operation. “What does he want to do?”

  “Oscar?” he asks as I nod. “He wants to unite the suppliers and find someone willing to lead them.”

  “He wants to start a war between Immortal and Montesino.”

  “You could say that,” he says, smirking. “Montesino is a dangerous threat to Immortal’s stability. There is only one way up.”

  “North.”

  “You got it,” he says, smoothing his hand over the table. “They can travel roundabout ways, but…”

  “That isn’t cost-effective,” I interject, opening the crackers. “Better to risk the trek over Immortal turf than lose coin.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I happen to have a fleet of cargo ships, Sato.”

  He smiles. “I am aware of your recent acquisition.”

  “And I also happen to know someone uniquely qualified to wage war against Immortal and Montesino.”

  He leans onto the table, mere inches from me. “And who do you have backing you besides Sal Raniero and Deacon Cruz?”

  “I have access to Morpheus and Torrente.”

  “We should talk.”

  With my hand tucked beneath my chin, I whisper, “We absolutely should, Sato.”

  The Master

  At four in the afternoon, I wake up at the Basilica with a note tucked under my pillow. I sit up, rub my eyes, and open the envelope.

  A car will arrive at the side door at nine.

  I wad the paper into a ball and grab my lighter as I wobble my way to the bathroom. I light the paper on fire and drop it into the toilet before taking a much-needed piss. No trails. No footprints. Lighter than feathers.

  Incognito.

  I take a shower and end up crouched on the tile as I breakdown. I call Deacon. I walk to the cafe and grab a bite to eat. I snarl and fume with rage through every bite of my salami on focaccia. I call Deacon. I spend the rest of the day in the library, attempting to forget that my wife’s brilliance debilitates me. I call Deacon. I change my clothes and say a prayer. I call Deacon. Wishing I had my compression leggings, I pack a light backpack with a pair of black joggers, a wifebeater—and I just might if she doesn’t surface soon—an extra pack of smokes and a shoulder of whiskey.

  I call Deacon and leave a calm message, “I’ll be out the rest of the night, but please call me back.”

  At 8:57 PM, I pace outside, smoking like a chimney, as I await the arrival of my ride to Oscurità. The car is a two-door sub-compact with a man driving. I don’t know him. I don’t talk to him.

  I am a machine—a killer.

  Get in. Get out.

  Once at the butcher shop—Oscurità—I do the routine in the dressing room. No one and I mean, no one is here. Without Mass walking and talking, the halls loom with an eerie quiet as I march in my frock down the steps into the catacombs. I grab a torch and flick the lighter on the table when my arm vibrates.

  Fuck.

  One—I forgot to take off my watch because I never take it off.

  And two—Deacon is calling. I run as fast as I can back to the dressing room, and it’s locked. Someone else is here.

  There is more than one taking a trip to the pearly gates tonight.

  Sitting in a wooden chair outside the door, I wait with my hood on and my face down as Mass instructed until I hear the door open. It’s a natural reaction to see who it is—a code we’re taught as children.

  I break the code.

  I avoid looking.

  But fuck, is it hard to do…

  His shadowed figure stands a little too long in front of me. The tension in every muscle constricts as I attempt to reprogram.

  “Excuse me?” a man says with what I perceive as a heavy Eastern European accent, but I cannot pinpoint his exact origin. All I need is my brain frothing with an inquiry.

  “… Yes?”

  “Are you Trotter?”

  Whoa. Stop. No.

  This is not occurring. Not here. Not now.

  I quickly scan my mental database, and there is nothing even close to pinging. I gruffly remark, “What do you want?”

  “Condémariella.”

  Underneath the cowl, I furrow my brow as he leaves. I rush into the dressing room, rip off the robe, and toss up the lunch. After I clean myself up, I make my way to the locker and grab my phone. Deacon has called me as many times as I did him, but I don’t bother with that.

  I send Georgia a text message with the word and follow it with a call. “Can you do some research on this?”

  “I’m looking, sugarbutt.”

  “It’s a ghost.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Now I know you probably don’t want to go to the shore to pick up shells. So I’ll tell you, it’s a registered ghost.”

  “Where at?”

  “In a tiny town outside of El Paso.”

  Oh. Dear. God.

  “Quietly book a flight for two.”

  “Are you coming home to Texas?”

  “Ya.”

  Too bad it’s only temporary.

  In the long crypt hallway, I approach the room where my Nero brother—and God, I use that term loosely—proves his worth. I hear the moans from his chamber, but I keep my head down. I am parallel to the door when I realize, yet again, it doesn’t matter.

  The encroacher will die, and the God holding the bloody end will live. He won’t say anything because he can’t. He already knows who I am, so what does it matter?

  I shoot a glance towards the opening where I see the man’s ass, muscled and bare, and his backside covered in ink. He slides around in the messy puddle with an alarmingly, mischievous grin.

  I scamper away with his face imprinted into my mind. He’s a rugged-looking man with deep-set eyes framed by thick, bushy brows, hefty, plump lips, and a jawline sharp enough to cut through any bullshit thrown his way. He’s not bad looking, but he isn’t what I am accustomed to. If pretty boys surround me, then he is grade-A, militia, combat-ready.

  Peering in the cell, I spot the woman with unkempt ash blonde hair and captivating deep mocha eyes sitting in a chair—no ropes or chains. I cautiously step inside and glance at her wrists and ankles tethered by zip ties.

  Sweet.

  But…

  “Who the fuck are you?” I ask. She shows no emotion as I pull a chair in front of her and take a seat. “We can talk, or I can just kill you.”

  “Crow.”

  I flip back my hood. “Ca-caw-caw?”

  Unflinching, she says, “You can call me Cris.”

  “Wh
y am I killing you?”

  She cracks, breaking a smile. “Because for the last four years, I have been infiltrating Allegiance and the Pakhan wants me dead.”

  I scan over her. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t kill you.”

  “I can give you three,” she volunteers, upping the ante. “Rowan Tully is my best friend, and I have inside intel on Kill Rat. The involvement in Allegiance with certain upstanding citizens of Sugargrove is far greater than you know. And Jack Kerris was my father until you killed him.”

  Staring at the ink on my hands, she subtly suggests, “You should wear gloves, Salvatore.”

  My fists tightly clench. “Who is your mother?”

  “Jacqueline.”

  “You’re Kaci’s cousin? Serene’s niece?”

  “Dale Archer’s too.” She winks. “I am the cheat sheet you never saw coming.”

  Admittedly, I haven’t dug as deeply as I should’ve into the Archer family tree. After Kaci’s passing, I went through her things, but I stopped out of duress. I couldn’t continue through the emotional upheaval of losing it every time I went to do research.

  I jet up from the chair in such a frantic state that I knock it over. “I am supposed to kill you?” I rage. “I cannot kill you!”

  “Then I will do it for you,” the strange man holding his robe offers from the doorway. He’s naked and covered in red as he steps closer to take a gander at my prize. “But I won’t kill her.”

  “Berk?” she yips as he tosses his robe at me. Grabbing a pair of needle-nose pliers from the wall, he snips her zip ties and glances over his shoulder to me. “Her name is Christine Helena Crow, and she is an informant. I will be responsible for her.”

  “And who will be responsible for the lack of body?” I ask, wishing I had a smoke, a drink, and Iris’ lips wrapped around my cock. “Because I am not going down for this.”

  “You won’t,” he assures with his heavy accent as he slices through the taut zip tie around her ankles. “But she isn’t dying today. I will cover for you.”