“What do you want me to do? How much do you care about any of it?”
Her fingers reached up and touched my face in an exploratory mission. “The only thing I care about is at the end. I want you happy. How we get there is up to you. I am just here for the Raniero ride.”
I smirked, remembering my words to another. I was the ride. I lost my Ride. Bombs were plummeting faster than I could keep up, and I didn’t find the ground but soothing tranquility in her reflection.
We come.
We go.
We leave.
We follow.
We mend.
We break.
We love.
We hate.
We do it all again and again. “Where are we going on my fucking train?”
She sat up and pulled off her shirt. “Wherever you fucking want to go. Wherever you want to be and however you need to get there.”
Her ease in handling me was too fluid, flowing between a following submission and a guiding Dominance, and maybe that was the spark igniting to set the forest on fire. I could watch it burn while sailing away in her noxious clouds of chartreuse. She had a serpent’s way about her, slithering through the fallout and debris of my mind. And I didn’t have to explain a thing—because she understood.
Because she got it.
All of it.
She waited, still sitting, as I laid on the floor and stared. I was drowning in the water, blistered by the winds, and the only thing reminding me to keep breathing was the flames wicking up from my toes, through my legs, over my belly, and to my fingers. I reached out, fearful of singing her delicate skin. The back of my fingers brushed over the tops of her breasts. I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could find the words, she dropped her bra and placed her nipple on my lip.
I was hungry, rapaciously sucking, as the flames charred the lands where I once lived. I didn’t care anymore.
What did I have to live for?
What did it matter, without them?
I leaned up and tugged my shirt off, pitching it to her hands. She lifted it to her nose and breathed me in. “We won’t recover from this.”
“I don’t need to recover.”
Her lips crashed into mine as she straddled over the top of me.
Licking the wounds and kissing them with a healing blessing.
So simple, so sweet.
Tomorrow would be another day. Another high. Another reprieve. Another make it until the fix comes—in the form of wiper blades swishing the rain off the windshield on a winding drive or running my tongue over the snow left on the edge of the blade—day. Just make it one more day.
One more fix.
One more high.
One more time.
With her skirt flaring wide, she hurried onto my chest, and the smell of her wetness wafted to my nose, willing and wanton, and ready for it all. And I didn’t care what the consequences were.
It didn’t matter.
I didn’t need to rationalize an affair. I had plenty of reasons when I undid my belt, and my zipper skidded down. I had plenty of logic when she eased onto my cock. I had plenty of anger when I found heaven.
In the walls of her chamber, I found the holy in the devout and swore I’d be more like them. I found faith, and it was there in her hollow…in my hands…all along. I didn’t want to kiss her tomorrow. I didn’t want to love her tonight. I craved the instantaneous, the fuck without warning, the-oh-shit-what-the-fuck-did-I-just-do wake-up call.
I rolled her off of me. Tethered up in my pants, I kicked them away and snapped her skirt from her body. I urgently thrust inside as her hands anointed me, smearing love and lust with the gentlest caress.
We blazed the night to the dawn, dancing on the marble until the skies were cascading from purple to pink. I came…I came so hard. I came so many times I couldn’t even count because it didn’t matter and what if it did?
She lied.
He lied.
I died.
This was my resurrection in the folds of a girl who understood what it meant to need. She bound me in her holy light, wrapping spindly threads around my heart to stitch me back together again.
“I am the same manwhore I always was.”
“You need coffee,” she mutters as we glare at one another with glazed over eyes, naked on the floor. “And food. And a bed. And no more.”
“How much did I do?”
“You don’t want to know, Sal.”
“Yeah, I do,” I say as a teardrop trickles over my cheek. “I’m in trouble.”
“That doesn’t take a genius, but what does is acknowledging how lost you are.”
“What am I going to do?”
“Please don’t crash,” she begs, wiping the tear away. “I can’t handle watching you burn. You are going to hop up, take a shower, and order me some fucking breakfast. And then you are going to get back out there and keep being Sal Raniero.”
“I cheated on my wife.”
“No,” she contends. “She lied to you, and you reacted. Not cheat. Don’t diminish this down to some cheap, tawdry one-night stand because I am not your hussy.”
My fingers graze over her hair. “What are you?”
“I am the friend who came when you called.”
“I am sorry.”
“For what? Getting loaded and having sex with me? Why would you be sorry for that?”
“I didn’t mean to put you in this situation,” I honestly say. “But I knew you would come and that I could trust you with everything.”
“Sometimes, all you need is one night with a friend who will listen.”
I snicker, “There weren’t a whole lot of words said after a certain point.”
“There were plenty of words; you just didn’t hear them. You are hurting over things that were wrongly done to you. This night doesn’t make you guilty of anything other than being a man.”
“Don’t get yourself killed.”
She smiles. “I am going to try not to.”
“Don’t get yourself hurt again,” she warns, kissing my lips. “But if you do, call me because I won’t play you or use you or harm you.”
“You always shoot it straight from the hip.”
“You were shooting damn straight last night yourself,” she mutters, grinning. She glows in the early morning light. “I had been in line for a while.”
With a smirk, I shrug. “I have a waiting list. I bumped you to the top.”
“You’re the top, Sal. You always were. Stop listening to people who are telling you to change because you know what?” She asks, laying her hand on my chest. “They don’t know the miles your heart has logged. They can’t pump the blood in your veins for you. You have to do what is best for yourself. Even if it doesn’t make sense to anyone else, do it anyway. Be bold. Be true to you.”
“I am so fucked up, though…”
“So the fuck what?” she argues, rhythmically tapping her fingers on my chest. “It doesn’t matter. So you’re an addict, big fucking deal. Own that shit. Stumble and fall. Own that shit. Do you like calling your friend up and having some fun? Own that shit. And you like killing people in that hole? Own that shit. And you like running the business? Own that shit too. Stop dancing around like a prima ballerina and get down to being you because the clock is ticking, boyfriend.”
I laugh and shake my head. “I found a therapist!”
“With good drugs and soaked panties.”
“Own that shit, girlfriend,” I counter with an unmistakable grin.
“I do.” She leans closer and kisses my lips upside down. “Do you need anything before I hit the shower?”
“A blowjob after breakfast.”
“It’s a date,” she says, leaving our bubble and standing over me. “I like pancakes.”
“You want fruit or syrup with those?”
“Make me sticky.”
“I already did that, Rowan.”
“Don’t I know it, Sal!”
She wanders off to the shower as I
stare at the mess of the suite. I collapse the lens and focus in on the remnants of the night—the whiskey bottle, the hotel room key, and the empty, knocked over ivory laced container on the glass table. I narrow the view even more to see the only things that matter—my ring with him and my ring with her and the ring of Nero.
And I know only one can survive. We’re no longer having the cake and pie and a smorgasbord and being allowed to eat too.
I can save my lover.
I can save my marriage.
Or I can save myself.
But I cannot do it all.
Two must starve.
I surrender, raising the white flag and accepting my defeat. I get up from the floor, dust myself off, and walk to the windows where I stand naked and unafraid.
“Damn, I should take you home.”
Rubbing my chin, I snarl. “I want to buy out her shares of Kill Rat.”
“She only has like twenty percent,” she volunteers, dripping in her towel. “It wouldn’t take much to get Stroker to bite. They’ve got no capital. It’s a faltering operation that is destined to fail without McPhail’s influence.”
“And what about Byrne?”
“What about him?” she questions, moving next to me. She is so small. “He doesn’t have the influence or impact of McPhail. It’s two-sided, you cannot have one without the other. Byrne has neither.”
“Sanctum wants him removed.”
She tilts her head and furrows one brow. “Why? I mean, he’s not great for Kill Rat, but I don’t think that warrants an execution.”
“Can you help me find out why?”
“You want out of it,” she mumbles. “You can’t kill an innocent.”
“If he even is,” I emphasize, lifting my hand. She presses her fingertips to mine. “But you need to be fucking careful because I don’t trust anyone.”
“I trust one person.”
“Ya, well, you’re biased and cum-filled.”
“No,” she challenges. “I took a shower. Something you should do.”
I bite my lip and playfully grin as I hoist her up in my arms. She giggles. “I’ll shower, but you’re scrubbing.”
Her fingers toy with my dirty curls. “I’m swallowing too.”
33
Six Thousand Miles and Who I Am
The Master
After the weekend wrapped up in Rowan, I pack my things from the Basilica—needing to move away from the shitstorm—but I can’t stay with Mass at the villa. In my current state of mind, I understand something unforgivable is bound to happen if I do. Am I going to catch shit over fucking Rowan? Ya. But if I go there with Mass? I may as well call it quits with Cruz.
I am letting my marriage go because—what else am I supposed to do?
Don’t say fight for her.
There is nothing to fight for. Iris chose to have sex with another man outside of Deacon or me, and I won’t raise another man’s child. It’s a no-brainer, but I am not opposed to a woman with a child coming into a relationship, a fresh start-up. I won’t get into the possible variables in the equations. There are exceptions to the rule of women + their children = my raising them, but this—this isn’t one of them.
Iris cheated, lied, and took my ass for a ride to the altar.
I know what you’re thinking—what if it had been Deacon’s, could I have raised it?
Fuck yes. Deacon is distinctive; Durante Costa is my mother’s boy toy.
The mere thought of his dick in my girl sends a wave of nausea to my belly. I cringe and cough, spitting in the trash, between loading a box of assorted shit I’ve collected over the past few weeks.
I need a change of pace and scenery, so I contacted Ronaldo and Ilaria about the loft for rent above the café. Without even looking at it, I told them I would take it. I’ll have unlimited access to damn good food and coffee, and that’s more than enough for a boy like me, especially right now.
I can’t keep living with people or feeling co-dependent on others. I’m fucking twenty-nine years old, running my own show, and I don’t need a goddamned babysitter at the Basilica. Mass is great with the idea because it puts my ass a lot closer to him but without the worry of being in the same house.
He knows we have a problem, too.
He wants to fuck me; I want him to fuck me.
It’s bad.
“Can I bother you?” the priest from the catacombs asks, peeking inside my open door and noticing the boxes. Maybe I should learn to shut and lock my doors. “It won’t take but a minute.”
“Sure,” I reply. “Come on in.”
“I heard you are leaving the Basilica,” he says as I expect fumes to fly out his ears. “Without a doubt, you are a special young man, Salvatore.”
“Are you upset with me?”
“Not at all,” he replies, laying a hand on my shoulder. “I am very proud that you have chosen your path, but I feel as though I must be clear. Your service at Sanctum and with Nero is still needed. You cannot abandon your post despite the change in locale.”
I stroke my overgrown scruff and nod. “I understand, Sir. I never planned on going AWOL. I will provide my service until my final breath.”
I hate that part.
“And have you managed to do any further research into Byrne? I know you went to Rome with the Irish girl, Maeve Tully.”
Great, you are spying on me.
“I needed a weekend away to clear my head. I am sure you have heard the news about my wife’s infidelity.”
He somberly nods. “Tragic.”
“Sanctum never wanted us together.”
“Quite the contrary, Salvatore, we hoped for the best with you and Ms. Nakamura. You are quite the power couple, and we needed the networking your merger could bring.”
“You wanted more influence in Asia?”
His brief smile deteriorates to a frown. “We are always looking for new ways in.”
Laterals.
Bravely, I ask, “What does the death of Father Byrne bring?”
“He is my brother.”
Wait. Whoa! What?
“He’s Irish…”
“And so am I,” he says. “I go by my first name, Father Thomas, and have since we attended seminary together.” He extends his hand. “Father Thomas Byrne.”
I shake his hand. “What is your brother’s name?”
“Carrick Byrne,” he informs, clasping his hands, as I resume packing. “We also have another younger brother, Dermot, and twin sisters, Niamh and Aoife.”
I take the clothes out of the drawer, quickly shoving them into the oversized duffel. The faster I pack, the quicker he is gone. “Why do you want Carrick removed?”
“Because long ago, I attended college in Boston with your father,” he says as I stop, unable to breathe. Thomas doesn’t just want his brother dead; he wants the Boston families. Carrick Byrne’s target is an order from my father. “And I want to return where I rightfully belong.”
“By Cesario’s side?”
“As the consulting priest to the Boston mafia.”
“There are only two families—Raniero and Flanagan—so which one are you working for?”
“I was born Irish, and I will die Irish. Father Altromessa served the corrupt dynasty of Raniero for years. I believe the Irish should have a fighting chance, don’t you?”
No, no, I don’t.
Fuck off. Go away. Leave me the hell alone.
“I am not sealing my family’s coffin by eliminating your unbiased brother.”
“Yes, you are,” he calmly warns. “Or Sanctum will have no choice but to eliminate you. You can take Father Carrick Byrne out of the picture, or we can eliminate the only Raniero son.”
“One of the girls will take it,” I huff, under the invisible gun to my head. “Preserving the legacy of our traditions.”
He takes an intimidating step closer. “Sal, do you believe that? Truly believe that? Equality in the mafia? Hell, your wife is the laughing stock of the underbelly. I hear they call her a
pig for a reason. And I never took you to lay with swine in a shitpile.”
I have never wanted to take someone’s life the way I want to end Thomas Byrne’s. “If you talk about my estranged wife again…”
He moves even closer, whispering against my cheek, “You’ll do what, Sal? Kill me? Sanctum will only come after you then. Holy execution orders are sent to you, not the other way around. You are our pawn, our servant…our grunt.”
I tilt my head as my jaw tenses, and my fingers clench into tight balls of fury and fight. “I serve the brotherhood, not you.”
“And I am on the council of Sanctum,” he proudly boasts. “If you don’t believe me, call your Saint. Or ask him while he’s immorally reaming out your ass. You come here all high and mighty—Sal Raniero—thinking you’re the bright star of the mafia world, the one to watch out for, and the one to behold. But the truth is—you’ve accomplished very little thus far to elevate your standing. Still riding on Daddy’s coattails, boy? Still wanting the chance to make it all right? Still chasing that boy, you left on the bridge?”
The memory rips my heart through the wicked skeleton cage as I mutter, “Bilal.”
Touching my face, Dom whispered, “I will always tell you the truth when I can.”
I tilted my head in disbelief as if my hero had fallen from grace. “… You’d lie to me?”
“If it meant protecting you?” He was seriously stoic in his focus. “I’d lie... I’d kill... I’d die.”
My expression contorted. “Why?”
“What is your question?”
My tongue zipped over my lips as I struggled to say the words. “How did you know about Bilal?”
“We’ve had Nick Cristos watching you for years.”
“Shit.” My eyes closed as I bounced my head against the wood. “Fuck!”
“But tell me, why would such a freely loving boy such as yourself find pay dirt here in Texas and be so vehement against handling male clients?”
My jaw stiffened as a single tear spilled down my cheek. “Because I didn’t want another broken hand from getting caught stroking one off over my secret crush.”
“How many times did he do that?” Silence filled my voice as I couldn’t muster up the courage to answer. “Where is Bilal, Sal?”
A Dark Place (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 5) Page 26
