“I did it all for him,” I confess, holding the blade tight in my palm and feeling the cut so deep. “I did it all for him!”
I toss the knife with a violent spin, and the blade stabs into the wall. “This house has been hemorrhaging for years—a long, slow suicide.”
With a confused gaze, she questions, “This house?”
“This Unholy house,” I seethe, rising. “And I will laugh like a clown when she takes her last breath…”
I leave the medical sheers on the table as I gather my things and head for the door.
Her voice wavers, “… Can I go?”
“Yeah,” I answer with a nod. “I don’t give a fuck about Sal Raniero anymore. He’s no longer the featured performer. He can burn in hell and his pretty wife… she’s the star of my three-ring show.”
35
Suffocating in a Pavilion
His Ride
Life in the Lotus Palace is not what I expected. The quiet proves overwhelming when I planned on the busy bustle from one of the Japanese superpower mafia organizations. I never see The Chairman, yet we reside under the same roof. I only encounter Iris if I go looking for her, and my nights are spent in a shed with two hot Asians.
Sal’s dream, if they were female.
I’m on high alert with Masa Nakamura and Reo Sato, aware of their presence and their reactions to me. Much like I was Massimiliano Vidal. He’s a treacherous one because he plays the middle field like Dom, or hell, even Sal. The problem with that is he’s fucking delicious. I wouldn’t have allowed what happened that night to occur with just anyone.
My pretty boy deserves the same.
And I am not a pretty boy.
I wasn’t immune to the pleasurable look on Mass’ face when my boy was swallowing his dick, but I wasn’t going to make out with the guy or pursue him either. I didn’t need to in order to enjoy him. I knew Sal had a crush on Mass, and watching him spin in the sexual dilemma was well worth it.
Sal won’t cheat on me.
I don’t believe for one-second that Sal and Mass are over in Italy getting it on. My lover would fuck a thousand bitches before he’d let another man touch him unless that was Dom in a session—and only in a session. They’ll never walk around the streets holding hands, but even Sal and I haven’t done that. And I am starting to wonder if a huge chunk of my life is missing because of the contorting I do to fit Sal with me.
And it makes sense that I would question this now. Iris has shown no interest in seeing or entertaining my cock, and Sal is on the other side of the globe. I am in a celibacy phase, but I am okay; I have my hand.
Masa Nakamura is a fucking beast with massive muscles covered in colorful ink. His devotion to Iris is noteworthy, especially considering they were not raised together. Sal has told me stories of Masa and his scenes—never venturing into the sexual lands—where sadism takes the lead. I imagine Masa is an incredible Dominant based on my encounters with him. He is forthcoming and assertive with a calm, cool, and collected tone.
I have zero desire to play his bottom boy, so I’ll never experience this side of Masa. Plus, I don’t think Masa swings that way. I know Sal has questioned it, but my gaydar with Masa is almost nonexistent. He flirts, toying with the notions to send home his point.
On the other hand, Reo Sato serves a veritable feast of goodness. He is dedicated to Iris and her happiness, which scores huge points with me. His pretty boy face is enough for swoon-worthy fap, which is strange because he does not look the type, even less than Masa. Iris assures me; Sato is gay as the day is long.
While I left his innuendo mostly ignored at the funeral, he hasn’t shown any other interest in me. I am good with that because I am a married fucking man.
And ignoring the fact that my wifey in Italy is delusional and shattered.
I am playing on Iris’ team because that is what the ring on my finger with Sal means. He asked me to come to Japan to watch over Iris, and I did, not because I am a good little bitch, but out of pure love for Sal.
Either he suspects her lies, or he is testing me.
I’m sitting by the pool, reading a book, and minding my own business when Iris shows up in a teeny-tiny-my-fucking-God-that-is-white-hot bikini. I pay no attention despite the twitch in my cock.
There is something about this girl.
My body involuntarily reacts to her. As a certifiable gay man, I’ve come to accept that I will never understand this. I can fuck anyone (and have), but actual reaction—like the uprising boner that is distracting my reading now—from a female is difficult to attain with me.
Oh, God.
She floats like an angel in the crystal blue waters.
Standing on the steps, Iris bends over to adjust her towel next to the pool. She likes to sunbathe and dip her fingers so that she can drip cool water on her warm skin. I’ve been watching her for years. I understand Iris better than her fucking husband—but we aren’t going there.
Staring at the curve of her ass cheek where it meets the swimsuit, I tilt my head and take a deep breath as I close the book and lean the chair back. This is not happening.
Not today.
Not tomorrow.
Ignoring the pounding ache in my loose shorts, I envision death, blood, gore, engines, clubs, killing, and crowbars all to avoid that.
Go down, you son of a bitch.
I grab my phone and order a lavish bouquet for the one I adore. Not a bad idea. I’ll send flowers to him every time I imagine making love to her because I’ll never have Iris as I want her and keep Sal.
Down, boy.
She smiles and holds out the lotion. I reluctantly play the best friend role as I get up to rub Sal’s baby down with sunscreen. I can’t ignore the porcelain skin of the girl that the belly belongs to, or her growing breasts, or her light-hearted laugh, or her sparkling jewels blinking like I am the hero of her story—I am not.
But this is going to require a shower.
His Butterfly
With his hands rubbing lotion onto my legs, I close my eyes. I could hire a masseuse, but Deacon Cruz has a way with those calloused fingers and large palms. I notice the gardeners working on the property.
“They’re doing a lot.”
“Summer Festival,” I lazily reply as he works my flesh, making my thinking ability feel like mush. “It’s an annual event to mark the end of summer.”
“When?”
“This weekend,” I inform, biting my lip as he sits on the edge of the pool with my feet in his lap. He kneads my arches. “You’ll be there on my arm.”
I peek one eye open to catch his crooked grin and the lift of his brow above the Ray-Bans. “I will, huh?”
“Yes,” I say, lifting on my elbows to see him. My growing belly sits between us. “Do you want a girl or a boy?”
“Me?” he inquires, not even questioning his place in this child’s life. “I want a little girl.”
“… Really?” I grin wide, unable to hide my surprise or elation. “Why?”
“Because she’ll look just like you.”
“She might not,” I counter. “She may have his green eyes and curly mop.”
Tossing his sunglasses off, he smirks when I snatch and put them on. “Or she could have your blue-violets and his mop,” he suggests as I lean back. “What do I need to wear to this shindig? I am very limited on clothes.”
“I’ll make sure you have something appropriate.”
“When are you going to make your move on Cristos?”
I lick my lips and reach for his hand. “Soon. I will infiltrate Immortal with my charming ways and arrest any notions of Muerte ever hitching up with Cristos. He will immediately run to Sal with wah-wah’s about what a cunt I am for inserting myself into the middle of his epic play.”
Staring at the water, Deacon lights a smoke and asks, “What if he doesn’t run to Sal?”
“Cristos has two plays he routinely runs. He is either aiming to take Sal out of the game or take him to bed.”
“I hate the way that sounds,” he says, brushing his fingertips over my calves. “But I also know you’re right. He won’t leave Raniero alone.”
“No,” I agree. “He is determined to destroy or develop their relationship. And when he gets close enough to Sal, I will initiate an attack to remove him permanently from our landscape.”
“And if your plan doesn’t go according to plan?” he snickers as his blonde hair shines in the sun. “What then?”
I quickly sit up. “Delarte Cristos is going to die sooner or later, by my hands, because of the things he paid to have done to all of us, including your brother.” I lay my hand on his arm. “Do you ever wonder why Muerte adopted Diablo?”
“I wonder why Diablo didn’t stay,” he replies as the assembly crew arrives to put up the tents for the party. “But I could ask the same thing about Durante Costa. He had every opportunity to get in with Immortal, yet he chose to stay working for Torrente.”
“I cannot imagine that behind the compound walls, Immortal is very friendly.”
“I’m scared shitless about this, Iris,” he voices his worry. “If something happens to Sal’s baby…”
“Nothing,” I interject with confidence, “is going to happen to this baby.”
“Does The Chairman know?”
“That I am pregnant with Durante’s baby?” He nods as I glance away from his intense stare. “No. But he will.”
“How do you plan on getting away from Lotus?”
“I am not under house arrest,” I point out. “I can come and go.”
“But we need an in,” he informs. “You can’t just run off to Mexico with no build-up. No one will believe that. You need to make this believable to everyone.”
“Including Sal…” I whisper.
“Yes,” he mutters. “Including Sal.”
“You’re keeping my secrets.”
He stretches his arms above his head. “I don’t have a choice. My primary job is to keep you safe. If you are lying to Sal, then I have to follow you.”
“But you don’t agree with my decisions?”
“It doesn’t matter how I feel. If you wanted my opinions, you should have asked long before telling a lie. It’s too late now, Iris. The damage is done, and the train is headed straight for the cliff.”
“The water will catch me…”
“You’re assuming there is water,” he implores, holding back his fight for both of our sakes. “There may not be anything other than a dry creek bed a thousand feet down. You won’t survive the fall. And that—because I vowed to protect you—is on me. If you die, the blood is on my hands.”
“I am not going to die, Deacon.”
“You say that so easily, but you cannot possibly comprehend how bad it is at Immortal. You live in a fucking castle, and the rose-colored glasses you are looking through are blinding your eyes.”
“And the lights will go out,” I sass, feeling his harsh judgement. “I’ll make sure I grab a flashlight.”
I waddle to get up as he easily stands and grabs my hand. “Don’t do this.”
“What?”
He lowers to my face. “You don’t understand how dark it is about to get. I do everything to keep you in the sun, but you’re constantly looking for ways to burrow in the soil and bring on the vile.”
“I’ll survive in the pitch,” I scoff. “The question is, will you?”
His fingers tighten around my wrist. “Bitch, please. I was born in the dark.”
“Then, maybe I need the lessons to understand where you and he have been.”
Releasing my arm, he shakes his head. “It was never supposed to be this way. You are the monarch, not the peasant, so stop acting like one.”
“Deacon…Delarte Cristos and the men like him destroyed my life.”
“Really?” he yells, growing agitated. “Have you looked around?” Holding out his open hands, he points to his fingers as he speaks. “You have a husband who worships the ground you walk on. A beautiful baby on the way. A team from Japan to France. A kingdom with the support of an army at your disposal. And one pissed off biker who loves your ass more than anything else in the world.”
I blink, startled by his confession. “Take it back.”
“I can’t.”
“Take it back, Deacon,” I beg with a quivering lip and smacking his arms inked with spiritual depictions of his tale. “Take it back!”
“I won’t,” he sneers as quiet tears run down my cheeks. “Not now. Not ever. I am in love with you, Iris Amarie Nakamura Kettles Raniero, and I will be until my last breath. But I can’t stop you from making the biggest mistake of your life. All I can do is clean up the mess left in your wake and pray the torrents don’t smother the bonfires that keep you warm at night.”
With a sniffle, I tease, “Are we camping?”
“Yeah,” he contends, wrapping his arms around me. “In a yurt, with a chandelier and a champagne fountain.”
36
Breaking Point
The Master
Slamming the binder on the table in Morocco, I demand, “Tell me about Bilal Amari.”
With a hapless gaze, Berk frowns, thumbing a cigarette from his pack. “It’s about time you came to ask the right questions. I was worried you were never going to show up, Sal Raniero.”
Despite the bait of his banter, I push the hefty tome printed with everything I found on Bilal Amari and his family across to him. “Tell me a story.”
“You may want a story, but you won’t like the end.”
“Not all stories have a happy ending. I will suffer through it,” I reply, lighting a Camel cigarette. “I want the truth no one has told me.”
He palms at his salt-and-pepper beard, easily distorting his expression. I cannot distinguish if he is pleased by my presence or angered by my animosity.
I am infuriated by the passage of time as I watch the disintegrating wick of the candle on the table. I want the ticking time bomb that my existence has become to stop. I am tired of running on another’s agenda with my fingers crossed and a penny in my shoe.
My lucky rabbit just got sheared.
“I will tell you the story, but you must promise to stay on course.”
I shake my head and scowl. “What the fuck do you think I have been trying to do?”
“You blamed yourself for Bilal’s death,” he mutters, pushing the binder off to the side. “But it was not your fault. Your father didn’t kill Bilal because of your relationship. He may have used that against you, but the real reason is far more sinister.”
“All I know is, he strangled a thirteen-year-old boy and threw him in the river. They found the body and ruled it an accidental drowning, but everyone knew,” I admit, bracing my hands on the arms of the chair as I dredge up the bad memories. “Do you have any idea what it is like when the entire school is scared of you because of your father?”
He nods once. “I can’t say I do. The Polat family has never exerted the power of the Raniero organization, but I can imagine it was horrific for you at such an impressionable young age.”
“Please…continue…”
“Years ago, there were two predominant cartel families in my region.”
Smoothing my fingers over the rim of the candle, I clarify, “They were Middle Eastern?”
“Yes,” he answers, glancing up at the ceiling. “One family was connected to the Irish,” he pauses, scratching his nose. “And the other was connected to the Italians.”
“Raniero’s?”
“No, think bigger.”
I spread my arms and ask, “All of the mafia families in the States?”
He whispers, “Bigger.”
I stop breathing. “... The Commission.”
He points at me. “You got it.”
“So Kill Rat versus The Commission?”
He waves his hands out. “All of the Irish. The alignment didn’t matter as long as the cash was exchanged with the delivered goods. At this point, the Irish and the Italians were still having t
urf wars.”
I steeple my hands beneath my chin and chuckle, “They still are.”
“But there was a lot more surface strife compared to today where we have internalized our wars. Shootings still occur, but mafia as a culture is far more likely to hit one another through less violent tactics but more invasive on the underside.”
“Like laundering through stolen merchandise, internet fraud, depleting accounts, sequencing cash, flipping bitcoins, and other cryptocurrencies.”
“Exactly,” he concurs with a noted excitement of my understanding. He doesn’t know I have been the cause of such roughshod behavior. For shame, I know. “It was a different time and place, twenty…thirty…forty…fifty years ago. Wars between factions involved a lot of bloodshed. One day, an Irish priest met with an Italian priest, and they compared notes and realized they were bidding against one another for the merch.”
“Not unusual.”
“No,” he says. “But what was unusual was Queen Estrel’s involvement. She was selling cargo ships of cocaine to Servet for pennies. Meanwhile, Servet was turning around, selling it off to their allies and up charging it.”
“Not an unheard-of business model.”
“Until they stopped paying her,” he says, jabbing his finger on the wood. “Demetrios Cristos and Luca Raniero were warring in the Colombian jungle and making everyone’s lives hell. Her shipments got delayed, and Servet’s solution was non-payment. Cristos escalated the war in Medellín, but Servet put a stop to it.”
“They sent in men?”
“No, they started growing their own, which of course, angered Estrel because she controlled the majority of the market for a good half-century. She was losing face, and her Immortal was declining in value.”
I shrug. “None of this is noteworthy.”
“Hush and listen,” he scolds, spreading his hands out before me. “One of those two prominent Middle Eastern families was the Amari family. She wrongly believed that they held the majority rule in Servet and ordered all Amari children to be killed. Bilal’s older sister is Sasha Amari. Her husband is from the other prominent family.”
A Dark Place (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 5) Page 28
