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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  Sasha. Harold. Their children.

  “Are there more of the Amari children?”

  “No one knows for sure where everyone is; I am even among the missing, except to immediate family. Sasha does not speak of the tragedy that our family has endured for generations.”

  I lift my hand flat. “Wait. This is still going on?”

  “Only if they find them,” he informs, pulling out another cigarette from the pack as we chain-smoke our way through this trail of broken dreams. “I tend to believe that they are in hiding.” He flicks the lighter, inhaling with a grimace, and exhales the painful words, “I remember leaving my childhood home in the dead of night when I was three. My grandparents and parents were terrified. I rode in the back of the dust-covered delivery truck for hours as we drove. My mother held me to her breast and begged for my silence. The other family was re-established as Polat in Turkey.”

  I stare in shock. “… Who helped you?”

  “The Commission, Sanctum, Nero…they all played a role in our entire family’s escape. Unfortunately, the men in my family and subsequently their children did not take the threat kindly. They went into hiding in Canada, and eventually, a nice, young man by the name of Vinny Veramonte befriended them.”

  “My father…”

  “Yes,” he says with a soft smile. “He convinced them to move outside of Boston and to seek refuge under the Raniero umbrella. Luca fully supported the idea, knowing the kind of man Demetrios Cristos and Muerte Herrera were. Still, with his declining health, the deal eventually went belly up after years in seclusion. Cesario killed Bilal in early 2004.”

  “Old Poppa died in 2005.”

  “But it didn’t matter because, by that point, Demetrios Cristos had already launched his best weapon—Stephanie Archer.”

  I furrow a brow. “… Serene?”

  “She was part of the trade between Holland Archer and Demetrios Cristos because his son, Delarte, loved Serene. And she agreed to do it for Immortal because she was gifted a Condémariella box with millions in black Texas gold.”

  “Oil.”

  “You got it,” he says, lifting his hand. “Only Estrel didn’t just have oil in Texas. She had oil all over the world. And she hoped by gifting the box to Serene that she would turn against her father and become…”

  “Queen Serene Cristos…”

  “Correct,” he replies with an approving smirk. His teacher is proud of my student. “But after her twin brother’s death, her father shifted the balance, leaving his mafia ties behind. She wasn’t getting any Archer business to run. He dismantled her throne before it was even built by selling and giving away almost everything he owned. Anything Serene has now is because she either earned it or your deceased wife, Kaci, bought it from the dividends off of the oil from Condémariella.”

  In absolute horror, I whisper, “I never needed Dale Archer’s money.”

  “You never needed anything once Kaci Hope passed and left you that box. They used you. They have been using you. And they’ll keep using you as long as they can. The worst thing possible would be the Raniero son to end up in the wrong hands.”

  “How much of this did Kaci know?”

  “I met with her back in 2006-ish,” he answers, stubbing out his smoke. “She knew a lot and wanted it all to end. She may have used you too, but only because she believed you could dismantle the unorthodox and diabolical practices between Cristos and Immortal. Even mafia have a moral compass and an ethical code. It may not make sense, but you know it’s true. Cristos and Immortal have long ignored any boundaries. They’ve been colluding together for years, and no one has ever been able to stop them.”

  “Her goal was never destroying it...” I mumble as a statement and a question.

  “No…”

  “Because she couldn’t see the bigger picture,” I reveal as the tears come on hard. “Kaci couldn’t give anything more than she did because she was dying. And we’re spoiled if we haven’t met that demon.”

  “The one absolute is we’re running out of time.”

  “Those who say we’ve got all the time in the world are incorrect and wrong,” I contend, steadfast in my beliefs. “Time is our greatest asset. And no one ever sees that.”

  He nods and smiles. “Time is a currency. How many minutes will you give for this? How much life will you give for that?”

  This that, more if this, less if that.

  “I would have given every hour to keep Iris safe,” I whisper, reverting to a treacherous domain where viruses spread and attack my core processors. “People waste more time than money every fucking day because they’re too busy chasing the monkey on their back. Life has never been about money.”

  “No,” he agrees, offering a smoke to me. “Fuck the money; I’ll keep my time.” We light the cigarettes, infusing the room with a dense nicotine haze, layers upon layers fill the room, the toxic breath from our lungs infiltrating his domicile. “After this discussion, if you need a hitman, I’ll do it. You’re worth my investment of time, Salvatore. You don’t even have to pay me. Just let me what you’re going to do.”

  “I’m killing Delarte Cristos for stealing time. I’m killing Muerte for the deplorable atrocities he delivered to the Amari families. And when I’m done giving my time to those two things, I’m taking a vacation.”

  “I hear the Siberian winter is nice…freezing burns.”

  Water and fire together.

  “Said no one ever,” I snicker as we laugh. I turn dangerous fast. “And I’m killing Dale Archer for siphoning my time from Deacon Cruz. And then I’m taking his hand and walking away from this shit before it vandalizes and seizes any more of my most precious commodity.”

  “The money doesn’t matter.”

  “Money comes, and money goes; the time doesn’t ever come back, it just dissipates like the clouds of smoke.”

  “There will be residue,” he claims.

  With a vengeance, I cite, “But the time has damn sure fucking come.”

  “Payback will be hell, my Nero brother.”

  I shake my head as we shoot mental marbles. “A dark place to reclaim minutes; an investment in the future; ride the train, don’t steer it.”

  “You can’t steer what was never meant to be free,” he says with a grin.

  “Nup, but I can damn sure hit the gas and push the train to the max.”

  “Dump the cargo, but watch the corner because the centrifugal force changes.”

  Running my hand through my hair, I crack my knuckles and lightly rock in the chair. “I exist in a derailed state.”

  “You’re a rare breed, but what happens when you crash?”

  I snarl, “I bounce back like no muthafucka you have ever seen.”

  He smiles. “Who gave you such resilience?”

  “My father—every time he broke my hands.”

  “Do you want me to take him off the playing field?”

  “Not yet. I’ll do it when I resurrect the mafia Luca Raniero intended.”

  He gives a discouraging glare. “You cannot do that. Remember—you cannot apply the template of the past to the present. You can take over his business, but it will never be his again. You cannot live your life in any man’s shadow. The family business will be the Sal Raniero crime syndicate.”

  “Are you telling me this so I will finally accept it?”

  “I’m providing facts; what you do with them is your cross to bear. It’s on your shoulders, not mine. I cannot resurrect the Amari family, even with the Condémariella given to my mother.”

  “Why?”

  “I inherited the box when she died. My brothers didn’t want it. My daughter passed. I have no one to give it to, and even if I did, why would I curse her with the tomb of our crimes?”

  “Craft projects with pistachio shells?”

  He laughs. “And the documentation showing ownership in all twenty-nine of them.”

  The firm look in my eyes is enough to earn a wink from him. “… Twenty-nine shells?”
>
  He giggles. “Even my brothers do not know the contents of the box, so discretion, please.”

  “Discretion is always a must.”

  “I appreciate that,” he says. “You asked me why Morocco…why the fuck not? Spend your life, and your time somewhere you love with someone you love, Sal. Don’t be the prodigal son. Put well to use.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “You don’t have to say that,” he replies. “I’m just a rake.”

  “And I collect tools.”

  His broad white smile surfaces in the heavy beard as he chuckles. “Should I be insulted?”

  “Not as long as you know how to use it.”

  “I do,” he replies. “Do you?”

  “With no regrets or hesitations.”

  37

  Until Peru

  His Butterfly

  “Why am I letting you do this?” I ask, sitting in the bathroom chair as Deacon liberally applies makeup. My hair is setting up in fat, hot rollers. The pink silk robe hangs loose on my body when he spins me. I keep stealing glances in the mirror.

  “Look up. We need more sparkle.”

  “I am not whoring for a hookup.”

  “It’s not about a hookup,” he says. “You need to appear like everything is perfectly fine while carrying around Durante’s baby and the Raniero name. It needs to appear as though you planned it all.”

  “I didn’t,” I argue.

  “I’m well aware, but we’re repairing your image before any further damage occurs. They’ll forgive anything they witnessed at Aki’s funeral, but they won’t forget tonight.”

  “What are your plans?”

  “I’m going to finish decorating my doll and take a shower. I will meet you at the party.”

  “I want to go in on your arm.”

  “It’s not a good idea,” he warns. “Even if people don’t know the depth of my involvement with Sal, I’m still Unholy and his right-hand man. You walk into the party on my arm, and people will speculate that Sal-baby-gate is a ploy.”

  “Since when did you become my public relations fixer?”

  “I always have the Nakamura and Raniero entities at the front of my mind. Perception is everything. You need their trust in your ability to chart and lead Lotus into the future.”

  “The future is a dark, forbidden forest filled with skeletons and zombies.”

  He finishes painting my lips, lowers to my face, and lays his hand on my belly. “And one, Goblin.”

  I laugh. “Fair point.”

  “Be a vampire, Iris,” he claims, stepping back and checking over his masterpiece. “Sal practices the art of draining one to feed another better than you.”

  Knowing I am about to step in a hotbed of fire ants, I respond, “… Sucking mastery?”

  “Yes!” he snorts, dusting powder over my face once more. My face may be layers of cake, but as he displays my reflection in the mirror, I understand his brilliance. I look stunning, reflective of my culture without overdoing it. Instead of shielding my blue eyes, he’s used dark reddish-brown to make them pop. “He smoothly transitions from one victim to the next with little delay. All the while remaining elusive and ambiguous.”

  “It is that same ambiguity which forces his wife to question his intentions.”

  “His intentions are always with you.”

  “They were,” I remind as he takes the rollers down. “I have successfully incapacitated our relationship.”

  “You stunned him,” he rebukes, fluffing and teasing my long auburn locks. “He will rebound.”

  “I should be worrying about what he will be serving,” I mutter as I stop thinking like his estranged wife and more like the businesswoman I am. “He is going to react, and so will I. We could be lost in Newton’s Third Law for the rest of our lives because of one red herring.”

  “Belief is ubiquitous. Beyond the propaganda, you skyrocketed out into the world, Sal believes in you more than anything else. I would choose you, and so would he. Do not ever doubt his validity. If it came down to a gun…”

  “He’s in it until Peru...”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I understand Sal’s meaning behind the concept and the phrase. We do not quit. We keep one another safe. We fight until the bitter end, but that doesn’t alleviate gameplay. He isn’t going to fold and swagger away from the table, though he’ll pick up some tramp on the way back to his comped hotel room.”

  “Two.”

  “What?”

  “He’ll pick up two or more tramps,” he corrects with a grin. “If you’re writing the story, you best know the character. Sal would never pick up one tramp.”

  “He picked up me,” I argue, feeling dismayed in light of our conversation. Almost insulted. “And I am one.”

  “He also picked up Amber, Jaid, Skeeter, Rowan…his list goes on and on.”

  “Are you saying I should pick up a couple of tramps?”

  “I am merely suggesting, Ms. Nakamura, that you might consider broadening your scope to the possibilities on the horizon. If you narrow the view down to one tramp and she performs unsatisfactorily, then you have alternative means and measures.”

  “You are telling me to whore around…”

  Nose to nose, he gets all up in my grill. “Stop thinking you are the whore. You are the boss, bitch. You select the whores you want to entertain you, not vice versa. Believe me, baby, they will knock.”

  “I am almost six months pregnant, Deacon. No manwhore is busting down my door.”

  “Negative.” His nostrils expand as he breathes heavily through his nose and stands upright. “That is where you are all wrong. Every eligible mafia playboy is going to knock on your door, and you need to prepare for it, Iris.”

  “You’re insane!”

  “Will you stop behaving like a hormonal pregnant woman for one minute?”

  With a harsh scowl, I seethe, “I am a hormonal pregnant woman!”

  His hands drop to the sides of the chair, trapping me in. I softly breathe as he is mere inches from my lips. “And you are the Lotus.”

  The fiercely determined way he says the word sends a shiver through my spine. I bravely run my finger along his cheek and whisper, “Are you the first?”

  “My name is Deacon Cruz, the son of Saint, and Sal Raniero’s lover. If you need more than that, cross me off of your list,” he teases, softening his edges as the lines begin to blur, and he kisses my lips. His tongue dips into my mouth as the bubbles rise in my belly. “And I hold Sanctum’s balls in my hand.”

  “What are the blocks for?”

  Moving the stool out of the way, Sal grabbed the container. “What color do you want to be?”

  “Pink.” I grinned at his game.

  He held it up for my examination and set it on the tile near the tub. Backpedaling to the shower stall, he smirked and turned over the bucket of blocks. They smashed into the tile, making a racket. “This is everyone else. Fix it.”

  “What is my goal?”

  “You cannot be alone which you are. Get three colors back to you.”

  “I have you,” I whispered, crossing my fingers. “I hope.”

  “Ahh! But do you?” he asked, raising a brow. “Uncross your fucking fingers.”

  “Dammit!” I scowled.

  “Fix it!” he yelled. “Tell me how you clean up the damn mess you have made.”

  “I will have to further consider what you have to offer Lotus, Mr. Cruz.”

  He giddily snarls. “You paid attention!”

  “Of course I did,” I respectfully reply. “I always listen to The Capo.”

  “Play the game,” he reminds. “Be cutthroat. Take no prisoners. Leave no trace. Hide the bodies in the woods.”

  “For the zombies to feast upon?”

  “For a later day,” he stresses, staring at me. “And whatever you do, don’t blink.”

  “I will not waver in the currents of the hurricane, your wind shields me, and his fires inspire me. I will never for
get what I crave.”

  “Which is?”

  “To be Salvatore Raniero’s wife.”

  He glances at my wedding ring. “It sounds like a step-down.”

  “I assure you, it is anything but, Sir…”

  “Take off the ring.”

  With a look of sheer terror, I panic as the reality slides into focus. I have known I couldn’t wear the token of his love for much longer, and the hidden tears I have fraught with on this one issue are crippling.

  Sal loves me, and I love him.

  We’re testing our love once again as we vie for our rightful position. “Are you trying to destroy my makeup?”

  “I will take the rock off of you by force,” he assertively threatens. How fun would it be for you to try, Cruz… “To protect you, the child, and the sanctity of your marriage. If you cause doubt within the masses, you risk losing it all.”

  I hold out my hand as he slips the ring from my finger. “You can have it back when all is said and done, princess.”

  Without shedding a single tear, I glance into his soul and fall into a trance where nothing matters but victory. “That is Queen to you, Dear Saint.”

  Arriving at the party fashionably late, I scan the crowd in search of Deacon. His unwillingness to walk in on my arm is understandable, but I would like to share a drink and a laugh if for no other reason than to give the busybodies something to gossip about. I can hear them now, ‘Deacon Cruz abandoned Sal Raniero for the Lotus.’

  It will never happen.

  But damn, it would be funny as hell if it did.

  Every move Deacon makes is to guard the placement of his Dominant Alpha. He was proclaimed a king at birth, set to sit amongst the tribal Gods, and I would be the one to challenge his every step.

  In a fitted blue suit, Masa approaches with a concerned look. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard yet, but your husband is aiming to purchase Kill Rat.”