“You know this place?”
“Yeah, my grandparents own it.”
Holy shit.
I’m not going to dance around this—I’m fucking terrified. It’s not like I’ve done this, like this, a whole lot. I’ve met Sal’s family, and his sisters, Mom, and extended family welcomed me. But there was always the expectation of Iris.
My safety net—my penis parachute held by a dewy flower—is gone.
This is coming out and going home to meet the parents all in one. A blow job, a fellatio, a momentary lapse where my lips said—‘suck my dick’—and Sato did. I wasn’t worthy of meeting anyone with my fly-by-night attitude.
But who am I lying to?
Only myself.
I have an unexplainable attraction to a guy I barely know, and this has never happened in all of the years I’ve been with Sal. I’ve accepted that he is a manwhore, and I’ve taken a few bitches to bed for the team. But this…I never fucking saw this coming.
I am mouth-gapingly stunned by Reo Sato, and no matter what I do, I cannot deny the ache. Maybe Sato is only an intriguing curiosity, but I need to know. Is it lust or something more? I don’t know. And that fucking scares the hell out of me.
The love of my life is on the line.
We have a pleasant afternoon, eating and chatting with Sato translating. His grandmother is a darling, dainty woman perfectly complementing her husband’s reserved, but humorous personality. The savory food is incredible, with sauces that I can only compare to Kim’s back in New Orleans. No restaurant can even come close to the home-cooked goodness in Asian cuisine.
We depart with hugs and kisses, undoubtedly inspired by Sato’s Italian mother. I leave with a good sense of well-being and understanding that the Sato family is tight despite their cultural differences.
My fascination with family and desire to be a part of one stems from a broken childhood. Ma married an abusive asshole, and I rarely saw my dad. I never blamed Ma for her choices throughout the traumatic early years, and I don’t even now. They wouldn’t have been mine—I would never have split the twins or stayed with Javi Diaz as long as she did.
Saint (my father) loved his tawdry mistress (my mother), and I can see why. Ma was and is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met, and to that, I cannot blame Sal for his attraction to Trudy Diaz either. I know where her loyalties lie.
But where is his?
We leave his grandparent’s place and walk out to the bikes. He’s standing close—too close to be friends. “I’d like the rest of the weekend with you.”
I blink, knowing if I try and speak, I will stutter and look the fool, so I press my lips together and merely nod.
This is stupid.
Like really, bitch.
Calm the fuck down.
When Dom sent me gallivanting around the world for three years, I had no trouble picking up my fair share of both sexes. I do not hiccup with people—ever—but with Sato, I am hitting one-speed bump after another. The gyrations shake and stir my gut as I avoid what could happen if I leave my heart unattended.
Constant chaperoning is necessary because I am captivated by every move he makes; every word he speaks.
We ride to a ryokan near Lake Yogo and stop outside. “This isn’t a one-night stand, Deacon.”
“I know,” I acknowledge the magnitude of what is occurring. “I just don’t know what this is…”
“I want some time to talk without interference,” he adds, laying his hand on my shoulder. “I need to get to know you.”
Iris.
And the continuous reminder of another.
“I can’t make any promises,” I say honestly. “But I’m worried if I don’t figure this out—I may end up regretting a missed opportunity, and that isn’t something I can handle for the rest of my life.”
There never should’ve been an opportunity.
“Why did you bring me here?”
“Because ultimately the only thing that matters is you. And you have sacrificed long enough for the sake of unappreciative others. I can’t take those moments away, and I won’t even try. All we can do is try to make new memories. And hopefully, at the end of whatever journey we’re on together, we reach a deeper place of understanding.”
“Sato…”
“Don’t say it, Deacon,” he warns, walking away to check us into the ryokan. Near the door, he turns around and smiles. “Give me the chance to be the one you will never forget.”
I lower my head, closing my eyes, and feel the heavy drift of a long winter coming on. Fires. Romance. Waters. Love. And more current than ever jolts through me.
I am a kite, flying, reckless, and brave into a new world…a new adventure…a new time. And I can’t look down. I won’t. His flames are destroying the forest, and her waves are convulsing with cruelty.
I escaped in the morning light; by dawn, I set foot on fresh soil.
But if all of this is real…
Why do I feel so numb?
Have I given up fighting for them to save myself?
The Master
“What are your plans to kill Father Byrne?”
In his office at the Basilica, I sigh. There are a million words I could say to the vindictive priest set on ensuring Cesario’s wishes are met without resistance. “I don’t have a plan.”
“You’re going to need one,” he replies, scanning over the documents—financial statements—in front of him. His desk is the mess I expect, cluttered with debris and a preposterous amount of paper clips. The old-style metal kind. Some appear to have been in use for years and have specks of rust. “You cannot run this like a standard hit. You cannot just go pop him off.”
I love other’s perceptions on how an assassination works.
It’s fucked up.
Let me start with; I never pop anyone off on a hit.
From the moment the buyer says—do it—to the act itself takes a bare minimum of several weeks. I will need surveillance, footwork, scouting, and a collection of intel. I should also mention, this is for a clean hit. People often pay Joe Blow to ‘cap one-off’ for a measly stipend, but dare I say, you get what you pay for.
I don’t come cheap.
And I don’t associate with those who do. Cause that shit wears on your rep like a tomato sauce on a white shirt. It never comes out—a giant faux pas. I don’t make those either.
At least, not when it comes to work.
Quick and clean kills that are thoroughly researched and executed with a stealthy touch. That is what I offered back in the day, and it was that same mantra that earned the attention of other assassins.
I come by this honestly; Vinny has been Cesario’s hitman for years and has never once faced a prison sentence. Tactical elimination, preferable to the term: killing, is a specialized gift, practiced, and labored upon.
Take Nicky, for instance. He tends to be sloppy as fuck these days because he is a killer, a societal menace, a deranged sociopath. Back in the day, he had it in him to be a legend, but the taste of blood is a draw, and he is nothing less than a vampire hunting for his next meal.
I do not need the kill; he does.
And that tidbit makes a huge difference.
There was a genuine concern that at Sanctum, I would fall into the repetitious addiction of gore. But I rarely enjoy taking another human’s life. There have been some exceptions, most recently and notably, Kane Parker. I relished ending his life because everything he did when Abel was a child led to the outcome. Abel is sitting in rehab in California, fighting to get clean, but even if he succeeds, Kane’s battle permanently exists in his world.
Much like Cesario in mine.
I have a fucking chip on my shoulder from all the shit he pulled. It’s not a good topic, and I tend to avoid it, which is why I seriously have to think if I want to partner up with Daddy and challenge the court of witches.
The physical memories will be the worst as I will need to withstand every crack of bone and bloodied lip I endured at the hands of a
madman. Strange as this may sound, I can compartmentalize the emotional abuse far easier than I can the physical. My hands will ache, my body will shake, and I will end up using again to forget that pain.
And my high pain threshold never comes into play.
Fuck, I wish it would.
But it’s all connected, wired together as one. I maintain constant cauterization on my mental ties back to Cesario, but one hand on my shoulder can send me reeling for the stardust. I don’t know how to sever the body from memory.
When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.
I stretch my arms above my head and yawn. I’m not tired; I’m being an ass, bored by his inattentive self which needs to reprimand my actions thus far. “I suppose I need to go where Father Byrne is.”
He lifts a brow above his large, round glasses. Gotcha, bastard. “… Ireland?”
I shrug. “That’s where Carrick is, and if you want him murdered, that is where I have to go. I am not luring him down to Italy or anywhere else on the planet. You want discreet and tidy, and I am aiming to give you that, but you got to understand, there are limits.”
“Why not Boston?” He suggests, “He is headed there in a few weeks.”
“I am not killing another priest in Boston,” I firmly reply, locking my fingers together beneath my chin. “You did that once, less than a year ago, and that would be a fucking media frenzy.”
He tosses his glasses onto the thick stack of papers. That’s a lot of fucking bank statements. Just sayin’. There is something fishy in this priest’s water besides the fact that he wants to erase his brother. “I will personally pay you for the hit.”
Sweet. But no bueno. “The fuck you will,” I hiss. “I am not doing it, Padre.”
“I will promise an Asian priest in your neck of the woods soon.”
My neck of the woods? Exactly where the fuck is that?
Because even I am not sure anymore.
“Why in the hell should I, an Italian-American Guido, give a rat’s ass about an Asian piece?”
“Because you care about your wife?”
“My wife, who is having a baby with another man?” I callously remind. “You’re assuming way too much. You’re assuming that I care or would even concern myself with whatever the fuck Iris Nakamura is doing or who she is spreading it for…I don’t care.”
“I’ll promise Nero recruits outside of the green, white, and red spectrum.”
“I would just as soon Nero stayed Italiano,” I respond with agitation, not giving a shit about his diversity plans. “You only want me to agree to your cultural expansion project so you can bring in a fucking Irishman.”
And if I was betting, it’s all on Stroker Mullins.
Watch as I douse this motherfucker in gasoline and light a match…
… just to witness the burns.
Don’t ask me to save anyone.
Because that ain’t happening.
43
An Invader Stealing My Last Cigarette
His Ride
I’ve traveled all over the globe, and everywhere is different, but the way the Japanese present things—from bedding on tatami mats to bento box lunches—is a unique event unto itself. I am enthralled by this world, his girl, and the man sitting beside me.
We spent the evening chatting over sake. His history and mine—a collection of pieces to see if we could make a whole puzzle. But every aspect of our conversation trails back to—am I missing pieces from Salvatore?
So the challenge surfaces.
I must confide and trust, but keep the distance and not let any movement or word be misconstrued into something it’s not. We slept in separate rooms, and I know nothing about this man other than what he has said.
I am not venturing to go exploring with my hands and tongue. I am not seeking his topography, but his understanding. And I don’t need an up-close and personal view of his dick to know if this is worth it or not.
I am thirty-one years old, not a boy or a man-child. I know what I am looking for, and the problem is, I don’t know if it’s wrapped in a five-ten Italian package. I am seeking confirmation so that I can accept communion. And that is the best way I can describe the change I am going through.
Reo Sato is a study in a relatively normal, gay male.
Am I sizing us up?
Absolutely.
It has nothing to do with dick size and everything to do with the measure of a man. The closest two men to me are both daegos, and for better or worse, they are also decidedly much more sexually free than I will ever be.
If I had a choice, my dick would never go near another pussy. But with those two aforementioned mafia bros, there may not be a choice. So I am using (for a lesson with no malice) Reo Sato as a comparison.
In a sea of homosexual men, how would I fare?
It’s a legitimate question and one I must answer. Sal solidified his commitment to Iris with a marriage and a piece of paper. They are bound together. I chose to stand by and bless that union, not questioning my position, until now. I have a matching ring I share with Sal, but I need to know if I am okay…by Reo Sato’s standard.
It sounds utterly irrational, I know.
We rented bikes—literal, pedaling bikes—in the early morning and rode around Lake Yogo. They call it Mirror Lake, which seems quite poignant for where my head is at. I am looking at my reflection, and I don’t know that I like what I see.
“Do you know the story of the Swan Maiden?”
I shake my head. “No, I don’t.”
“It’s based in folklore, I believe. A young woman is in the water naked, shapeshifting into a swan with a cloak of feathers, when a young man steals the cloak. She cannot leave the water for fear of being seen. He traps her in the water and forces her to become his bride.”
“You think Sal trapped Iris into the mafia?”
He shrugs. “A lot of people wonder about Aki’s decision.”
I stare out at the lake, imagining Iris as a gorgeous swan until an Italian street thug swipes her only garment. But Iris won’t stay in the water though because she doesn’t care who sees her naked, her shortcomings, or her failures. She is immune to the shame of her Lotus name. And that makes her monarchy a hazardous place to settle.
Iris will buy the fucking lake, collar the man, and not give a shit what anyone thinks.
“You’re quiet,” Sato says as we sit by the water and picnic. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know,” I reply, agonizing in the tarnishing beneath the glass that I cannot avoid. “I’m a mess of misery.”
“For what it’s worth,” he whispers with a smile. “You are overcomplicating things. Do you love Sal?”
“I do, but it’s more of a struggle some days than worth it.”
He tilts his head with a shrug. “All relationships are. The question is, at the end of the day, is he worth it?”
“Is it possible that I can love him endlessly and not want to do this anymore?”
“Anything is possible but improbable. From what you’ve told me, you’re dealing with the strain of his marriage. Figure out why that bothered you so much, and you will have your answer.”
“I’m not sure he deserved her,” I quickly reply.
“That’s a dangerous cliff you’re walking.”
“Right,” I agree. “Which is why I should just walk away.”
“Because you’re in love with Iris, and those feelings will never be reciprocated? Or because you are angry, he chose her over you? Or because you want to be what he is?”
“Ugh,” I say, falling back onto the grass and covering my face. I stare at the sky through my sunglasses, dimming the colors. All that I cannot see is right there if I take them off. It is a metaphor for my life. I need to take off the shades.
Munching on edamame, he says, “It isn’t a singular problem with a one-dimensional answer. It’s a complex equation with multiple answers, but the thing you are missing is that there is no wrong response. It isn’t a test. It’s life. You mo
ve through it, fall, and get up again.”
“There is no way to get up from this gracefully.”
He snickers. “There may not be grace, but there will come the point where you forgive yourself, Deacon. Figure out how you feel and follow your heart. We’re human. We fuck up. And we survive. If it isn’t going to kill you, try.”
I lower my sunglasses on my nose and glare at him. “He may kill me.”
“Knowing what I do about Sal Raniero, he isn’t going to kill you. He loves you. What you want to know is if he will fight for you the same way he fights for Iris.”
“He’s not fighting for shit right now.”
“Exactly,” he points out. “Including you. He sent you over to Japan to watch over his wife, who is now so deeply involved in a lie that she cannot reach the surface. She needs balance.”
“Not to sound selfish, but when do I get what I need?”
“Depends on what you need.”
“To not be chasing my ass,” I state with clarity. “I want to be at home in Texas with my family and friends. I want to take back my club. I want that cut on my back and the wind in my hair.”
He licks his lips and takes a sip of water. “And what’s stopping you?”
“Nothing.” I gaze at the blue sky covered with white, fluffy clouds. “But an obligation to a man.” I lift my hand to show off my ring. “His wishes…his girl…”
“Yeah, but at some point, he needs to clean up his shit.”
I erupt with a laugh and a grin. “You nailed it.”
“Say your goodbyes and go.”
“And what about Iris’ safety?”
“Please,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Give Masa and me some fucking cred. Your cut isn’t the only hero cape in town. You best hope Sal has one.”
Knowing him, it will be haute couture that I bought, tattered and bloodstained by him.
“What do I do if he doesn’t?”
His nose twitches. “Save the girl.”
“At all costs?”
A Dark Place (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 5) Page 33
