Thanks, Madeline Grace, for turning me into something I never planned on becoming.
I unlock the door, and we step inside, weary from the spat and damp from the rain. She sets her purse down on the table in the entryway when I see the double R’s tattooed on the inside of her wrist. I gently grab her body and pick her up. Her legs latch around me with ease. “Where are we going?”
“To make your favorite sound.”
I stride with determination through the suite as she asks, “What’s that?”
“The splash of water hitting the marble floor while I fuck you.”
45
Hateful Situation
The Master
The letter arrived in the mail earlier today. I was to be at Oscurità at 9 PM.
At 8:30, a car showed up outside of the cafe, which I am now getting out of at 9:03.
I am late.
Ugh.
I go through the routine quiet as a mouse, slipping into the robe and heading down into the cellars. Honestly, I had expected more from my time served at Nero.
So far, I’ve eliminated one, saved one, and been informed I must kill a priest.
Forgive the tabulations, but it’s important to realize, I have been here over a month, and the only notches I’m collecting on my belt are from jerking off to girls on Twitch that I want to stick my dick in.
After lighting my torch, I walk towards the room when I see a shadow and hear a creaking noise in my peripheral vision.
The smack to my skull is sudden, and the last thing I remember is…
G o i n g…down.
Shit.
I wake up naked, hanging by my arms, bound, gagged, and blindfolded.
Fuck.
I am in serious trouble.
The kind of trouble Vinny and his cronies would bring to Raniero’s clients when they didn’t pay their debts. The kind of trouble that leaves a body so mangled that no soul could ever escape from the wraith. The kind of trouble that ends with those who loved me crying over a casket.
I wiggle, hearing the chains rattle above my head and testing their fortitude. They’re resilient and ungiving, harsh tools for a tradesman who knows what he is doing. I panic, needing to flee the scene, the country, the planet.
I need out of this one.
Death is my way out.
But that breaks the code of—do not quit—which in my mainframe may as well be—loving her for all eternity. I can change the coding, but it takes time. And in my current predicament, that is something I do not have.
Death is out.
Fight is in.
I strain against the chains, hoping to alter the trajectory which currently leaves me in a body bag by morning. The ceiling will crash down, or I will hear the snap of bones in my arms, but I do not quit. I flail about, back and forth as if on a trapeze, what feels like high distances. Like a child on a swing, kicking their legs faster and harder to believe they can fly.
I need to believe that is me.
And something will eventually give.
I volley, front to back over and over, as my strategist kicks in and starts rummaging about in the files of my data. Who have I breached? What would cause this reaction? Where did I go wrong? Did I accidentally spit on someone back in 2007? Or stick my pipe in the wrong hole in 2010?
I have done hundreds of cases and pissed off countless people in the mafia by my lineage. I never had to do anything to earn hate. It just showed up like an unwelcome visitor, a period in the middle of a score, a knife to the heart when no one paid attention. I was stopped and attacked for just being Sal Raniero. The name alone was enough.
Motherfuckers had to wrangle my monster with chains.
I should be flattered, but I am not.
I’m scorned. I’m flabbergasted. I’m one pissed off son of a bitch who will reap blood for the heinous acts they have sewn. And that’s just the preamble of what I am doing when I find out who hung a Nero up in chains.
It occurs to me that I am swaying like a slab of meat, bleeding out, or curing in a cooler or a product on display. I don’t like being contained by faceless sources. I’m into a lot of kinky shit, but hooks have never been my fascination. Too butcher shop gone Hostel for my tastes. Maybe I am a snob. Maybe I am judgemental. Maybe we all are.
Maybe too, mezzofinook.
“Stop moving,” the man says. I recognize his voice. Father Thomas Byrne. He doesn’t like me. I should have figured he would be responsible for my worst nightmare. “You have not moved on our plan.”
Fucking devil.
I feel the pinch of a blade skimming under the fabric of the gag. I grimace as it tightens even more. I focus on her sweet face as I pray he doesn’t miss and gouge my cheek—how grotesque that scar would be—nothing like snipping a fold of skin to draw up an unbearable torment.
I shouldn’t know these things.
I shouldn’t be so keenly aware.
I feel his firm grip pushing the handles together, and the fabric gives way. “Carrick will be removed.”
“When Sal?” Backhanding me, he yells, “Tell me when!”
I want to shrug with passivity, but I fear the torture he might dispense. “I’m going to Ireland tomorrow. I have the flight booked. I can show you the receipt.”
“Fair enough, Pretty Boy.”
Oh, God.
“Did Cesario put you up to this?”
“Your father had nothing to do with this,” he replies as heavy footsteps clobber in the distance—boots of some kind. A wave of nausea builds in my gut as I know it isn’t Deacon and one of his forty-thousand pairs of sneakers. He’s a creep. A biker. A fighter. A lover. And a righteous one.
He isn’t coming to save me because he doesn’t know…and he doesn’t know because my stupid ass sent him to save a girl I’m not sure is worth saving. I deserve this punishment for the crimes and sins I’ve committed, but I also have a right to know who will end my life.
The idea sounds peculiar, but I need to know who to haunt in the afterlife.
“I’ve sold you for the night,” he finally admits. “Consider this your disciplinary action. Every time you miss a chance to take a hit on my brother, expect a comeuppance.”
“I didn’t miss a chance.”
“You’ve had weeks,” he complains as the sound of his voice muffles. He’s low to the ground. I brace for the unthinkable as a smooth piece of metal runs over my chest and abdomen. “I like paper clips, don’t you?”
“Yes, Sir,” I lie as his hands grope my dick. “They’re great for holding papers together.”
“It’s funny. The paper clip is highly regarded in Norway. Did you know that Sal?” he lightly chuckles as heat rises on my shaft. What the fuck is he doing? I rub my head against my arm just enough to shake the blindfold off and spot the red-hot paper clip in a lighter’s flames.
“Please, don’t.”
“Begging for the thing that matters most?” He smiles, extinguishing the flame and waving the clip, held tight by the pliers, around to cool. “You boys value your cocks above everything else. You’ll reach a point,” he says, thumping the head of my dick with his wrinkled finger. “When this no longer matters.”
I am unable to resist being a smart ass. “Only if I’m a eunuch.”
“They’re are worse things than being emasculated,” he counters with a smirk befitting of a madman. “Like the horrific death of one’s beloved wife.”
There are no words needed to warn him.
I will kill this priest.
I watch as he undoes the paper clip, splitting the tongues and breaking the torsion to release the elasticity. “You should have worn the jewelry,” he diabolically says before jamming the metal into my open piercing hole. It’s not so much painful as insulting in its symbolism.
The Commission owns me. Sanctum owns me. Nero owns me. He owns me.
The mafia owns me.
I am their pride and product—their insult and injury—the forgotten son forged in forbidden sins.
&nb
sp; “Tell me, what do you think about when you imagine her riding his cock?”
Under pressure, I heave, “I never consider Costa a threat.”
“Not him,” he ventures with a glint in his eye as he twists the paper clip ends together. “Saint.”
“Leave them out of this,” I calmly threaten, staring down. “This is between you and me.”
“And me.”
I blink up to the door as the rhythmic sound of the boots stop. “Hoss.”
“Sal Raniero.”
“Dale Archer,” I grumble as the priest makes himself scarce. “What the fuck do you want?”
“We need to have a conversation concerning a few things.”
“I have nothing to say to you,” I hiss. “You sold her off.”
He steps inside of the room, snickering at the twisted wire dangling from my dick. “Be a pity if that thing got infected.”
My jaw sets as I hiss, “Be a pity if I put you six feet under.”
“Why are you so fucking loyal to my niece?”
I grind my teeth together and spit near the toe of his boot. “Because no one else ever has been.”
“You’ve had a boner for that girl since before Kaci,” he assesses. “Tell me, how many times have you wished you had married Jaid?”
With a hate-filled glower of contempt, I segue his unwarranted interrogation. “Why are you here?”
“To remind you who you owe.”
“I owe you nothing, you slime bucket,” I snap, perturbed to be in this position. “You knew I didn’t need the money because of what was in Kaci’s estate, and you fucking took advantage of me. You knew where it was, and you held out just to hurt me!”
“And damn, your ass was fine on my dick!” The smash of his ringed knuckles impacts my face with a brutal force. “I thought I could put an end to your romance with Cruz, so his squishy pansy-ass heart would break hers, and she’d come back home to a real man who could take care of her properly!”
Wait…are we still talking about Jaid…or Amber?
I venture a guess, “By controlling her every move? She was never going to run back to your crazy!” I scream, trying to subdue him. “Amber will always come back to me!”
My words provoke his punches, and I cannot dodge out of his range. I am stuck, helpless, to suffer through his punishment. He’s enormous, the size of a door blockading my view from seeing anything other than him. Repeatedly, he hammers his iron fists to my body. “You almost killed me in Boston!”
“I didn’t know what was going on!”
“Bullshit, Sal!” I taste the blood on my tongue as he snarls, “I gave you Amber to watch over, not fuck! She fell in love with you! You’re nothing but a wasted up tramp!” He’s aiming for my face again as my vision blurs. “You didn’t have to take her from me!”
In excruciating pain, I mumble, “Fuck you.”
“Amber!” he roars with a vengeance. “She’s mine!”
I hear the click of the gun as the barrel pressed to his temple. “You will walk out of here right now. And if you ever harass Sal or anyone associated with him, I will kill you.”
“Fucking, Massimiliano Vidal,” Dale snickers as his jaw tightens. “I am coming after you, Raniero,” he warns, pointing. “Or maybe I’ll just go after the thing you love the most…”
“You leave my fucking wife alone!”
He shakes his head. “Not your skanky Asian parasite. Your fucking Saint will fall by my hands!”
“No!” I howl with a furious wild rampage. “I’ll fucking kill you, asshole!”
Dale doesn’t move as Mass glances to me with a smug grin and a loaded gun. “You want him dead, Boss?”
“Not yet,” I hiss with a heavy breath. “Get the fuck out of my life, Archer.”
“I’ll be right back,” Mass assures, walking the bastard out of Oscurità.
In my beaten state, I only know two things.
Father Thomas Byrne is out to destroy me.
And so is Dale Archer.
“Drink this,” Mass whispers, handing the glass of amber liquid to me. He took my bruised and battered body back to his villa for the night. I am in his bathtub, up to my neck in steaming hot water with the jets on full blast.
“What is it?”
“Disaronno and vodka with a splash of orange juice.”
I gaze at how full the glass is. “Did you make it a double?”
“Triple,” he snickers. “You took a helluva a beating.”
“How did you know where I was?”
“I went in your apartment,” he admits. “I saw the letter.”
“Fuck,” I mumble, knowing the mistake I made. “I was going to burn it after tonight.”
“Hey, I am not ratting you out. Just be careful.”
“Can you do me a favor?” I ask with sincerity. “… As a friend?”
“Anything.”
“Can you get eyes on Amber?”
He innocuously waits by the door. “What about Deacon and Iris?”
“They don’t need it,” I somberly reply. “The Lotus has a militia, and she doesn’t need an assassin.”
“But you do.”
46
When I Get Mine
His Butterfly
In a white silk suit and emerald camisole, I wait with my family flanking my sides—Masa to my right and Yoshi to my left—in the courtyard as the half dozen cars arrive at the Nakamura Palace. Deacon Cruz is standing somewhere behind me. Wafts of tobacco fill the air, and I imagine he is one of the top contributors.
It is not every day that Lotus meets with Servet, and the special occasion requires a delicate touch. I have been briefed for weeks on how to handle everyone from the regional gangs to the massive cartels. The expectations are different from each. My job is to assimilate, use my gifts—enchanting them with my blue-violets and ever-growing cleavage, and take home a win with a signed deal.
I’ve never been the Quarterback until now. When it matters most, the Nakamura family’s rallying cry can be heard for kilometers—Send in Iris for closure!
In a coaching session with Anna this morning, the Texan cheered, “Git’er dun!”
I’ve come to depend on my former mother-in-law because she is the highest-ranked woman in the throes of the mafia that will allow me to pick her brain. I needed the details of finishing the deal. “You have assets, and you best be prepared to use them.”
“You want me to renege on my marital vows?” I asked in a panic as Deacon flurried around doing my makeup. “I cannot cheat on Sal.”
She balked with a groan. “There is no such thing in the board room. Get the deal done. You are a finisher, just like Sal.”
“Anna…”
“Iris, listen to me,” she scolded. “There are business affairs which make the world run, and there are love affairs like Luca Raniero and me. Do not confuse the two.”
“Sex is sex and love is love?” I quipped as Deacon applied the blush and highlights to my nonexistent cheekbones. I was puffy like a marshmallow throughout my pregnancy. I hated losing my figure after I had worked so hard to lose weight and endured a few nips and tucks. I was a bowling ball yet again.
Fat Iris returned from the dead.
The funny part about it was I had only gained eight pounds. The mirror reflected more like eighty, viciously destroying my confidence. I didn’t want to meet with Servet today or anytime until 2020, but my family insisted because the Kola family seemed excited to do business with Lotus.
But my head wasn’t on right, and I knew from Anna’s coaching that many of the European and Middle Eastern organizations wouldn’t take kindly to being met by a woman. Like it, love it, hate it—it was what it was—and there was nothing I could do about my gender or the fact that The Chairman had entered into catatonia. Aki’s death would kill him, but still, he refused to relinquish complete control to me. I was the stand-in, the second-ranked, and a female going up against Servet royalty.
Servet was The Commission of the Middle East regi
me. They were a collective of families with similar ideas and values. We didn’t have such here in Japan. We were segregated with classic lines of demarcation, and we succeeded that way for hundreds of years. I had no desire to mess with Mist, Sword, or Snow, and I hoped they would respectfully abide by Lotus. However, being the first female in contention for a leadership role, I understand better than anyone I am going up against a behemoth.
I hung up the phone with Anna and glanced at Deacon. “Help me.”
He stopped his artistry, leaning back to the counter and staring at me. “You’re glowing.”
“I am not glowing!”
“Yes, you are,” he replied with a grin. “You need to be willing to entertain their ideas.”
“You mean, I need to spread my thighs,” I remarked, furious that he would even suggest such. “How can you—you, who has recently (just this morning) been all up in me—suggest such?”
“Do you know how hard it is even to get a meeting with some of these people? It is almost impossible to get into Immortal, Montesino, Servet, and Sanctum. Let’s not forget, you hitched up with a Nero. You are crossing borders and boundaries at lightning speed, and if you think Queen Estrel didn’t play the game, think again.”
I softened the harshness in my expression and asked, “What do you mean?”
”In my father’s journals, I found numerous references to their ‘meetings’ and gifts she had bestowed to him. Saint Cruz was her fuck buddy, her younger man, and this was fifty or so years ago. The reason Saint had New Orleans locked down was that Estrel liked riding my daddy’s dick.”
“Jesus…”
He shrugged, grabbing his new vape. He was trying to quit smoking around me. Little did he realize, I wished he would light a fucking blunt and shotgun with me.
I am so damn stressed out.
“Do whatever you need to do,” he seriously suggested. “We’ll clean up the mess with Sal later. Where is Durante?”
“Golfing with Sakura.”
A Dark Place (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 5) Page 35
