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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  I extend my hand. “Whatever it takes.”

  With a soft smile, she nods. “Until the end.”

  I pull her in for a hug and kiss the top of her head. “Can you still work with Cruz?”

  “I can do more than work with Cruz.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  She peers up at me. “I swear I will work Cruz like never before.”

  In tears, we laugh as I mutter, “Holy shit, girl. You are as much of a piece of work as your sister. You fucked Cruz to build a bridge back to me.”

  “I did, and I make no apologies for that,” she confirms, remaining steadfast in her words and staying glued to my gaze. “I had a D&C the day after all the documents were signed with my father. Three weeks later, Cruz showed up.”

  “You got damn lucky that you nailed it.”

  She gloats with a manipulative smile that I appreciate. “I never said we only did it once.”

  Son of a bitch felt guilty. That is why he got snipped.

  The answers exist if the questions are asked to the right people. And sometimes, the lock pops the box open after trying thousands of combinations. Find the new code.

  Keep swinging from the stars, Mariella. If you fall, the seas will cleanse your sins.

  50

  The Sacrifice

  His Butterfly

  “Confiscate his keys, Masa!” I urge, chasing my brother through the palace. “He doesn’t deserve to have them!”

  He rapidly spins to face my raging pregnant self. I am wearing—a damn green and yellow muumuu because I was up all night puking. My hair is messy. My skin is blotchy. I spot Deacon at the other end of the hall. He’s ready to pounce and fight for me, but he chooses silence for the time being.

  “He is not some old, decrepit man, and your bedroom is not a vehicle,” Masa says, turning his back to me. He should be glad I don’t have a knife.

  “Goddammit, my pussy is a vessel that gets men from one side of the ocean to the other!”

  Leaning against the wall, Deacon covers his mouth as he laughs. Masa keeps walking in his direction. “We are not having this conversation, Iris.”

  “Do not walk away from your Queen, Masa!”

  He flips me off and turns the corner as I wobble after him. Deacon drops his arm like a barricade. “Don’t do it. I will get the fucking key. Leave him alone.”

  “You will get the key?”

  “I will make sure your royal highness is in sole possession of all three keys.”

  “Why do you love me like this?” I ask, giggling at my audacity. “I am such a pain in the ass.”

  He chucks his finger under my chin. “No one believes in you more than I do. And your wish is always my command.”

  “No more incidents like Raze.”

  He offers his arm, and we stroll through the palace. “What are you so worried about, princess?”

  “I am worried that Raze will be the first of many suitors that my grandfather plans on challenging my gumption with. I am not a whore, and I won’t be treated like one. What happened with Raze was mutually beneficial, but I don’t plan on making a habit out of it.”

  “Are you saying, you came on Raze’s riser?” He snorts and ducks as I give an impactful evil eye. We veer outside to the gardens as he whispers, “Sorry.”

  “A proper lady never kisses and tells, Mr. Cruz.”

  “He made you fucking come,” he guesses as I stare at the blooms. “Admit it. Own it. You had sex because it felt good. Don’t be ashamed of it.”

  “I had a pleasurable and somewhat erotic evening with Mr. Kola.”

  “Did you sip the Kola from a straw?”

  I burst out laughing. “I did not give him head, Deacon. I save that for the pretty boys. And if you must know, as my best friend, I will tell you. I did come…several times.”

  He stands a little straighter with a grin. “I’m proud of you. That’s my girl. Make no apologies. Because God knows, the boys in this club never will.”

  “... Including my husband?”

  “Are you prepared to hear that answer?” he gently asks. “Because we both know there are no limits. No rules. No boundaries. Mafia is mayhem. And if you care to keep your heart whole, diligently defend what belongs to you. Never leave your heart unattended.”

  I lift my hand with a wave and a shrug. “Whatever gets the deal done.”

  “You’re a wicked woman, Iris Nakamura.”

  “Thank you. That means a lot coming from a wicked ride.”

  His eyes shift low as he thinks. “Was his ride better than mine?”

  “Deacon Cruz!” I renounce. “No kissing and telling!”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he says with a mock salute. “No spreading rumors. Wouldn’t want it to get out that the guy banging your husband is a helluva good time!”

  “Oh,” I say. “It’s too late for that. I already put your number up in every bathroom stall from France to Japan.”

  He bursts out laughing. “I wondered who all those strange phone calls were from. Heavy breathing and whispering—talk dirty to me, Cruz!”

  I giggle and sit on a bench. “I adore playing with you.”

  “Are you okay, sugarpuss?” He winks and smirks. “I know you were sick last night.”

  “I’m ready to have Goblin.”

  “Goblin isn’t ready yet,” he says, laying his hand on my belly. “But he sure is getting busy in there. Kickboxing! Quick ninja assaults!”

  “More like a washing machine on the spin cycle! She’s going to be a gymnast.”

  He smiles. “You need to see a doctor.”

  “When have I had the time? I’ve been on an epic cross-country marathon since I arrived.”

  “I just worry,” he mutters. “He or she is important, but you—we can’t live without you, Iris.”

  “I will be one step closer when I arrive at the hacienda.”

  He rolls his eyes and sighs. “I hate the idea of you being at the Immortal compound alone.”

  I can’t tell Deacon the truth, and that bothers me. I can’t share that Raze has a plan, or inform him that Immortal is using my ships like they’re the miracle they’ve been waiting for or that Muerte’s wife called me.

  Me.

  Salomé Herrera called me.

  Not Masa. Not The Chairman. Not my husband.

  Me.

  I own that shit.

  In the dark of night, I fall prey to hunger pains unlike I have ever known. They wake me up. They’re not—have a sip of water or a cracker and return safely to dreamland. More like—get the fuck up bitch, travel halfway around the globe, and eat the entire menu of Idamae’s and Mario’s in one sitting.

  Yum.

  However, I am in Gifu and not desiring to cause a scandal from an unexpected absence. We’re in talks with leaders of The Commission coming to the palace for summit round two. It’s vital to form these relationships before taking my seat at the head of the Lotus table.

  I do not desire to work with everyone.

  I refused a meeting with Stanis Kozlov.

  And I snubbed a meeting with triad in China. I feigned weakness from months of sickness with the pregnancy. The truth was Masa didn’t want me to make a grand tour of China—Beijing, Shanghai, Hong Kong, and Guangzhou.

  I had invitations from the major players in Thailand, India, and one of the gangs in Africa that I could never remember the name of, and we politely declined. I had suppliers involved with both the Golden Triangle and the Golden Crescent reach out, wanting to discuss plans on restoring stabilization within the opium industry.

  But I wasn’t ready to have tea with suppliers.

  I wanted to talk to as many well-established conglomerates that I could before I contacted the Mom and Pop shops and the farmers because the mindset was completely different. I was a part of the bigger picture—the industry led by The Suits, and not just Italian, but any man in a suit—where we had bulk merchandise to move from one location to the next. I wasn’t concerned about the Mom and Pop dealers i
n southern California or the farmers laboring away in fields all day in Myanmar because they weren’t who I would be dealing with directly.

  Do I believe we could do better?

  Absolutely.

  But one step at a time.

  I couldn’t approach The Chairman or any of The Suits with the idea of wearing a burka to meet with men covered in generations of soil any more than I could toss on some leather chaps and expect the clubs to embrace me at the Sunday picnics automatically. Most of them weren’t thinking about the big guys in suits sitting behind the desks because they only cared about making money to put food on the family table.

  Drugs made money. Money bought food. Food fed families.

  Those same families likely never used their merchandise.

  That is a critically important component in this equation.

  Biker family and farmer family aren’t getting loaded on heroin or any other drug. It is a job. It is what they do to make money—generation after generation revolving around the crop of the drug trade.

  That was the sheer reality of it.

  Drugs put cereal, rice, and pasta in bowls.

  And if they were tampered with—by suits or law enforcement—Little Suzy or Little Ahmad wasn’t going to eat the next day.

  That was the bitter, harsh reality that I couldn’t easily swallow.

  Change meant children would starve; change meant families would break apart.

  Meanwhile, I was sitting in an opulent gold-lined palace with marble floors built from those same filth covered hands—fingers that harvested poppies and palms that sold bangs afforded my life of luxury. I didn’t start it, but I was born into it, much like Suzy would grow up to be a cut-wearing old lady, and Ahmad would till the earth.

  I had to come to terms with my place in the world.

  I was born a Nakamura to the Lotus legacy.

  And there wasn’t a checkmark box on anyone’s creation.

  Much like I was faced with my family history, so were they. Those family traditions were time-honored across the board, and I was the stranger who had yet to earn their respect. I did everything I could about their situation. I valued their importance in the chain, including initiating the crucial meetings with Servet and The Commission. I had to form relationships within Lotus and our equal competitors before instigating systemic change across the board. I needed to make life easier for Suzy and Ahmad, but I couldn’t do that without the backing of my peers.

  I longingly stare at the open refrigerator in the quiet servant’s kitchen. All of the good food is there. I grab the bowl of chopped fruit made for breakfast in a few hours. I take the bowl and swipe an anpan (a sweet roll filled with red bean paste) before smuggling the stash off to my study.

  Nibbling my way through the dragonfruit, pears, and grapes, I scan over Masa’s notes concerning our adventure into collaborating with The Commission. The Italians are not Middle Easterns. Huge difference. And make no mistake, the list of demands is extensive and reads like a pop-star diva with a five-minute set and a five million dollar green room.

  Servet needs friends because they have very few. Ignorance and fear rule the conversation when Servet is brought to the table. Even Masa wasn’t thrilled by my idea of our weekend fling, but in the same sentence, he praised my belief that people are just people—across the board—nationality didn’t matter.

  I contended that the people in Cape Town were facing similar problems as those in Detroit. It didn’t matter where they were. The big industry was forcing out Midwest farmers in the States; farming drugs were the only profitable agricultural income source in Afghanistan. Problems were problems regardless of the language spoken or the color of skin.

  The Commission doesn’t need anyone.

  And their weekend at my home is going to be pricey.

  Demanding fuckers.

  I don’t mind approving the budget, but what I want to know is what I get out of my investment? These guys are not my husband. They will not show up in worn boots, ripped jeans, and stained white t-shirts with million—potentially billion—dollar deals on the table.

  The thought leads my mind to understand one thing—Sal is trying to come to terms with his place in the world too. He doesn’t fit in with The Suits—Italians, in this case.

  Sal Raniero is an outlier—a rebel—just a guy on a mission to change things as much as I am.

  He was my target, and I was his asset, but we deeply connected over our core values and desire to change our world. To leave the criminal underbelly better than what we were born into. We know we should leave it all behind. We do bad things—we sell crates of drugs and guns. We profit off of another’s misery.

  But the business can be done better.

  We can do better and keep the integrity in our names.

  We embrace our Robin Hood syndrome—stealing from the rich and giving to the poor because Suzy and Ahmad are hungry. Just like the baby in my belly.

  My door swings open, startling my thoughts as Durante surfaces from whatever sewer he’s been swimming in. I hate him. He is part of the problem. He is a waste of time, depleting resources, and diffusing control for his self-worth. I am not ignorant. He is using me as much as I am him.

  And by the end of my trip south of the border, he will be lucky if he isn’t dead. Goblin kicks as I quietly praise this man’s sacrifice.

  He is still an asshole.

  An asshole in a bodybag who will save my child because he gets me inside to Immortal. He makes it so I can spread Lotus’ case before Muerte and offer more temptation than Delarte Cristos.

  Durante is nothing more than a vehicle with an expiration date to explode.

  The idiot is blind, far more concerned about raising his bottom line than seeing the big picture. Muerte doesn’t like or trust Durante. But Muerte loves family, including his newest great-grandchild baking in my belly.

  “You should come to bed,” he encourages as if I am expected to go to his room. He treads into my office like he owns the space—like he owns me. “I need some company,” he mutters, stroking my cheek. I have a good mind to grab my fork from the fruit bowl and puncture his left nut. The sad part is Durante Costa is a looker, but that doesn’t alleviate his dickhead behavior. It’s, unfortunately, a lost cause. Not everyone can charm like Sal Raniero.

  Or Raze Kola.

  “I have my own room, and I will go to bed when I am ready.”

  He grabs my cheeks, pinching hard and lifting my face. “If you do not cooperate with me, you may not survive in Mexico.”

  I meet his gaze, anticipating his hostility, but not expecting his demands. “I will not sleep in your room or with you, Durante.”

  He pushes me back into the leather chair and reaches under my nightgown, cupping my breast, and tweaking my nipple. I feel the leakage as he takes his fingers to his mouth and sucks them.

  “So sweet,” he mutters, unzipping his pants. He wraps his fist around his dick, rapidly pumping for a few minutes as I try not to shake in the chair. I’m scared, but fuck if I will show it. He ejaculates all over my face and neck before pulling my body forward and dipping his dick in my cleavage. “Eventually, whether you like it or not, you will feed me, Mama.”

  No. I won’t.

  “I will drown you in a saucer of breast milk before then ever happens.”

  He snickers, refastening his pants. “You’ll break down, you bitches always do.”

  After he leaves, the foul smell of his cum permeates my nostrils and curdles my belly. I reach for the trash can.

  And I puke.

  My baby must starve tonight.

  51

  Hostile Situation

  The Master

  At the Half-Baked Restaurant & Pub in Belfast, Jaid and I wait for the appearance of Stroker Mullins. He is not fashionably tardy, but irritatingly late. Sitting with my chair facing the door, I rest my elbow on the table and glance at my watch as the baskets of crisps and blaa become cold, and the pints turn hot.

  “How long are
we going to wait?” I ask as Jaid breaks the bread in half. “My time is worth money.”

  “And you need to talk to Stroker,” she says, handing part of the bread to me. “Eat.”

  I wave it off, but she shakes it once with a maternal scowl. The last person I want to piss off right now is Jaid. She doesn’t have to be here; she chooses to be here and is choosing to help my ass through the mountains of research we’re compiling on Father Thomas Byrne.

  Taking a bite of the bread, I spot a hot little number—a waitress—just starting her shift. She is tying the green apron around her tiny waist when she glances up to find me staring at her. She smiles.

  “You’re such a flirt,” Jaid comments with her mouth full of carbs. She swigs the ale and makes a sour face. “I thought you would’ve calmed down when you hitched the hooker.” She winks teasingly.

  We’ve been talking about—everything, including Stella’s phrases to describe my wife. “I planned to,” I say, lifting my mug at the beauty. “But she decided to have another man’s kid, so I am happily a bachelor once again.” The waitress walks over, and I say, “Can we get another round?”

  “Of course, Sir.”

  I give her a good look and note the collar around her neck before she meanders off. “She’s a bottom for someone.”

  “Yeah,” Jaid replies, munching on the potatoes. “Lots of people are. It’s a fetish called BDSM and an acronym for…” I lift a flat hand to her face as we laugh. “Maybe you remember it.”

  “Fuck you.”

  I discreetly itch my sideburn with my middle finger, and she grabs my arm, still giggling. Her expression softens as she looks at my palm and the scars. “Do they ever hurt?”

  “I ignore it.”

  “You need to be careful,” she whispers with concern. “You’re kind of a hothead.”

  I give her a side-eyed glare. “I know I am hot, and if you don’t watch your mouth, you will be giving me head.”