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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “Yes, Sir,” she flirts, sticking her tongue out and resting it on her top lip. She is undeniably gorgeous, but my attraction to Jaid is more profound than T&A. Her willingness to listen and find solutions for problems is a more significant asset than her well-sculpted, firm ass. “I’m going to the ladies’ room.”

  “Don’t get lost.”

  “Don’t get in any fights,” she rebukes, standing up and walking towards the restrooms at the other end of the empty bar. I cannot help but stare at the package wrapped in tight midnight blue yoga pants and loose sweatshirt cut as a crop top with an open neck. The red lace bra is visible on her shoulders and serves to whet my appetite. Her attire is an odd choice compared to the standard multi-purpose and many pockets of men’s cargoes she adores. I’m wondering what the fuck she is up to when the waitress returns with a tray of two icy cold mugs and a frosty pitcher filled with beer.

  “Thank you.”

  “Does your wife want more bread?” she asks, picking up the empty baskets. I don’t bother to correct her; it isn’t worth my time.

  “That would be great,” I respond, careful in my words as I pour the frothy liquid to help me get through this day without becoming a hothead. “Do you know if Stroker Mullins will be here anytime soon?”

  I am gambling on the fact that she knows him. He is the leader of Kill Rat, and this is his haunt. It makes sense that she would. “Stroker left the house early this morning. Said he had to tend a shipment down at the yard.”

  “What’s your name?” I ask, taking a swallow of the stout refreshment.

  “I am Niamh Byrne,” she says as I choke on the beer. “Are you alright?”

  “Ya,” I reply, clearing my throat. “You are Father Thomas’ sister?”

  “And one of Stroker Mullins many whores,” she disdainfully says as Jaid emerges from the bathroom. I note a few patrons, checking her out. They can use their eyes—that’s fine—anything more, and my street thug will show up blazing the Italian flag in an Irish bar.

  I am nothing if not fucking crazy.

  “Would you mind talking with my wife about Thomas and Stroker while I try and find him? We had a meeting, and I don’t have a lot of time.”

  It’s true. I don’t.

  Father Thomas is breathing down my neck for a kill I am not sure is worth it. And maybe it hasn’t mattered in the past who I took out, but it does now. There is nothing to lead me to believe that Carrick Byrne is anything more than a very boring, average male. Georgia hasn’t found anything. Not even a citation for jaywalking. His record isn’t just spotless; it doesn’t exist. His lack of record leads me to believe he is as harmless as they come. And I am not gunning down a priest to settle a skirmish between brothers.

  “I will give you the address,” she says, grabbing a scrap of paper and a pen from her apron.

  “What’s going on?” Jaid asks, playing the role of wife to the hilt. She drapes her arm over my shoulders as I pull her in close. We watch Niamh scribbling out a map in silence. My hand rests on Jaid’s hip and ass. I lightly squeeze, and she grins before bending over in whispering in my ear, “If you behave, there will be head tonight.”

  Oh. Dear Fucking. God.

  YAS!

  I want to say I followed her chicken scratch like a pro and ended up right where I belonged within half an hour. That is not what happened.

  I got fucking lost.

  My ability to navigate anywhere is probably my greatest shortcoming in sleuthdom. Unless I have an address programmed into my phone, people might as well say—‘Run around until you stumble upon it.’

  Cruz is notably bad about giving me directions. It’s all—‘Oh, yeah, turn left, go three blocks, yank a right, but make sure you go in the alleyway. Avoid the dumpsters if you can, and that open manhole is a pit to hell, so don’t fall in.’

  I mean, it is bad.

  Navigation, not my thing.

  That said, I am sitting in an office in a warehouse on the docks watching Stroker Mullins doing dirty deals with some nerdy looking bloke who looks like he might piss himself if confronted.

  What the fuck is going on?

  I would take out my phone and snap a few pictures of the dweeb if I didn’t have Methuselah staring at me like a hawk through his coke-bottle glasses. The guy is as old as the hills and said his name is Claus.

  I wanted to ask if his first name was Santa, but decided against that when I noted the nines (yes, plural) the geezer was packing on either hip.

  Some sort of Old Western gone Irish fields of green with spunky leprechauns that live forever. On the other side of the warehouse, past where Stroker and geek sprout convenes, I spot a curious sight with blonde hair and bewitching green eyes headed straight for me.

  She sprints to crack open the office door. With an unusually chipper attitude, she swings just her head inside. “… Sal?”

  “Rowan?”

  “Why are you sitting here with my grandfather?”

  Methuselah—err, Claus is your grandfather?

  “I need to talk to Stroker. I wasn’t aware that he was your…”

  “Claus McPhail, meet Salvatore Raniero.”

  “We met,” the old man says in a monotone, heavy Irish accent. “Nothing more to say.”

  Hmph.

  You’re lackluster too, Methuselah.

  “Give me fifteen minutes,” Rowan cheerfully says. I’m seriously starting to feel like I’ve entered another dimension where emo chicks are miraculously happy, and wise old men never die, much less speak. “We’ll smoke and talk.”

  She disappears as quickly as she surfaced, and I’m left, staring at Claus. He’s worn but well-kept. “You’re Luca’s boy.”

  Not exactly.

  To avoid overcomplicating matters and understanding of his generation, I will forever remain synonymous with Luca Raniero. I simply oblige, “Yes, Sir, I am.”

  “He was good to my son.”

  Father Patrick McPhail.

  I nod, appreciative of his sentiments on my dead relatives. “Luca was a good man.”

  He stares at the ground for a few minutes before gazing up to me. We’re quiet and reflective in our magical bubble. Moments of absolute clarity between generations rarely leap with such a soul-altering vibrato. This time in an office with Claus will change me. “You will be good too.”

  “I’m trying, Mr. McPhail.”

  God, how I am trying.

  “You need to steer clear of Byrne. He ain’t nothing but a wolf in sheep’s clothing—a crook in a cassock. Don’t fall prey to the demons he throws your way. My son abhorred the man, so do us both a favor and abide by your past.”

  I peek at my watch, confused by how I’ve been away from Jaid for four hours. “Who is he working with?”

  He chuckles and nods the men outside—Stroker Mullins, nerd boy, and Father Thomas Byrne. “You get my granddaughter out of this mess she is in because this is not what my son built. This is not the legacy for which he was known. And then, you go after the son of a bitch that had him killed.”

  One problem.

  That bitch is my former Mistress.

  “What are you doing here, Sal?” Father Thomas asks in the small storage room. His voice rages, raising a notch, “This is not getting Carrick dead in Dublin! Why can you not listen? Are you hard of hearing or arrogant with a death wish?”

  Little of both.

  Thomas spotted me in the office sitting with Claus McPhail, and shortly after that, Stroker and his Priest made an appearance I would not soon forget. I’m good at what I do, but I am no superhero. Stroker is a fucking monster of a man—tall, muscle-bound, and foreboding.

  I am no wimp, but he’s got a good fifty to sixty pounds and four cronies. Despite my best efforts to flee from their grasp, I ended up with a black eye, a bloodied lip, and cuffed to a chair.

  “Let me talk to him,” Stroker offers, tapping the Priest on the shoulder. “Give us a minute.”

  “Don’t take too long,” Thomas warns. “The trash n
eeds to go out.”

  He waits until the door closes. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “Nice right hook, you got there,” I compliment.

  “I was gentle.” He grins.

  “I know a guy who can train you,” Dom offered as I knelt on the ground by his side. “He’s one of the best.”

  “Is he an asshole?”

  Over his morning coffee, he peered up in his white dress shirt and expensive cufflinks. “We’re all assholes.”

  “Takes one to know one,” I cockily quipped as he shoved a bite of scone in my mouth. I chewed and swallowed before he placed his coffee cup to my lip and commanded, “Drink.”

  “A pack of alphas,” he muttered, stroking my cheek as I lapped up the caffeine. Rolling the chair to face me, he had no pants or underwear on in Father Quinn’s rectory. With my naive curiosity, I stared at the contraptions on his legs—two prostheses from the knee down—to replace what he lost in an accident. He lifted the hem of his shirt. “Service me, boy. And you best swallow me as well as you did my coffee.”

  “Who is he working with Stroker?” I ask, staring at the scars on his hands. Some of which I am certain I put there. “Because it’s a fucking maze.”

  “My father died trying to find that out.”

  “I know,” I say, holding back the truth. The very same man who brought me Stroker Mullins also killed his father—Dominic Gennaro. “What was he researching? Why did McPhail need to die? And why the fuck is Serene paying for it all?”

  “Secrets have a funny way of falling into the wrong hands, Sal.”

  “I will keep my word,” I lie, playing my best poker face. “What you say to me here stays here.”

  “Ella Hemsworth is Ella Stanovich Lebedev. She is the granddaughter of the Pakhan,” he informs as I maintain a steady pace with my ship in the gale-force winds. I don’t give an inch. “She was sent to infiltrate Juliet. Everyone knows what Anna Ford’s true colors are.”

  Her colors are daego.

  “Allegiance wants in?”

  “Years ago, they implemented Ella Hemsworth to serve as a runner of information. She was remarkably beautiful and cunning, but back then, as I am sure you know…”

  “Women weren’t in the mafia,” I mumble out. “She’s a spy.”

  “You got it. They sent in Ella who funneled intel back to Allegiance for years.”

  “Is she still doing it?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I only found out because of Dad’s things. I went through his journals and found Serene mentioned many times. She’s been trying to put a gentle stop to Ella’s efforts for years.”

  “Serene is working with the Irish?”

  “More so that Serene is working to stop the Allegiance infiltration by implementing the Irish. Kill Rat and some of the other organizations in Europe are going up against them.”

  “It’s a fucking kamikaze mission.”

  “It could be,” he says. “But regardless of that, you need to get out of Thomas’ crosshairs. He is bad fucking news. He’s got ties to the Albanians and Servet.”

  “Oh, fucking hell…” I close my eyes as he gets up and undoes the cuffs.

  “Do yourself a favor, take out Carrick Byrne before Thomas takes you out,” he says, helping my aching body stand up. “I’m going to calm him down. You get the fuck out of here.”

  “My lips are sealed,” I whisper as he offers a handshake and a bromance embrace. “Be good, Stroker.”

  “I am always good, Sal,” he replies with a grin. “Good at not getting caught.”

  I sneak out of the room, passing by the office where Claus was. He is gone, which probably works in my favor because if he were still there, I would want to hear more of his tales. I escape the warehouse without anyone being any the wiser except for one.

  “Where are you going, Raniero?” Rowan asks, chasing after me. I don’t stop moving. It’s getting dark, and these docks are not mine. An Italian boy does not belong here at night. At least, not if he wants to wake up with all his parts intact come morning light. She grabs my elbow, and her sweet smile imparts a kind-hearted nature.

  “You need to get away from here, Tuls.”

  “I can’t,” she argues. “Lotus defunded, and Raniero won’t budge.”

  I stop walking and look at her. “You need to give up the hope that you can turn Kill Rat around. They’re so far into this that they won’t ever make it out alive. Let your father’s dreams go.”

  I continue walking as she yells, “Is that what you are doing with the Raniero Fisheries that your grandfather built?” I spin back to face her criticism. “Walking away?”

  “Do you want a part of this?”

  She stomps toward me. “I want to save my father’s work!”

  “You can’t! It’s fucked!”

  “Fix it!” she screams in my face.

  I roar, “I can’t.” My arms wave as I resume leaving in the opposite direction.

  “You were the only one that could,” she whispers from behind me. “You think I don’t know anything. You think I am some stupid girl, but I know exactly what is going on. Serene is using Kill Rat for bait to go after her brother. She is going to destroy it!”

  I furrow my brow. “… Her brother?”

  “Dale Archer is working for Stanis Kozlov, who is directly underneath Lebedev.”

  “I am not starting a war with a Pakhan.”

  “I’m not asking you too,” she begs, crying. “I want you to detour Serene away from Kill Rat. There are thousands of organizations she could have used, and she had to pick mine!”

  I understand the problem, but that doesn’t mean I can alter the outcome. “Come on. I’ll take you for fish and chips.”

  “I’m not British, Sal,” she points out as I wrap my arm around her shoulders.

  “First of all, chippies were brought to Dublin by an Italian. And second, you’re going to suck this Italian’s sausage, swallow my cream, and say thank you, Sir.”

  “I’ll say thank you, Sir, now.”

  “Don’t give me a boner when I am walking, Rowan.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  52

  A Red Dress, A Bottle of Tequila, and A Sinful Saint

  His Ride

  “Are you sure about this?” Sato asks as we arrive in his car outside the hotel.

  “I’m running out of options,” I say, lighting a smoke. “I need to get Iris the hell out of Japan. If she goes to the Immortal compound, she may never come back.”

  “They aren’t going to kill her as long as they believe that baby is a Herrera,” he argues, laying his hand on my arm. “This is a huge betrayal.”

  “I don’t have another choice. I am not Sal Raniero with a thousand contacts. I am working with what I have. While I understand your point, my concern is, what happens after Iris has the baby? They could easily swipe the kid off her, and no one would be any the wiser.”

  Upset by my remarks, he releases my arm and brushes me off, “Go on. I’ll make excuses for you.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Yeah, Deacon, I do,” he says, meeting my gaze. “Love does this.”

  “Don’t be on my team before hers,” I warn, grabbing my backpack off the floor. “Lotus is a lot more important than some biker kid from Houston.”

  “You aren’t just a biker,” he states, staring out the window. “Don’t diminish your value to save her face.”

  “I am a Saint.”

  “In more ways than one,” he mumbles, giggling. “And playing for a devil.”

  I press my palm to his cheek, grappling with fostering our bond. “In another life.”

  Turning away, he snickers, “He’s a Capo. Do you think he doesn’t already have reservations?”

  “Probably not,” I cackle with a grin. “Because I make all of them.”

  “I love you, Deacon. Just be safe.”

  “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “You walk into the hotel room, you’re shot,
and your identity is stolen.”

  I take a deep breath. “Not a fucking chance.” I lean closer and kiss him on the cheek. I cannot give him more. We are in unrequited love and a one-way romance. Sato wants me, but I need Sal. “I will be home soon.”

  I exit the vehicle and watch as he drives away into the traffic. I glance at the bellman who opens the door. He’s young and cute with his whole life ahead of him. I check in to the hotel with the pleasant middle-aged woman at the desk. I find my room. I text Sato with the room number. I take a shower. I call Sal.

  His phone rings, but he doesn’t answer. I know he is in Ireland, and I fear he is caving into Kill Rat. I’ve done my best to illustrate—or bribe by stroking my cock over video—that he will lose millions if he gives in to their demands.

  I dress in my usual attire, baggy jeans, and a t-shirt, before heading to room #805.

  I understand the parable—we shared a womb, why can’t we share a room?

  Simple. I don’t know Diablo Cruz from Adam. Or Lucifer. Or Mary. Or Judas. The fact that we share DNA means nothing, but he is the only person I know who might remove Iris safely from Japan to another location without any of The Unholy finding out.

  Deceit? Minor.

  Maybe even trivial.

  Change that—major deep shit.

  I take the elevator from the fifth floor up to the eighth. I find his room. I knock on the door when the knockout in a short red dress and red lipstick beams a smile at me. “Hi!”

  “Am—ber.”

  “Diablo’s flight got delayed from Tokyo,” she politely informs. “Want to come in and have a drink?”

  I am not sure what to say to that. I’m not even sure how I feel about Amber standing in a scanty number that could knock a man dead. But rest assured, the outfit is neither distasteful nor cheap, but alluring and seductive. Undoubtedly, she has the package underneath wrapped up just as lovely.

  I am oddly proud of her—how far she has come, considering what she has been through. Who she is today is not who she was even a year ago…and maybe that is true for us all.