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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  Hannah Cruz was one of the best. That girl had joie de vivre. I deflated her existence with every impact of my gutsy tool. I wanted to taste her blood and feel her bones. I needed to feast on the rush of her life force fading away.

  In the forest behind the upscale neighborhood, I skidded my hand into my jeans. Too turned on. Too desperate. Too hungry. I gripped the fucker with all I had and pounded one off. I soaked my jeans as I spotted her walking through the house. She clicked off the light.

  Never know what kind of boogeyman is hiding in the woods.

  The old bones of my kind are so macerated they can’t tell tales anymore. We’re marching in formation, raising the flags of resistance, but no one is listening anymore.

  We’re coming for you—the people who blatantly ignore the warning signs. We’re closing in—the vigilantes, hoodlums, unstable, addicted, and homeless. We’re the societal garbage, who has been so carelessly thrown into the landfill because of the beautiful ones you don’t want to see. Our despicable, inescapable army is congregating on a mission of mass destruction.

  The warnings have been ignored.

  And when rattling cages unbolt, and we’re raping your daughter, don’t claim ignorance, Sal.

  You know better, schmuck.

  You dance between the righteous and wrong, understanding the problem, but numbing the issue with a dose of oxygen and a bag of ringers to get you through another day.

  You can’t fix this chassis, asshole.

  My structure’s blueprint was blighted long ago in a dank shack in Medellín, Colombia—an escalation between two men, Raniero and Cristos, led to the abduction and my eventual emergence.

  I am the byproduct of my father’s gross negligence in his psyche. His desire to control each fraction of a second led to my unraveling.

  I am the creation of his mind gone awry.

  And you want to point the finger at me for ripping Hannah from hole to hole? And you want to point the finger at me for intricately trimming parts of Madeline’s pretty skin for my shadowbox?

  You want to blame me, fucker?

  A war over a fucking pussy brought me to this vexed place.

  And you still don’t see it.

  I am the unknown element, the misunderstood energy, and the fallen son.

  You still don’t understand what I am trying to say, and I can’t find the context. The words mean nothing without action, and I am leaving messages, dropping clues, and needing you to find them before it’s too late.

  I pray for you.

  I kneel before you.

  Do not ignore me, Demigod!

  And I hope you understand the greater issue is at the tip of your smooth fingers and in your broken hands, Salvatore. I don’t need your fucking forgiveness. I want your focus.

  Look at me.

  Love over here!

  I could singe my skin, suffocate in the sea, or flail like a freewheeling tumbleweed on a desolate backroad, but you still won’t want me.

  You won’t even blink.

  May I have your fucking attention, please, Sir?

  I put them in the morgue for you, like a cat leaving a dead bird on your overpriced welcome mat by your back door. I hand girls over like candy on Halloween, and still, you don’t see me.

  If I put myself in a tomb, would you notice me then? If I lay in a casket, would you mourn for me then?

  And I can’t change.

  I am incurable—afflicted by the disease of mathematical glitches in the genetic chain, and popping a pill or chopping the pickle isn’t going to change the hunger pains. It isn’t going to change the fact that everything you say and do will affect the offspring a century from now.

  Forget the linear; time grows out of the restricted area.

  Confine me to a cell. Throw me in a hole. Put a bullet in my heart. The problem isn’t me.

  I am only the manifestation of some stranger’s miscalculation. I daydream about the thrilling plunge of the blade and the bones breaking away from the sockets. Don’t even get me started on the absolute bliss of severing tongues.

  Sever the tongue.

  Silence the demons.

  Sequester the lies they speak.

  I snuck through the wooden fence and noticed the cameras. I smiled and waved before turning off the security system. You taught me how to do that, Sal. You, the hacker, gave a new toolbox to a deplorable virtuoso.

  How stupid are you, boy?

  Don’t leave plates of fly covered guts out to feed the fucking skeletons, you fucking moron.

  I tiptoed through the house to the bedroom. She was in the shower, steaming up the bathroom. This one was smart, but I wasn’t maiming for her brains; I am not a fucking zombie.

  I killed her to send a message.

  Do you hear me now, Lucas?

  Do you hear the crows?

  I ended her life because of who she was.

  This specimen is the most critical for you to interpret. I suggest you spend time on your analysis. My next stop is cutting into your tribe to illustrate my point.

  I was never part of your tribe.

  I was just the outsider looking in while you feasted on fine china under crystal chandeliers. You laughed and smiled, having the time of your life.

  And ignoring the garbage you had piling up on your doorstep.

  Open the door, Sally.

  I’m here.

  I loved you from the moment I saw you, and I held back then, but time is wearing thin. And I can only suppress my love for you, for so long. Every ounce of blood I’ve drawn is for you.

  Love my art; love me, please.

  Fifteen years is enough.

  Your favorite stalker

  His Master

  Crying remorseful tears, I finish reading the handwritten letter as Randy Bianchi, Zoe Hess, Paulie Downin, and Georgia Wills sit around my dining room table.

  “We are all part of Sal’s team, and we need to decide what we are doing now. Nicolas Icarus Cristos turned himself in an hour ago at the farmhouse with his wife and kids by his side. Sheriff Kit Jolly and her team made his arrest.”

  “I’ll call Jas tonight,” Georgia offers, dumbstruck. “And brief him.”

  “His father’s funeral is Tuesday,” I reply, rubbing the rim of my coffee cup. “We should let him grieve without this case.”

  “Probably,” she concedes. “But he will want to be involved as soon as possible. His loyalty to Sal and the team is foremost.”

  I nod, accepting her reasonings. I don’t have time to worry about who knows what unless those people are Sal, Deacon, or Iris. “I don’t want us to fall into a false sense of security. The threat of Nicky is contained, but others exist. My concern is we spend all of our time working on this case and allow other, arguably more pressing issues, to come into play while we’re focusing on someone who is locked in a cage.”

  “As long as he stays that way,” Randy adds. “If there is a chance at a bond...”

  “There shouldn’t be,” I reply as my phone lights up with a message from Oki—‘Are you coming to bed soon?’ I flip the screen down, but not before Georgia sees it.

  “Nicky messed up by killing one we can’t cover up,” Randy says. “People have been brushing his fetish under the rug for years.”

  To my left, Zoe whispers, “What happened?”

  “Georgia?” I ask, giving her the lead. “Please.”

  She takes a deep breath before recounting the confession one more time. “The short version is he broke into the house, punctured both of her lungs, sexually assaulted her as she was gasping for air, and dismembered her piece by piece, starting with her toes and ending with her decapitation. According to the coroner’s early reports, she was most likely alive until the limbs were removed.”

  “There should be no chance for a bond,” Zoe argues. “He needs to be in an insane asylum for the rest of his life.”

  “Mental facility,” Georgia politely corrects. “He placed all of her body parts into multiple plastic bags, which he then
put into a cardboard box, taped it closed, and addressed it to Deacon Cruz on 342 Del Rio Canyon Road in Little Bee.”

  Strumming his fingers, Randy asks, “Where is Deacon?”

  “I talked to Deacon on Friday. He was spending the weekend with his brother, Diablo,” I say, trying to be as transparent as possible. “But everyone should be aware, Madeline informed me on the phone that she did a crash course in tactical maneuvers and strats with him.”

  “It won’t matter,” Georgia whispers, adjusting her bright green glasses. “He’s a fighter. He’ll do whatever it takes. But we can assume with Nicky behind bars that this threat is alleviated.”

  “We are preparing now for the return of Sal Raniero and Deacon Cruz because we are running out of time,” Paulie says, tapping her pen. “Ronnie and Jamichael Tucker are implementing additional security at Juliet, the farmhouse, and the Swamp Shack. Swain Mo is on standby the moment their plane lands. Moses Hollister will be relocating with his wife and child next week. We will be ready.”

  “Any word on if Iris is returning?” Zoe asks with concern. “Because if she is coming back with a baby, the security plans will need to be redirected.”

  For this inquiry, Georgia looks to me despite already knowing the answer. I slam the coffee and inform, “We have reason to believe that only Sal and Deacon will be returning to Sugargrove. Iris is deciding to settle elsewhere.”

  Zoe’s eyes dampen. “It’s so fucked up. They should all be here.”

  I tend to agree with her, particularly regarding security measures. It would be far easier for everyone if they’d come to terms in their differences and reside in one spot. Maintaining three separate details is challenging at best with our limited manpower. The problem isn’t economic; hiring people is easy. Hiring good, trustworthy people who cannot be bought out by our adversaries is a difficult task.

  “Who will be telling Sal?” Georgia inquires.

  “I will,” my half-sister, Dr. Mierne Risen, says, standing in the doorway. “I’m calling Salvatore tomorrow, and together we will decide how to tell Deacon.”

  In jeans, t-shirt, and copious amounts of jewelry, she is the epitome of owned by Reckless Rebellion. With her new love of running and smaller size, biker chick looks good on her. I clasp my hands together and say, “In lieu of the last twenty-four hours, Mierne will also be returning to her position at Juliet.”

  With a snippy tone, Zoe quizzes, “And what do we do if Deacon decides to go all crowbar on the bastard who mutilated Wendy Cruz?”

  “The Unholy,” Trudy Diaz announces, walking in and laying her hand on Mierne’s back. “Will be handling the interests of Deacon Cruz, honey. It’s not your problem. It never was. Don’t overcomplicate matters.”

  “Let’s conclude this,” I suggest, standing up and knowing I have other matters to attend to. “We’ll have a conference call tomorrow after Mierne speaks with Sal.”

  Randy, Zoe, and Paulie leave as Georgia gathers up her papers.

  “What did you find out?” Trudy asks, propping her denim and rhinestone-covered ass on my antique French table. I’d spank her if I didn’t have Oki in a spreader bar on my bed. “Anything?”

  “You already know what Anna did.”

  “I do,” Trudy concurs with a nod. “And what I want to know is what we are going to do about it.”

  Mierne slides into my seat, and I rest my hands on her shoulders. She reaches up to hold my fingers. “We cannot hold Anna accountable,” she defends her grandmother. “She’s eighty.”

  “And she manipulated and recruited every single future Queen to her school.”

  “She wanted to change the outcome,” I reply, carefully choosing my words. Trudy is unaware that Nico raped her daughter. If she had known, Wendy Cruz would likely still be alive, and we would be planning Nico’s funeral. “And hoped to foster a bond that never existed. Unfortunately, it seems they will still go to war.”

  “And when Zoe Hess finds out that her grandmother was Queen Estrel?” Trudy carelessly blurts out. “Then what do we do?”

  “Sal is keeping Zoe close for a reason,” Mierne informs. “She took a temporary sabbatical after Cinco’s home invasion and assault, but he won’t let her greed get out of hand.”

  Holding her attaché, Georgia stands up. “Are you genuinely concerned about Zoe Hess’ well being, or are you pissed that Hannah Beth Nelson Cruz wasn’t included in Anna’s A-list roster?”

  Trudy licks her fire engine red lips before approaching Georgia. “My daughter has every right to be included on any list as her father was Victor Cruz. She has paid the price.”

  “You mean, you have paid the price. Her pedigree is not the same,” Georgia retaliates with a refreshing determination. Perhaps I have overlooked the eccentric and eclectic diva for far too long. All that ass under my riding crop. The thought sends a noticeable throb below the belt. “And you know that.”

  “Listen, Missy, I don’t care how you do it, but you get my daughter on that fucking list.”

  “I will,” Mierne volunteers as my fingers tighten on her shoulders. “I will make sure that Hannah Cruz is on the list under one condition—you must accept that Little Bitch will be too.”

  Trudy’s eyes almost pop out of her skull, leaving nothing but empty sockets and those ungodly long lashes with way too much electric blue eye shadow. “Little Bitch doesn’t deserve it!”

  “Amber Rosen absolutely deserves it,” I calmly reply. “Just as much as Hannah.”

  “Fine,” Trudy agrees, crossing her arms. “You get Amber, and I get Hannah on Anna’s list for the estate.”

  And thus, a quiet war starts in preparation for the fall of one very important matriarch. Jack Kerris long ago wanted to avoid this by forming a gentleman’s club, but we fucked that up. Now, the bitches are out for bloody bones, oozing with marrow to regurgitate to their young.

  I expect the vultures to be picking at the corpse long before there is a body. They are like clingy, needy children combing through the house of remains. They all want their finger in the pie, be it with a bedroom set, lamps, teacups, or long lost love letters.

  We are human, tossing what we don’t want, and ferociously staking a claim for the things we believe we need to survive.

  I was born into this world naked.

  And I will leave it naked.

  Personally, I want for nothing.

  On my way up the stairs, I call Rachel Jackson. I request full reports on the A-list, Anna, and Mierne because the pink posse isn’t inheriting a castle without a warrant.

  Juliet belongs to one little girl in a pink dress. When she was a baby, I bounced her on my lap and held her in my arms. I fell in mad love, and I’ve been protecting her lovely ass for thirty-two years.

  And she is his precious water lily.

  VII

  The Drop Off

  60

  A Shallow Shore

  The Master

  There are issues in my wife’s plan.

  I’m not judging her schemes, but this one—Ay! Ay! Ay! This obvious question is—why the fuck am I letting her proceed?

  Because she needs a win.

  Or, a loss with a lesson.

  Either way, I need to gently steer the trajectory without her thinking I’m manipulating the outcome to be in her favor.

  Ay! Ay! Ay!

  After our night of passion, I left early this morning. It’s easier to escape than saying goodbye. She’ll wake up to a small gold box with a giant pink bow sitting on top of my hoodie. Hopefully, the present will make up for my sudden departure, and the jacket, which smells like me, will comfort her.

  No one knows her body is filled with my spunk. No one knows the powerhouse couple they feared is working in unison. No one knows we’re in this as a team—now, thank fuck.

  Or at least, I’m crossing my fingers that is what happens. I also understand that Iris and I aren’t what Deacon and I once were—more on that in a second.

  Iris and I don’t work like a well-oiled machi
ne. We’re clunkier, more like a rusted up engine that’s been through a dozen areal floods. We’re not the same; we’re the opposite sex, and that is a bit mystifying.

  So, I’m not expecting perfection.

  In anticipating the misfires, I can preemptively counteract. Proper preparation is at the heart of every good match, but it’s not my game. It’s hers that I’m trying to win.

  I’m gambling for two and playing on the fly.

  Something I’m remarkably good at—utter chaos. And something she needs to learn. Just call me, Professor Salvatore. Grins.

  I’m at Murasaki’s teahouse in Tokyo, waiting on my red-eye flight back to the States with Sakura rubbing my feet. She was sitting in the limo when I left the palace and looked like a damn geisha doll. The Chairman’s version of a thank you gift arrived with, “How may I pleasure you?” and “Thank you, Sir.”

  On Tuesday afternoon, I will attend Carlo Torrente’s funeral and rub elbows with Delarte Cristos. I’ll play the busted boyfriend...err, husband, and he will do what he always does—provide a really sweet cut of coke and masturbate while staring at me. Everyone has a fetish. His is not that strange. I’ll oblige with some sexy glances and enjoy his snow.

  Cause fuck if I’m doing this shit sober.

  Meanwhile, Deacon and Diablo will take my beautiful bride for a vacation to the Caribbean, where she will await a call with Muerte, instigated by Gabe. They’ll meet on neutral territory and discuss the future of his grandchild. She’ll claim that Durante isn’t good to her, and Muerte will come to her rescue, who ironically, for a drug lord, has an incredible bedside.

  Got it?

  Good.

  I’m fairly certain I do too.

  And that alone is enough to scare the fucking shit out of me.

  By five o’clock, I’m getting a hot rock treatment and full body massage by a darling young woman named Min. I’m relaxed and naked with an Asian doll’s hands on me.

  Is there any reason not to be happy about that?