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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “I’ll pull up by the garage,” he suggests, flicking the lighter. “You can run in, grab some pants, and whatever else you need while I drop off the bike in Anna’s garage.”

  Tossing the duffel in the back, I tilt the seat back just a smidge. “That was fucking hard,” I profess, staring out the window. He offers me his hand. I latch onto his wrist, but I don’t cry. “So fucking hard.”

  We’re breaking the New Orleans trip into two days and spending the night at the loft in Houston. It’s been a long time since I’ve been there. We walk into the fresh lemon aroma. “Did you have the place cleaned?”

  “I did,” he says, dropping his bag on the floor and making a beeline for the fridge. “And had it stocked for a night.”

  “Aww, you bought beer, chicken wings, and bleu cheese.”

  “Damn right,” he mumbles, cracking a cold one. “I even bought those things you omnivores eat.”

  “Carrots and celery?”

  “Yep,” he says, taking a swig. “And because I love you, I got you one of those mixed olive bowls you adore.”

  “Shit! Boy going hard!”

  He shrugs. “Boy is trying to get laid.”

  “You had Amber,” I blurt out, lifting the garage door out to the balcony. I turn, and he is right there. “Don’t say it, Cruz.”

  “Not the same, Nero.” He puts the beer in my hand, plops on the sofa, and tosses his feet on the table. “You look damn adorable in a Henley and jeans from what year?”

  “These are from…” My eyes shift along the length of the open wooden beamed and tin tiled ceiling. “I bought these when Iris first came to Juliet, so 2014.”

  “You’re a fucking elephant.”

  “Hung like one.” I stick my tongue out with a huge grin and polish off the beer. “So, what are we doing?”

  “It’s Sunday, Sal.”

  “Fuck!” I grab three beers from the fridge. “We missed the kickoff.”

  He eyes the bottles and me as I click on the flat screen. “You just had to make it even?”

  Twisting the top off of the extra, he hands it to me. I down it in one gulp and burp. “Excuse me.”

  “You’re a damn lush too. Good thing I’ve got two twelve-packs.”

  “That’s twenty-four,” I mutter, smirking.

  “I’m going to beat your ass, Raniero.”

  “You know we have to find something to wear to this funeral,” I point out. “You’re not going to your sister’s funeral in jeans two sizes too big and a cut. Respectfully, I outrank you, and we will have a throw down.”

  “That could be fun,” he challenges, watching the game. “Did you see that fucking pass?”

  “No, I saw something much better,” I whisper. “Your face while watching said pass.”

  He pops his hand on his thigh. “C’mere. Curl up. And let it go.”

  “I don’t need to lay down,” I contend. “I need to fucking hit something or go for a run.”

  “You know,” he says with the bottle held in a vice grip by his fingers. “I am upset about Wendy’s death, but honestly, I wasn’t close to her. I am more disappointed in Nicky. He attacked his sister, my sister, and Lani without even considering that two of those three are pretty connected to you and me. It was selfish and wrong.”

  “Ya,” I mumble, rising. I want to hit the bag for about an hour, but it’s probably not my wisest choice. “I’m going to take a shower.”

  Muting the sound, he grabs my forearm. “Stop running.”

  I sit on the edge of the sofa. “I know it seems like I am running, but…the thing is…there isn’t anything. It’s a never-ending, empty, stark, devoid wasteland. This isn’t about what is right or wrong anymore; this is about him turning on blood ties. We’re the ones who love him the most. How do I reconcile that? I can’t.”

  “You’re too close to Nicky to work this case.”

  “It’s not even about building his file,” I say, bracing for the truth. “I’m sitting with the victim’s loved ones, and I’ve become one too. I’ve contracted the hurt and hate. The murder of Wendy didn’t just affect her, and it doesn’t matter whether you care. Because someone did and still does. Someone out there loved Wendy Cruz.”

  “You’re right. I do care. I care too fucking much. This shit is hard,” he whispers as tears pool in his eyes. With everyone, I grow stronger and more determined to embrace my destiny. “But it’s Nicky…”

  “And his shallow, despicable acts took that away. And where is the sanctification?” I question in fear of a God I don’t know anymore. “There isn’t one. It’s not like Wendy or Madeline or Lani were bad people that deserved this to happen to them.”

  He taps my shoulder and asks, “If you had a chance to take a shot at Enzo Gennaro, despite knowing Dom is his blood, would you do it?”

  “He fucking tried to rape you and attacked Iris,” I counter, through gritted teeth. “It isn’t a choice. I choose you, baby. And I will always choose you.”

  “I wanted to fucking kill him for the disrespect he showed you in the cell,” he roars, letting it out. “I wanted to wrap my bare hands around his neck and suffocate the life out of him. He’s reached a point of no return—an ex-communication.”

  “And my hands serve the flame and offer contrition to those anathemas.”

  “Ground the detested to pieces,” he mumbles. “And which God forgives you?”

  “I won’t need forgiveness,” I whisper. “I was damned with my first breath. I am not a good guy, Cruz.”

  “Condemn the vile,” he proposes. “And I guard your gates, serving as the assassin in Sal Raniero’s war.”

  “I can’t ask you to do that,” I implore. “You can’t be my hitman because that shit will swallow your soul. The time has come to fuck the blackness in my heart and swan dive into the pits of hell.”

  “Our,” he corrects. “Our hearts.”

  I make a desperate plea, “I won’t ask you to join me because the line in the sand is tainted. It lies. It tells stories. And some of those you won’t want to hear.”

  “Do you need me to be the guy and ask you for an eternal date in Hades?” He snarls with a mischievous grin. He’s such an All-American bad boy with his golden threads and globes from the deep blue sea. And I am a sucker for him. “Will it get me laid?”

  “Only if you buy dinner.” I wink. “And maybe send me flowers again.”

  “Did you like that?”

  “It was a nice touch,” I tease, laying my head against his. “We’re okay, Cruz.”

  “I never doubted it.”

  “You look like Jesus,” he mumbles from the chair. He’s shirtless, smoking a cigarette, and though I cannot confirm his erection, I would guarantee its presence. “You’re stunning.”

  I am naked, harnessed with clips, and tethered by the fabric and ropes secured high in the rafters. I slightly swing with a kick of my legs. “It’s been a long time since I’ve hung in front of the red brick wall.”

  “Your body is glorious…divine…holy,” he whispers, lightly tapping the crop against his leg. We’ve been at this for about an hour. He’ll lightly snap the crop against my skin, provoking the beast for about ten minutes, and sit down for another ten. His tantric patience is mind-numbing, but I need more. I need him to fuck me up—bring me pain and show me pleasure. “Show me.”

  “What do you want to see?”

  “Impress me,” he says. “Because I am built, but I don’t have your core. I never will.” I lick my lips and roll my neck. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

  “Heh,” I mutter. “Like I would ever hurt myself.”

  “Salvatore.”

  “I have never once hurt myself in the act of any BDSM,” I contend, biting my lip and curling my body upwards, bracing on my forearms. The ropes connecting to the fabric move freely with my acrobatics. “I need to get Zeever out here.”

  “Who the hell is Zeever?”

  “He’s the motherfucker who built this piece of art,” I inform, feeling one of th
e pulleys slipping. “That damn bolt is loose again.”

  “What the hell! Get down!”

  “Nah!” I frown upside down like its just his crazy talking. “There are eight bolts on each side, and one always wiggles out. Jaid used to bitch about it all the time. At one point, it made this terrible screeching noise. One time we were…never mind.”

  “Tell me,” he gently asks as I swing back upright. “Please.”

  “We were fucking in the sex swing. The damn thing was worse than a squeaking mattress in a slummy motel.”

  “Wait,” he says. “This contraption has attachments?”

  “Ya, I’ve got probably a dozen different pieces for it. I only left the ropes up because Jaid loves climbing and twirling on them.”

  “She’s a monkey too?”

  I laugh. “Bitch is fucking nuts. You know Anna put up the ropes in the cabaret just for Jaid. She can do…or she could before she was a…”

  “You can say it,” he softly offers, filling in the blank. “Jaid is a Mom.”

  “Beautiful aerial ballet. I can’t even compare,” I say, spinning and ignoring the massive fucking issue of his deceit. Trust is fissured, cracking, and shattering, and I don’t know that I can save us. “I want to fly.”

  “Because you are a bird. I would freak if I were up there,” he pauses for a long minute. “Have you seen him?”

  “No,” I honestly reply. “But I haven’t asked. He’s your son. You should see him before me.”

  “Is this going to change things?”

  “In what manner?” I ask.

  “You and me.”

  I ponder his statement and pull the quick release. I zip to the ground and unhook the clips from the harness. “Is Iris having Goblin going to change you and me?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “There ya go,” I say, undoing the fasteners. “I’m going to love you and want to be with you regardless of your involvement with Amber or your son, Cruz.”

  I mosey to the fridge and grab a beer as he asks, “What was in the box?”

  “My dead wife’s handwritten notes on Anna’s Juliet,” I reply, wiping the sweat from my face. “What she did, who she recruited, and why.”

  I take a gulp and hand the bottle to him. “I wasn’t invited.”

  “You’re here with me,” I snicker. “You were scouted.”

  He scratches his beard. “Your beer count is at an odd number again.”

  “That’s okay,” I say with a smug grin. “It doesn’t matter as long as we’re on the same page. You even me out. It was never about suds; it was about my stud.”

  “And what happens when the bolt loosens?”

  Running my fingers through his beautiful blonde hair, I respond, “I tell my guy, and he calls the guy.”

  “Good boy, Master,” he snarls. “Remember that.”

  68

  The Levee

  The Master

  “Turn there,” he says as I drive through the French Quarter. “How is it you have never been to Kim’s house?”

  I shrug. “You’ve been keeping her all to yourself because you are stingy?”

  “Pull up in the driveway five houses on the left, right past the hedge,” he points and directs as I slow down. I stop the truck behind her 4WD compact SUV, and he asks, “Are you ready?”

  “Dear heavens, she’s got a garden and a half,” I admire. “Is she going to feed me? Because I am starving.”

  “Kim is going to feed you.”

  We exit the truck and meander to the side door because I am quite distracted by her bougainvilleas, roses, and lavender borders. Nonna raised me to be a gardener, and then Anna refined me.

  I am seriously into dirt.

  Deacon doesn’t bother to knock, and when he enters, the aroma of tomato sauce, garlic, onions, and herbs hits my nose. I mumble, “She made an Italian.”

  He doesn’t answer as we wander through a sitting room to the formal dining room. It’s properly set with crystal stemware and silver utensils. Bowls of pistachios and giardiniera wait with two bottles of red wine as Kim appears at the doorway.

  I clamp my lips together—hard—to avoid my mouth dropping open and drooling like a Saint Bernard.

  She’s dressed in fetish gear—thigh highs with flat soles that lace up like a combat boot, an incredible black, gold, and red harness, and over the top of it all, a transparent black chiffon cape embroidered with a crimson phoenix and golden lotus at the hemline.

  I am speechless. Comprehension is gone. Assimilation is distant, but familiar until she presses her hands together and graciously bows.

  There are times in life where no amount of preparedness can save you. Cruz grins.

  Bastard knew.

  Lowering to one knee, I kiss her hand out of Dominant mutual respect. It’s a kickback to Dom’s high protocol studies like saying Ma’am and Sir regardless of the situation. I’m not a Southern gent. I wasn’t born with y’all in my mouth. I got swag when necessary, but this is far more personal. Kim is no stranger to my lands, but Mistress Kim is uncharted territory. I have no desire to be a sub to her Dom, but I am very interested to know what she is bringing to the proverbial table.

  Besides the hearty noodles, I am praying for like rigatoni or orecchiette—none of the romantic pastas like spaghetti, fettuccine, or linguine.

  “Madame,” I say, rising. “It is a pleasure.”

  “I want consideration,” she says. “For a job at Juliet, after you take your position, Master Nero.”

  Holy. Wow. Um.

  To be honest, I hadn’t thought that far in advance. It didn’t dawn on me that I would have to hire Masters and Mistresses as interim director. “Is your husband aware of your lifestyle?”

  “My husband is my collared sex slave, Sal.”

  Fuck. Okay. That’s hot in a very unexpected way.

  “Are you wanting to relocate?”

  “Yes, I miss home,” she says. “And while it’s not the Texas coast, it’s damn close.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Let’s eat, drink, and chat,” she suggests, segueing back to the food, which is where I want to be. She quiescently acknowledges this, and our remarkable unspoken flow calms like a sweet lullaby. Lead me into temptation, Mistress, so that I will fear no evil. “And we can review my resume.”

  Does she have a resume for this?

  Maybe I should too.

  I blink in awe and fright. I am so not ready for this. I need to do some serious homework because not only do I have Old Poppa’s expectations on my shoulders, but Anna’s lifetime of devotion to excellence in the craft. It’s a lot for anyone. It’s a lot with everything else I have going on.

  Regardless of anything else, I am going home soon with my wife and baby. We’re on the train to parenthood, and nothing can stop the incremental tick of the clock from winding down.

  The baby is like a bomb I cannot defuse.

  Freedom is in the past.

  I chase the hands—the pacing of my watch and little, gooey, sticky ones—no longer able to run. My time is no longer mine. Maybe it never was. I abandoned my clock for another.

  And we’re running out of precious time without Goblin attached to our hips. It’s set in stone. We cannot wait until this deal or that meeting is done.

  The baby is arriving.

  It doesn’t matter if the nursery is ready, or if diapers are bought, or where in the world I am, or she is, or even if we’re together.

  Goblin is coming.

  Tick. Tock.

  I have spent many hours wondering if home was ready for me, but the real question is—am I prepared to go home? Am I prepared to be a father? Or even a husband? What if I suck at all of it?

  Shit.

  We had a lovely evening with Kim, eating some of the best Italian cuisines I’ve ever had. A good cook can cook anything. And the woman, in her fantastic outfit, was a hell of a cook.

  Her desire to relocate is because she misses her friends. Her husband, Jericho, is
one of the founding members of the Tennessee Twelve. They formed as an offshoot from Delirium MC when Javier Diaz ran the club into the ground by doing malicious things to undermine their mission.

  The Tenn-12 were, for lack of better words, defectors who worshiped the guy giving Kim one more kiss goodbye at the door. They were waiting in limbo until Cruz decided to take over his father’s club and named themselves the Tennessee Twelve because they were all supposed to relocate to Neil’s five hundred acre compound at the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains.

  Long story short, only half of the original Tenn-12 went, including Neil, One-Shot, Noose, Kief, Caldwell, and X.

  Tank stayed behind in Sugargrove. Brant and Suzy went out to West Texas to deal with aging parents, and Haden ended up doing the same with his mom in Arkansas. Meanwhile, brothers, Axel and Jynx, went home to South Carolina, and Jericho and Kim went to New Orleans to stay close to Cruz.

  Kim is Cruz’s quasi-Ma.

  But as these things go, Cruz picked up some friends along the way that became part of the family, like Waylon, Reggie, Pico, and his brother Alejandro.

  Now, all of the Tenn-12 and the stragglers he’s picked up along the way wear Reckless Rebellion cuts.

  It shouldn’t matter.

  Deacon can have his outlaw motorcycle club, and I am fine with that. The problem is Deacon’s RR family is hitched in tight with Lotus. They adore my frigging wife and think she hung the damn moon, which is great because so do I. But there is a slight conflict of interest if Sal Raniero (the business) comes to play in Sugargrove.

  If we are all residing at the Swamp Shack as my adoring husband wants, then we will have three running outfits, all with different agendas in one house. It may never be a problem, but we’re no longer under an Unholy umbrella.

  “What are your plans?” I ask the moment he opens the door of the truck.

  He sets the cooler and a bag of food that Kim gathered for the next few days in the backseat. “With?”

  “Reckless.”

  “What do you mean? I need full sentences here, Sal,” he gently scolds. Lighting a smoke, he starts the engine.