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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “I’m all for standing up for the little guy, but the sharks will eat her alive.”

  Clearing her throat, she says, “She has the full support of Torrente and Morpheus. I wouldn’t say Iris is a guppy, Sal.”

  “She’s going to lose ground with both,” I point out, picking a handful of almonds from the bag. “The Torrente offspring are already mad, and Morpheus cannot be happy about her involvement with Durante Costa.”

  “I believe the word he used to describe Iris having a child with Durante was ‘foolish.’”

  Stroking my scruff, I declare, “And Raniero…”

  “Hmm?” she asks.

  “Iris also has the full support of Raniero.”

  “You aren’t operational yet.”

  “I broke ground.”

  “Just now?”

  “Yep,” I reply as Cruz surfaces from the bedroom, buck ass naked. “Split The Unholy funds. Right fucking nowala. It’s defunct. Sal Raniero is open for business.”

  “And how many investors are we taking?”

  “As many as knock on my door if they meet my approval. No scrubs. No sharks.”

  “Shit…Sal… I’m going to need some help.”

  “You invite them to dinner; I’ll fucking feed them.”

  I sit on the sofa, watching Cruz. He gulps half a bottle of water down and unplugs his phone from the charger on the counter.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Georgia,” he replies, “I have to invest.” He winks.

  With tousled bed hair, Amber stumbles into the room with a long sleeve, black Reckless Rebellion shirt on. I spot the sliver of red lace panties on her hip and ignore the jolt in my dick.

  She glances with a smile at me and whispers, “Who is he on the phone with?”

  “Hot Pants,” I reply, munching on some trail mix. “This guy, Sal Raniero, just launched his outfit.”

  “Oh!” Her blue eyes open wide, and she runs to the counter to grab her phone.

  “What the hell you two—it’s not like I am the hottest rock star coming in concert.”

  They’re both on the line with Georgia when I send a quick text to Hannah. “If you can, please help Georgia.”

  “Iris just called,” Cruz mutters as I hop up. Grabbing a pencil, he writes down the number. “That’s a lot of fucking zeros!”

  I pick up the piece of paper and stare at the number, but say nothing as I make my way back to the sofa. Ironically, Amber is off the phone before Cruz, and she checks on me. “It isn’t as many points as Iris has, but it’s something.”

  “Thank you for your kind investment.”

  “Thank you for yours.” She walks across the living area to the sliding glass door and pulls open the drapes to the dawn cresting over the horizon.

  With the impending brightness, it’s too late to go to sleep even though I’ve had only about an hour of shut-eye. She pivots and loudly screams, “Ow!!!”

  I glance down at her foot gushing blood as Cruz, and I dash to her side. I reach her first and pick her up off of her feet. I carry her to the kitchen counter.

  Cruz tosses a few towels at us and asks, “Flashlight in the left drawer?”

  “Ya,” I say, examining her foot. “I’m going to need the medkit.”

  “Why do I feel like you two have done this before?”

  “We have,” we reply in unison. Cruz grins, and I smirk.

  He asks, “Bathroom?”

  I shake my head. “Nightstand.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “Not too bad,” I say, holding the towel to her foot. “You may need a butterfly or a couple of stitches.”

  “Can you do it?” she asks.

  Cruz returns with the medkit as three loaded hypodermic rigs fall out onto the counter.

  “Ya, babe, I can do it,” I reply to Amber as Cruz gives me the evil eye. “They’re not used.”

  “Neither is the coke in the rice container,” Amber deadpans with a quick tilt of her head and a smile. We both glared at her as she shrugs. “I like to know what I am shopping for.” I laugh and shake my head as Cruz erupts with a grin. “But, I will say I am slightly concerned about the dwindling scrip supply.”

  “Both of you are cut from the same fucking cloth,” Cruz chastises, handing the tweezers to me. “Bad!”

  I stare over the top of my glasses at him. “Don’t be acting all holy up in the house. Thread me a damn needle.”

  Amber asks, “What are you sucking on?”

  “Nuts,” I reply. “I like to suck the salt off of them. Want some?”

  “Yes,” she says, grinning like a schoolgirl. “Please.” I grab the bag and hand it to her as a distraction for digging whatever is in the ball of her foot out. “Do you often leave nuts in your mouth for extended periods?”

  Cruz blushes as I say, “I have to suck on something these days.”

  She rummages through the bag, picking out the raisins as I extract the piece of lightbulb glass and blood pours from the one-inch wound.

  I know exactly when it was broken.

  Have I mentioned how I am going to kill him?

  78

  the princess and the hellhound

  His Butterfly

  “We would like to merge our interests considering you are having a child of Immortal,” Máximo Herrera says at the ornate dining table on Monday morning. I drown out his words as my fingers strum against the glossy shellac. “We would be delighted with the generous gift of half of your fleet.”

  I bet you would.

  Delighted? Gift?

  This is coercion.

  I blink several times at the older man sitting at the head of the table and trying hard not to nod off. Juarez “Muerte” Herrera is not what I imagined. My mind built him to be larger than life with an imposing figure, leading his outlaws with a gun on each hip.

  He is far more refined—an ex-pretty boy—with delicate fingers and a slight build. Undoubtedly, by the looks of his sons, Juarez was a real looker back in his prime…some forty years ago.

  What I didn’t realize is that Salomé is twenty years his junior. She is sixty-seven. Do the math.

  His sons are honestly, plentiful and frightening. Supposedly, Juarez was causing a ruckus in a small town south of Mexico City when he spotted the young and beautiful Salomé.

  According to Gabe, in the bath—don’t go there—Juarez kidnapped Salomé, and they had eight children: Miguel, Ximena (Durante’s mother), Diablo (adopted), Carlos, Jorge, Rubén, León, and Gabriel.

  It would make sense that upon the old geezer’s passing, that Immortal would fall into the hands of one of the belligerent assholes sitting at the table. However, that is not the case with Immortal, and the new “Muerte” upon Juarez’s passing will most likely be Máximo Herrera.

  Queen Estrella gave birth to four children: Gonzalo, Juarez, Mariella, and Máximo. Mariella and Máximo were born many years after Juarez. Her husband, who I only know as King, was shot and killed during her pregnancy with Máximo, which could explain the massive chip on his shoulder and corncob up his ass.

  Much like Pico Neves doesn’t agree with how Cinco is moving towards a nuevo system, Gabriel is much the same. He doesn’t like the reliance of a cartel based around intangibles. He wants the rush in holding weapons, the first taste test of drugs, and a slew of women he can hold accountable and run inventory on.

  I don’t condone his human stock, but I also understand I don’t have much say in the matter. I am low (wo)man on the totem pole, who has yet to show my shit. They have no reason to believe that my ideas on how to conduct crime are better than theirs. My goal is to prove that.

  Standing up, I say, “With much respect to the Herrera family and the Immortal cartel…”

  “Iris,” Gabriel announces from the doorway. It is the first time I have seen him since the night in the bathtub. I could fill a book on the crazy, lustful things I imagined doing with the man, but none of them would be true.

  We talked for four hours and slept.
He never touched me other than—to keep me from slipping in the tub during my tirade and accidental brushes of skin in the bath. No, we did not accidentally brush our genitals together.

  “Durante is here.”

  I glance down at the table. “We’ll have to continue this later. Excuse me.”

  And as I am speedily walking toward Gabe, I know he likely just saved my life.

  I never see Durante.

  That is not to say that I don’t know of his presence. The beach house thunders with booming, angry voices for hours after his arrival. He spit on the family name for so long that they have no reason to welcome Ximena’s estranged son home. There is no party or great extravagance, but enough shouting in Spanish that I worry the sounds of gunfire will be next.

  His elimination by the family would save Sal the trouble.

  Via text, Salomé warns that dinner will be served in my room. She politely reassures me that I have done nothing wrong. My biggest concern is that after the day Durante had with his family, he will come after me.

  After all, I am responsible.

  I need away from the battlefield, so I decide to take a walk around the grounds. The house is isolated, on the outskirts, but the paths surrounding the residence are beautifully manicured. It isn’t as if I ran off into the jungle alone.

  Phone reception is generally terrible, sporadic at best in the house, but I manage to get a connection about a half-mile into my trek. I notice Rowan’s many messages, begging for a handout for Kill Rat to sustain them through a Serbian winter.

  I immediately send a lengthy response, saying how unfortunate her circumstances are, but that I cannot help her at this time. I am friendly, polite, and formal.

  And then, my phone rings.

  I quickly answer it, not wanting anyone to suspect I might be arranging transport away from the fear-inducing men of Immortal. I don’t know who all is watching me on the outside; I sensed I was not alone after Fink and Dom surfaced, and I can be extracted from my mission at any point.

  “Why won’t you help me?” Rowan pleads on the phone. “I was there for you.”

  “I understand that, but I really cannot do anything. I am not in a position to help you.”

  Which—considering I am stranded in Mexico—is quite true.

  “If I do not come up with a solution, Stroker is partnering with some foul fellows, Iris.”

  My husband does this on the daily.

  Sob another story, bitch.

  “I already told you, I can’t right now,” I implore for her to give me some time. “Soon.”

  “If you can’t help me, I will go to Sal. I am certain I have something of collateral value to put in his hands and on his dick.”

  “If you go anywhere near my husband again, I will end you.”

  Without a sound, his hand grips the phone and clicks the end button as his accented tenor asks, “Problem?”

  “No, Gabriel.”

  “Who is upsetting my Buttercup?”

  “Kill Rat, specifically Rowan Tully.”

  He snickers. “You should stay away from little leprechauns and get back to the house.”

  “I am aware of that now,” I remark as my body tenses under his alluring gaze. “They’re ghouls that never go away.”

  “And yet, you are still answering the phone.”

  When I return to my room, the yelling has settled to a rumble of a distant storm. The danger passed as I look under the metal lid of my dinner plate—pozole.

  I don’t feel like eating and slam the lid down. I want to go home, admitting defeat—I will never be able to shut down Delarte Cristos—and calling the whole ordeal a mistake.

  A white lie went awry.

  I pull off my clothes and fill the tub, hoping to find the relaxing equilibrium I felt with Gabriel. The water is nice, restoring my clarity, but it isn’t the same.

  In the bath, I flip through my online scrapbook with Sal when I notice he added a photo. In a hooded robe, he grinned with his hand in the picture. He was showing off his wedding ring.

  We are still in the game.

  I get the message loud and clear, and I smile as I glance out the window.

  Suddenly, another photo appears in the same pose with no ring and bloody hands. I’m not immune to his life, but the acts he commits are never displayed before me. I have done plenty of heinous things during my time in the cold chambers, but seeing his truth in the photos brings it home.

  He is a Nero—a killing machine—and the father of my child. And I don’t trust any of it as I grab a towel and lay down. My skin is damp, but I don’t care. I will never reconcile the difference between the boy I met at Juliet and the Dark Prince of the mafia.

  Crying my eyes out, I fall asleep with the phone in my hand. And I wake with a start as he wraps his hand over my mouth.

  Durante Costa.

  “You didn’t come to say hello…”

  I bite his hand hard, and he swipes it away. He retaliates with a backhand to my cheek. “Why the fuck would I?”

  I dig my nails into his neck, trying to get him off of me, but he pins my hands down. “We’re going to reunite now.”

  “Fuck you!” I spit in his face, rocking with all of my might as he unbuttons his trousers. At one time, I possessed the agility of a swan and the swiftness of a samurai, but with Goblin in tow, those days are long past. “Get the fuck off of me!”

  “It won’t take long,” he sneers as I try to kick him. “Five minutes.”

  The shimmer of a blade on his neck blinds me as I breathe with relief. Gabe has been closely watching me...until I hear the growl, “In five minutes, you won’t be alive. Get the fuck off of my wife, asshole!”

  Sal winks at me.

  My eyes bulge at the man I love in full black tactical gear as he lifts my attacker off of my body. They stumble toward the tub. Durante wrestles away and swings, but Sal deflects the move with a swift kick to the back of his calves, forcing him to his knees. With rage, he dunks Durante’s head into the water and brings him back up.

  “You do not get to take what is mine!”

  His furious killer rampages.

  In a split second, he runs the blade over Durante’s neck, slitting his throat, and plunging his gushing neck into the full tub. He breathes steadily, holding the corpse under the water, as red spills onto the white marble.

  … That’s a new one.

  Damn.

  Snapping off the black gloves, he pulls off the hood as his hair flies free and wild. “Hi!”

  “… Hi?”

  “How are you?” he asks, taking the receiver out of the clip on his waist. “It’s done. Come clean it up. Make it quick. I’ve only got seventy-six minutes left.”

  Tangled in the black sheet, I mutter in shock, “What the fuck just happened?”

  “I was hired by Muerte to eliminate his grandson for attempting to embezzle millions,” he says with no hint of emotion. He extends his hand. “Sal Raniero. You may remember me.”

  Staring at his hand, I mutter, “How long have you been here?”

  “Stay out of the jungle.” He smirks as Gabe, and several other men appear. They bring in a black tarp and lay it on the ground as Sal holds my face against his torso and wraps his arms around me. “You don’t need to see this. Seventy-one minutes, boys! Chop! Chop! Let’s move it! Daddy needs to see Mama!”

  “Do you want the blood cleaned up in seventy-two minutes or now?” Gabe asks with a snarl. “Daddy.”

  With a proud smile, Sal looks at me. “Blood a problem for you, Lotus?”

  “As long as I don’t have to bathe in it.”

  Gabe taps him on the shoulder. “We’ll be back. Text me before you go.”

  “I am so confused.”

  Untying his boots, he repeats, “I was hired by Muerte to kill Durante Costa. He knew I would jump on the job after the spectacle in Japan.”

  “What happened to your face?” I ask. “You have bruises.”

  “That is from Thomas Byrne and Dale
Archer,” he informs, undoing the vest. I giggle at the black Reckless Rebellion shirt. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Do you often wear your boyfriend’s biker shirt when you’re doing this?”

  “Sometimes,” he snickers, lifting his brows and pulling the shirt over his head to reveal a silver vest on his chest. My brows curl with curiosity. “It’s new and expensive as fuck. I’m not sure I like it. It’s a little stiff.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “Helicopter.”

  “Please don’t tell me you rappelled in.”

  “I wanted to!” he boasts, laughing. “But it wasn’t necessary. There is a landing strip four miles away.”

  “You ran?”

  “Ya,” he says. “And I’ll run back.”

  “You realize, you are Sal Raniero?”

  Dropping his belt, he kneels on the bed and kisses me. “I do. And I’m an adrenaline junkie and an assassin. I’ll be right back.”

  I stare at the tainted pink-tinged water on the floor. I am lost in his flames…in him.

  I hear him taking a piss and smile. It’s stupid, but when we haven’t been together—basic things become very important. The water comes on in the sink, and he returns with wet hair and a towel around his neck.

  “Where were you?”

  “The bathroom,” he answers.

  “No, before you,” I say, waving my hand at the bathtub, “… showed up in here.”

  “We had just made it onto the property when you went for your walk. I figured Durante was going to implode after they finished interrogating him.”

  “And between those two things?”

  “Oh,” he replies as I stare at his wall of muscle and guns covered in ink and scars. His bands wrap around his wrists as I note the taper to his waist. His black cargo pants sag, teasing with hints of his hips. “I was having dinner with Salomé. The Pozole was delicious. You should’ve eaten.” He eyes the untouched tray as I stare in a bewildered state. “When did all this happen?”

  His eyes roll up and shift back and forth. “… A decade ago?”