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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “Mr. Raniero, can I get you anything before we take off?”

  “We’ll have two double whiskeys, neat,” Amber orders as I lick my lips and smirk. The flight attendant makes herself scarce, and Amber whispers, “What?”

  “You’re outstanding.”

  “I try,” she says. “I’ve fought long and hard for this.”

  “I don’t want you away from us when we get to Texas.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I want you to come and live with us at the Swamp Shack. The one livable house is huge.”

  “We’ll see,” she debates. “Let’s wait until we get there. I don’t want to invade on Iris or Deacon’s space.”

  “You do realize it isn’t their choice.”

  “I know, but I have to be considerate in my decisions.”

  “I am not giving you a decision either, Ma’am.”

  The flight attendant delivers our drinks and says, “We’re going to be taking off in one minute. Flying time is about six hours. After we’re up, please feel free to roam about the cabin.”

  She departs, and Amber asks, “Whose plane is this?”

  “An old friend.”

  “Cristos,” she guesses, grabbing her phone. Her head tilts as her expression turns sullen. “Dom just texted me,” she whispers, blinking up. “He says, canceled the meeting with Mass. We’re both going to Texas because Trudy Diaz just posted bail on Nick.” Immediately, I pull out my phone. “What are you doing?”

  “Calling Trudy,” I inform, pushing the button, as Amber’s fingers rest over her mouth. I hear her answer, but she says nothing. “What have you done?”

  “I missed the funeral of the man I love more than anyone else on the planet, and I find out from damn Serene that my daughter was raped?”

  “I am handling it.”

  “Fuck you, Raniero!” Trudy yells, angrier than I have ever heard. “I am taking this son of a bitch where they won’t so easily forgive his habits.”

  “Do not use Deacon’s club for this, Ma!”

  “You left me no choice!” she roars like a grizzly bear defending her cub. “You should’ve handled this. He should be dead and gone, but he’s not. Don’t worry. Just because you are a fuck up doesn’t mean I will fuck up!”

  She hangs up.

  Amber stares at me. “Don’t tell me. She is taking him to Reckless Rebellion for a comeuppance party.”

  “No,” I say, unemotional. “She is sending him to the grave.”

  “Oh, my God,” Amber says as tears well up in her eyes. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to Dubai, having this meeting, and getting my ass back to Texas as soon as possible because we’re in it until Peru.”

  Blotting her tears, she whispers, “Can I do anything?”

  I slam back the whiskey. “Get me another one of those. When we reach cruising altitude, follow me to the bedroom, take off your dress, and suck my dick.”

  “I will do whatever you need,” she volunteers, lightly clutching my hand. Losing Nicky hurts so fucking bad. I sigh, but I hold my composure. I don’t let the tears fall. I can’t. It’s such a tough position we’ve been put in. I love the guy. I hate the guy. And the only people in the world that understand what I am going through are on planes, just like me. I blink at Amber. “I should mention, I have equipment with me. If you need more.”

  I nod in acceptance, not really thinking. “… Did you just offer to peg me?”

  She smiles. “I would do anything for you.”

  With Amber bent over the bed at the luxury hotel in Dubai, I thrash my belt against her ass as her pussy clenches tightly around my cock. This is the third time I’ve come in seven hours. The first was on the plane. The second was in the limo when she bounced like a maniac on my lap.

  “Raniero…”

  “Ya, baby?”

  “Come inside of me!” she begs as her fingers clench the sheets. “Give it to me!”

  I rapidly thrust, dropping the leather, and using my hand. I come hard, exploding inside of her with a guttural moan. “Yes!”

  The waves of her orgasm saturate over my dick, prolonging mine. We are infinitely bound in Dominance and submission, and I cannot imagine her absence anymore.

  She flips over and crawls onto the bed in her black and red bustier and loose dangling garters. “Are you hungry? May I order dinner?” I don’t hesitate, diving in between her legs and slurping the length of her slit where we coalesce. “You are such a damned kinky bastard.”

  “When was the last time Cruz screwed you?”

  “Why?”

  “Just answer,” I say.

  “This afternoon, before I got on the plane.” My nose dives into her bush, fragrant with his woodsy aroma. Her hands ruffle my hair. “You miss him.”

  Peering up, I say, “I want a burger and fries.”

  She grins and grabs the menu. “You want pie with that?”

  “Yes!” I eagerly reply. “And about a dozen fucking lines.”

  “Not yet, hot shit.” Blinking up, she suggests, “You finish this deal, and we’ll party.”

  “You smuggled drugs in?”

  “You had fucking guns waiting in the damn room safe.”

  “I have certain talents.”

  “Bad ones!” she boasts as I laugh. “Naughty ones!”

  “Any word from Cruz?”

  “Not yet,” she says. “I am assuming he is still flying high.”

  “Hopefully not like we were.”

  She shrugs with a slight disappointment. Yeah, there is more to this than they’re letting on. “I wouldn’t put anything past that angel face. What are you going to do about Cristos?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I reply, getting up off the bed as her eyes stay fixated to me. “It will all depend on how this goes down.”

  “When is your first meeting?”

  I glance at my phone. “Right now. Raze Kola is waiting for me in the bar. You should order room service. This may take a bit. Want to hop in the shower with me?”

  “I would love to!”

  Checking out the elegant bathroom, I crank on the hot water and step inside before offering her a hand. “I need you to promise that you will stay in the room.”

  “There is a black case of four bangs with silencers in the safe with the code of your wife’s birthday in reverse,” she points out. “If Dale Archer shows up, he is a dead man.”

  “You’re kind of scary on details.”

  “I am a professional whore, Mr. Raniero,” she says as the steam billows. “I take my job very seriously. I am getting paid to do this.”

  “Are you loyal?”

  “Eternally,” she says, laying her hands on my shoulders. “Though in the past, my actions may have spoken otherwise.”

  “What if Archer was to put an offer on the table?”

  “There is no one,” she seriously voices. “No one, I would take an offer from.”

  “Then you are not a professional whore,” I correct, cupping her breasts in my hands. “You are Sal Raniero’s kept mistress. Do not forget it. And do not call yourself a whore ever again. I can call you my whore when my dick is buried in you, but that is between you and me.”

  “I’m sorry, Sal.”

  “Don’t insult my girls,” I warn, soaking my hair and picking her up. “I take my dolls very fucking seriously. If anyone gets in here, don’t think,” I encourage, slamming her into the wall. “Just react.” I don’t bother to handle her with care as my rough kiss sets the tone for a impactful thrust of my cock. “Just feel.”

  “Jesus, I forgot how insatiable you are,” she mumbles as I bite her neck. “Break me, Sal.”

  In the darkened lounge, I sip on a whiskey and admire the waitresses. Even at midnight, the place is packed with Suits. We’re networking, making deals, and planning the future.

  The big meeting for the weekend is tomorrow between the Bratva and Servet. Rumor has it the Pakhan—Vladimir Lebedev—has not shown up. Servet has only sent
frontman, Raze Kola. Delarte Cristos and Jonathan Finkle are present, as is Stanis Kozlov and Dale Archer.

  Raze and I are making small talk and saving our A-game for after tomorrow’s meeting when we know where everyone else stands. The game could dramatically shift contingent upon what the Bratva and Servet do.

  With Raze playing the social game, I am focused on the hot number working the bar. She’s putting on a show, flipping bottles, and flirting.

  I’ve been there; I’ve done that.

  I haven’t bothered to mix and mingle because I have little to say to any of these people. I am Sal Raniero, the only Italian present, and if they want to say something to me, they can get off their ass and do it. I’m not paying any attention when the thick British accent knocks the wind out of my lungs. “Mr. Sal Raniero.”

  I blink several times at the insanely and atrociously gorgeous man that I haven’t seen in ages. “Oh my fucking God!” I stand up and embrace him. “G-Man.”

  He smiles. “You’re looking simply smashing!”

  “You had your teeth fixed and grew up,” I stupidly note, marveling at how much four years can change a person. He’s panache-y and sizzling. “Damn!”

  Fuck—what the hell happened?

  “I babysat a few kids for a guy I know.”

  “What can I do for you?” I say as the older men in the bar cast curious glances. I desperately want to stick my tongue out because, at one point—none of them believed I had it in me. I was Raniero’s wussy son, who could shoot like a crackshot, but refused to drop his balls. I preferred juggling them. By old standards, I was considered a failure because I was an anomaly in The Suits. I lay my hand on his arm. “Please, sit down. Come into my office.”

  I nod at the waitress and raise two fingers with a smile. His hazel eyes, brownish blonde hair, and perfect angles send a jolt to my system. He is just my type—shy and professional with a hint of risqué. This fine looking specimen has been working for my ass for years—where was I?

  The waitress brings our drinks, and we keep talking. I miss the bulk of the conversation. I am too busy trying to understand how the twerpy nineteen-year-old G-Man, with drool frothing out of his mouth—’I am a bit of a mafia history buff, fanatic, if you will’—evolved into this. Model worthy hunk of like six-foot-four goodness. I have to wonder if I have changed. Maybe we aren’t supposed to acknowledge our evolution because we’re too busy living it.

  But God, if I have changed as much as he has—no wonder he is gawking like I’m the next meal.

  “Since I couldn’t complete my training at H2, I enrolled in an online university, and at the end of the summer, I received my degree in probability and statistics with a minor in abstract algebra.”

  I raise a brow—he is an ‘if’ guy—and snort. “I like mathematicians cause I hate math. It’s the opposite attraction thing.”

  He grins. “I was hoping you would say that.”

  “You need a job, G-Man?”

  “Are you hiring for a House Mathematician?”

  “I could be easily persuaded,” I flirt. “Are you still looking to find placement in a suitable, established home?”

  “I am, Salvatore,” he whispers, leaning closer. “Would you like to discuss my oral skills now or later?”

  Oral skills. Good one. Fine-looking twerp wanted to lick the sweat off my balls four years ago. I wouldn’t let him because he wasn’t ready.

  “We can arrange something.”

  I hire Giles “G-Man” Kettles, no relation to my wife’s maternal lineage, on the spot. We finish our drinks, shake on it, and leave the bar with everyone looking on. I have a sound mind to give them all the finger, but I need a few of them on my team, like the short, bald devil dancing the cha-cha toward me in the hall.

  “Hello, Cristos!” I shake my hips and lift my arms as we playfully taunt one another. Everyone is looking at the two of us like we’re fucking nuts, but I refuse to reject one of the most influential men in the world or my life.

  So we dance.

  We’re slamming downbeats with hip rolls and raunchy moves. We spin—a couple of sharks circling one another—like we’re daring anyone to fuck with us.

  The gathering crowd starts clapping along as we cause quite the scene, and no one understands how much blow I snorted or spunk I swallowed for this privilege. No one hustles like Cristos. No one teaches like Cristos.

  And I earned the coveted spot of being Master Cristos’ Pretty Boy.

  We’re laughing and smiling when he grabs my hand, and we take a bow. He kisses my cheeks. “Raniero, my boy, come upstairs to my party!”

  With his security team and Fink surrounding the tiny powerhouse player, I slide up into his fray with little disruption. “It’s all done, but do not blame me if they go to war. It was far from a perfect meeting. Tomorrow is all for show. Tempers flared, and everyone is pissed, except for me cause I never get mad. Keep the peace with plenty of condoms.”

  Keep in mind, I just arrived.

  But this is Cristos’ world.

  “That’s fantastic!” I say, patting him on the back. “I’m glad it’s done.”

  Hot sex with an older chick, dirty dancing with a Colombian, and a fanboying numbers geek, I call that a successful day.

  Can I go home now?

  Grinning, I eye Fink in his perfect makeup. I had such a crush on him years ago. I loved him. He raises a brow and smirks.

  “Look, at this!” Cristos tugs on my sleeve, drawing my attention away from the beautiful boy. “Lotus is negotiating with ZERØ!”

  That’s Raniero’s hot wife.

  Iris messaged Cristos, and those are smoke fumes emanating from my orifices as she runs everyone down her flume but me.

  “We should celebrate!”

  “That’s my boy!” Cristos brags, laying his hands in mine as I get caught in the tornado of the Cristos entourage. I look back at G-Man and he winks.

  We hit the elevator and ride it to the top. The double doors of the penthouse open as the tantric beats vibrate, patchouli incense burns in punched metal canisters, and champagne flows from a fountain.

  A Cristos party is like no other.

  Beautiful topless waitresses bob amongst the crowd as white lines cover every surface like a blizzard came to Dubai.

  “Congratulations, Raniero!” Cristos says. “We did it!”

  I don’t feel like I did shit.

  “Same to you,” I reply as he stands on his toes and plants a kiss on my cheek.

  “You were always such a good, deserving boy,” he praises. “Follow me.” His Master suite is fit for a king with the two floors devoted to the utmost in opulent privacy. He kicks off his expensive loafers and lays down on the bed and pats it. “Lay down.”

  I quietly sigh, not wanting to be the object of his adoration. I’m not in the mood to act sexy for him while he strokes one off. I’m not in the right frame of mind—loaded up on narcotics—to be able to give a porn-worthy blow job. “What are we doing?”

  “Meditating.”

  “Who taught you?”

  “Master Tse,” he replies as I close my eyes. “Very good at alignment.”

  I recognize the name. “… Shibari master?”

  “Yes, he works with the Kasai brothers.”

  “Your wife bailed Nicky out.”

  “I’m aware,” he calmly says. “Better have not been on my dime or she won’t be my wife tomorrow.”

  “How do you feel about him?”

  “He is my son, and I love him. He is a menace and should be put to rest. There is no easy answer,” he replies as his fingers search for mine. “You are the closest thing to a son I am ever going to have, Salvatore. Please accept my love and do not doubt my intentions again.”

  “I will never.”

  Fink peeks in the door and informs, “The plane is ready, Papi.”

  “Are you leaving?”

  Cristos shrugs. “I’ve been here for two days and done my job. I have another engagement.”

&nb
sp; He pulls off his loose cotton shirt, and I notice the multitude of scars on his chest and back as he grabs the dark blue dress shirt from the closet and buttons it.

  We all have wounds from the war.

  He loosens his belt, tucks the shirt in, and refastens his pants before staring in the mirror. He is ridiculously vain, loves a good party, and flirting with the women and men. “You like stirring the pot.”

  His brows wiggle as he smirks from the corner of his mouth. “If I didn’t enjoy my job, I wouldn’t do it, but Serene is going to be pissed you didn’t use this opportunity to off me.”

  “Please,” I scoff, sitting up on the bed. “I swear I won’t ever be the one to kill you. How did you get Allegiance and Servet out of it?”

  “I am buying cargo ships from both sides,” he boasts, grinning like Satan’s rambunctious child. “Your girl has got some competition.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say as he sprinkles cologne in his hands and taps his cheeks and neck. “Why did you get rid of your ships in the first place?”

  “Because I wanted to see what my son would do with them,” he confides, understanding the Rowan Effect and pulling on his classic white sport coat. Always white. Always Cristos. “He sold off his gift to Iris. Now, in addition to you, my only son, I have an aspiring daughter who needs her Papi in Brazil.” He winks.

  “You’re going?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it, Salvatore,” he says, rubbing his finger over the two crab rings on my fingers. “Your girl—she’s making waves.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper, kissing his cheeks and his lips. “I love you, Papi.”

  “Dear God, where have you been my whole life!” Amber moans, shirtless and facedown a half an hour later as G-Man kneads her back.

  Sorry to disappoint.

  Not what I planned on either.

  “Where did you learn how to do this?” I ask. “Can you work on my hands?”

  “My mother was a physical therapist for years,” he says. “And yes, I could.”

  With a dreamy daze in her voice, Amber asks, “Has she passed?”

  “No,” he says, “She retired about five years ago and moved to Spain.”