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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  I blush, and Lani laughs. “How about some good news?”

  “I would love some!” I eagerly say. “Please.”

  “Do you want to know what you’re having?” We grin at one another. “I don’t have to tell you. We can keep it a surprise until the delivery.”

  “I want to know,” Sal says. “If Iris does.”

  I blink to my husband, more afraid than I have ever been. “Yes, please.”

  “Congratulations! You’re having a baby girl!”

  “A girl!” Sal proudly booms. “Yes!”

  “... Just one?” I ask.

  “Yes, just one!” Lani reassures. “I’ll let you get dressed and leave the info at the desk. I’d like you to come back once a week, so I can keep a close eye on you if you’re going to be in town.”

  “I’ll be here.” Not thinking, I say, “I’m moving in with Sal.”

  “He’s your husband.”

  “I know, but we’ve never lived together.”

  Saying it out loud makes it real.

  “Take care of your beautiful bride.”

  “Yes, Ma’am!” Sal boasts. “Thank you so much, Lani.”

  She leaves the exam room, and I grab his arm. “We’re moving in together,” I whisper, frantic as the walls of my mental fortress crumble to the ground. “Oh my fuck, I married you…”

  It all hits like a landslide.

  I married Sal.

  We’re having a baby.

  My new home is called the Swamp Shack in Little Bee, Texas.

  And I am no longer the Lotus Queen.

  “Yes, baby,” he gloats, taking off my gown and kissing my belly. “Grow, girlie!”

  “She needs a name.”

  “Are you asking me?”

  “I am,” I whisper with tears in my eyes. “I know you have thought about this.”

  “Mariella Aki Violet Nakamura Raniero.”

  “… MAV?’

  “What the hell?” he questions, chuckling and raising his arms. “What is with you and Cruz and the damn initials, IAN?”

  “I don’t know, LSR,” I hastily chime. “What does DVC think of the name?”

  “This is the first time I’ve told anyone.”

  “I don’t like it,” I blurt out, taking his hand and sliding off the table. “Her name should be Mariella Aki Violet Raniero, no Nakamura.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I haven’t been this certain about anything since I said I do to you. Now, tell Mav to grow.”

  Putting my shirt over my head, he carefully pulls out my hair. “You know I am not going to call her Mav, right?”

  “… You’re not?”

  He opens the door and whispers, “We could call her Rie Raniero.”

  “Shit! You named her after me,” I debate the options in the empty waiting room as he grabs the brochure. “But we could call her Arie or Ariel or Laki or Kivi…”

  “We can call her whatever you like; that is the beauty of this name. You just have to pick one,” he replies, opening the door as I spot Dom propped against the bumper. “You go to the salon. I will be right across the square. If you need anything, call me.”

  I grin at Dom. “Can I tell him?” Sal nods. “It’s a girl!”

  Dom smiles and hugs me. “Always pink, baby!” He reaches to shake Sal’s hand, but my husband embraces him, and they kiss one another’s cheeks. “Congratulations, Nero!”

  “If you stick your dick in my hot wife again, I will hurt you, Sir.”

  Sal pops a piece of gum in his mouth and tosses his sunglasses on before bathing the inside of my mouth with his tongue. So much for lackluster PDA. Minty kisses. Yum.

  “I fucking love you,” I whisper, breathlessly.

  “I love you more, and I will meet you at the Swamp Shack this afternoon. Have fun!” He winks at me and points at Dom. “Take care of my girls.”

  “I will, Sir.”

  We watch as he walks off.

  “He’s pissed,” Dom says.

  “No, he’s jealous.”

  “You look like you’re waiting for aliens to arrive and take you away on their spaceship,” Dom jests, sipping on a coffee from the new spot next door, Fresh Ground. I set down the trash rag in my hand and take the large tea from his hand. After the deep cherry color and cut, I decided I wanted a few blonde highlights, so now I am sitting in tin foil while getting a pedicure.

  I take a swallow. “Thank you for thinking of me.”

  “I almost brought you a sandwich,” he adds, sitting next to me. “How is the tea?”

  “Good,” I reply, taking another drink of the iced sweet peach tea. “I haven’t had peach in so long. All I drink in Japan is matcha and chrysanthemum.”

  Ruby’s Salon is bustling today with Madeline Grace’s funeral tomorrow. Everyone is getting gussied up because this shindig isn’t about honoring Madeline; it’s about schmoozing up to Cristos.

  I am doing my best to remain inconspicuous, but with Dom here, it’s almost futile. So far, Ella Hemsworth and Kit Jolly have both said hello. I’m just waiting on Anna to walk in, giving one of her high-pitched squeals—‘Iris!’—and my anonymity will be over.

  “Those things look like daggers!” he notes, staring at my nails. “They’re stunning with the pink and gold.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “They’re curved stilettos.”

  “I hope Sal doesn’t piss you off.” Flipping through the magazine, I laugh once, as the new young girl, Fuchsia, paints my toenails pink. “Is she new?”

  “Yes,” I answer. “She barely speaks any English.”

  “Where is she from?”

  “Vietnam.”

  He gives me a knowing glance. Anna’s antics are steadily at work, enrolling in mafia princesses from all over the world. “She’s not halting recruitment until January.”

  “What are you talking about?” I snicker. “She’ll be filling Juliet full of offspring until the very last second.”

  “December 31,” he reminds. “We need to hang on until then. When does Fuchsia start at the school?”

  “Spring, I would imagine, if Sal keeps it open.”

  “The only reason he threatened to close it was if you weren’t going to be by his side,” he says. “He needs his submissive.”

  “Well, I am not doing anything else at the moment.”

  He touches my arm, penetrating through my staunch resolve. “Lotus isn’t over.”

  “For me, it is, Dom.”

  “Trust me, precious girl,” he persists, picking up a sports magazine and scanning over the contents. “You are not done.”

  We sit for a moment in silence until I can no longer take it. “What do you mean?”

  “Do you know what a Toxopneustes pileolus is?”

  I rapidly blink. “Why would I?”

  “Toxopneustes means poison breath. Pileolus means little cap.”

  I am sure I appear confused. “I am not following you with your poison breath, little cap.”

  He smiles. “The deadly flower urchin lives around Okinawa, Japan, and throughout the tropical Indo-West Pacific. It is considered highly dangerous with a painful bite, stinging when touched. If the wounds become infected—uncontrolled—they kill. ”

  “Aren’t most uncontrolled infections lethal?” I idly remark. I finish flipping pages and set the magazine off to the side. “I didn’t know I needed a lesson in sea life.”

  “Sometimes, we do not know what we need,” he replies. “You are a deadly sea urchin, Lotus. Highly dangerous. Painful. Deadly. Beautiful.”

  I glance at him. “You’re comparing me to a flower urchin?”

  “I am saying the wrong swimmer touched your spines, and whether you know it or not, the effects will be a crippling paralysis…deadly.” He raises a brow. “I have had your back since the day you sat in my lap over thirty years ago, and that will never change.”

  “Does Sal know what you’re doing?”

  “Not everything, but he doesn’t need to know,” he replies. “I
know you are aware who Mae’s mother is…”

  Fuchsia looks up and smiles. My toes are done just in time for Ruby to nod and wave. “Time for my outer space antennas to come out.” I wobble up and contend, “I did nothing wrong.”

  “I didn’t say you did.”

  “I did everything in my power to protect the legacy of Lotus,” I whisper as my voice hitches, full of anguish and regret. “I failed. The game is over.”

  “No, princess,” he rebukes with a smirk. “The game hasn’t even started.”

  102

  sharks in the sea

  The Master

  On the broken deck—which I need to repair—of the Swamp Shack, I overhear the sounds of a couple of kids screwing.

  “God, Deacon! Fuck me!”

  “I’m coming in your hot pussy, baby girl!”

  “Do it!”

  As much as I know I shouldn’t open the door, the fact is—my wife is in there. No doubt they’re reuniting after months apart. I swing open the door with gusto, thinking I’m about to join in on an incredible threesome.

  Amber is riding Cruz on the sofa.

  “Oh, shit!” Amber excuses with her bra dangling off, haphazardly pulled down, exposing one of her breasts. Cruz’s jeans are wound around his knees in the impromptu fucking session. His dirty grin hits my heart, landing with an impactful thud.

  “Is my wife here?”

  “She’s upstairs asleep,” he says as I quietly shut the door and walk away.

  I peer in on her, exhausted from the last week of travel. Running my hand over her hair, I kiss her, but she doesn’t stir. The dress for tomorrow’s funeral hangs in a plastic bag against the wall, and I smile.

  Everything is flowing smoothly.

  I bolt back downstairs. Cruz and Amber are up and semi-dressed, rummaging through the kitchen.

  I sit at the table with no shame. I am not a fool. There is more to Amber and Cruz than the casual encounter. I light a smoke and ask, “Are you moving in?”

  “Yes!” she answers in her cami and panties. “We talked about it.”

  “Who is we?”

  “Deacon, Iris, and me.”

  “Iris knows?” I query, tapping my fingers on the table. “I don’t want any miscommunication between the four of us.”

  “We’re good, babe,” Cruz says, patting my arm. I am not expecting much more, but he leans down and kisses my lips. “I missed the fuck out of you.”

  “I love you too.” He grins like a schoolboy—innocent and free-flying. “Can we go for a ride?”

  “Depends if you trust Amber to watch Iris,” he snickers, knowing Amber-Get-Your-Gun is no pansy-ass. She’ll shoot before either of us. “I’ll go with you, but your bike is buried deep in the lot.”

  I snort, “We gotta fix that shit, man.”

  “I know we do,” he says. “I’ve been thinking about building a big garage way out back by Coronado Way. We’ve got 1200 acres, and we should spread out the buildings.”

  I stub out the smoke and ask, “Does Coronado ever flood?”

  “Not like Del Rio Canyon and the creek do. I’ll take you, if you ride bitch.”

  “I will happily ride bitch.” I spot the Glock on the kitchen counter. “This shit has got to change with the babies coming home.”

  Immediately, Amber asks, “You got her?”

  “I did, Bamber.”

  “Thank God!” she breathes a sigh of relief. “Does Iris know?”

  I shake my head. “Not yet.”

  “Oh, Jesus, Sal,” she says, worrying. “When are you planning on telling her?”

  “When I take custody, I guess, I don’t know. I didn’t want to say anything until I knew it was for certain. She’s been stressed out enough as is.”

  “How is your dad?”

  “Cesario is not out of the woods,” I report, cracking my knuckles. “They put him in a medically induced coma, hoping to give his body time to heal. Mama and Gaby are going to Brazil. Stella is staying behind to do whatever the fuck she does.”

  Cruz asks, “They can’t move him?’

  “I wish you had heard how many times I asked that same question today,” I reply. “Even Cristos made a plea and offered a jet, but if we try and move him, the doctors think he is as good as dead.”

  “Fuck, I’m so sorry,” Amber gently says. “I’ve got your girl. Go clear your head.” She returns to digging through the pantry but lifts her hands like a venomous snake is on the shelf. “Oh, Berk Polat is here! He’s a fucking weirdo, though. Camping in a tent in November.”

  “It’s Texas,” I excuse as Cruz leaves the room. “He is a bounty hunter, ex-military, deep ties to the Servet regime, and a Nero. He doesn’t fuck around.”

  “Is he safe?”

  “Berk is as safe as you or I.”

  “How do you know this?” she questions, doubting his intentions. “Where did this guy come from?”

  “Dom and Quinn both vouched for him.”

  “And he let Jaid go to the party in Brazil,” she argues. “Explain that one.”

  “I did that,” I confide. “I asked her to go because beyond anything else—Jaid is good at what she does.”

  “… Conniving and torture?”

  “Pretty much,” I snicker. “And she won’t go after Iris, not in front of her father.”

  Stepping closer, she whispers, “When are you going to be done with her, Sal?”

  “I already am.”

  Cruz returns with a hoodie and ball cap for me. “Let’s get out of here,” he coaxes, quickly kissing Amber. “Go clear your head.”

  He walks out the door to go start up the bike. “If she shows up here, I’m pulling the trigger.”

  “And that is why you are here, and she is not.”

  We take the backroads from Little Bee to Sugargrove. We’re aimless in our trek on two wheels, but our vigilante justice infiltrates targets with precision.

  We do not miss.

  I understand Amber’s concerns about Jaid, but I am officially checked out of caring about Jaid Grace or Rowan Tully after the two-day tango in a hotel suite. When I sent her to Brazil, my whole thought process was doing whatever it took to protect the Lotus. Jaid wouldn’t go after the Lotus before because it would go in direct violation of Serene and Cristos’ precious Buttercup.

  I am not the only one trying to elevate Iris.

  With the absence of Madeline and Kate’s plans being revealed, the chips have been tossed into the air. Jaid will run for the top spot, but after meeting with Cristos this morning, I can attest to the fact, it will not be with the help of her Papi—conceited little witch.

  For a man who rarely moves past a calm, flat line, Jaid’s move spiked him. He could’ve put a crown on her head, well before Iris had a chance to rebound, but instead, Cristos chose to smash it into the ground. He changed his will, and the bulk of his estate is not going to either of his biological children, Jaid or Nick.

  And as it turns out, much as he predicted in Dubai, Trudy used Cristos’ money to bail out Nicky, and Cristos already filed for divorce. Trudy can try to fight it, but Joe Kaiser will destroy her in court.

  Cruz is pissed at Ma, and she is still pissed at me. And all of this goes back to my trying to keep Cruz’s crowbar out of Nicky’s skull.

  We drive through the old square on Main Street. It’s late, and no one is out. The slick black roads are damp from the rain earlier in the evening, and the chill in the air feels like winter is coming.

  A Siberian winter if we’re not careful.

  Cruz takes his time, winding through the bends to Juliet. We aren’t going down tonight. The darkness will cradle our devout kinship to her kind. We’re worshippers of the dreadful, wretched, and woeful in our pilgrimage towards the light we’ve never seen.

  Like Nyx, the Greek goddess of the night, Erebus, God of Darkness, who was one of the first five born in chaos, and Hecate, goddess of boundaries, crossroads, witchcraft, and ghosts—these are the ones who matter most; Hades isn’t th
e worst, only the most renowned.

  I am a child of the darkness.

  And a son born from a criminal act.

  Because it was.

  There is no getting around it—I am the product of a hitman and a whore, who was only fifteen to his twenty-seven. It wasn’t even statutory rape, but child sexual abuse and incest.

  It’s no wonder I’ve got an ivory vial in every jacket, pills in pockets, and a razor blade in my wallet. This shit bogs down the code, capsizing the data breaches to a sluggish decay with an unfamiliar string that few can decipher.

  I am the virus.

  It brings new meaning to the words—I never asked to be born—particularly like this.

  Baby Raniero didn’t ask for it either.

  The night of her conception, I pushed the boundaries, coerced the girl, and called it hypocrisy when she lied, but who really patched together the untruth?

  Me.

  And I will spend the rest of my life trying to make amends for one grievous error of rapture while lost in my delirium.

  That is the truth.

  There is no dodging past the volley of boulders pounding my soul further into the crevices, where I long to hide and where I should reside. The pitch-black baits my mind, luring me home to its lair. There is nothing I can do to stop it, even if I wanted to.

  We stop outside of the back gate to Juliet, off the gravel road where rarely anyone goes in the day, much less during the night. It’s dead quiet as I stare at the sign until my eyes fill with tears.

  The JULIET Academy

  Sugargrove, Texas

  Est. 1976

  “I knew better,” I say when Cruz gets off the bike. “Anna and so many others taught me better than to do what I did.”

  He pulls out a smoke and flicks the lighter. The glow shines on his face and golden hair as his cheeks sink, and he inhales. The flames abruptly go out, and he asks, “What the fuck are you on about, Raniero?”

  “The night we made the baby.”

  “I beat the crap outta you for that stunt,” he reminds, hiking up his jeans, two sizes too big. “It’s over.”

  “It’s not,” I argue. “I am no better than Vinny.”