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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “This is the last person I ever thought I would be asking for a consult on the Iris case.”

  “I know that, but you need to buck up and do it. Jaid is smart, and you’re good at solving problems together. She may give you a different angle,” he prods with hope. “I cannot solve as you do, but what would you do to find Iris?”

  “Anything,” I confirm, understanding that seeing Jaid will be walking into the devil’s lair and demanding he redecorates to a more suitable, eye-pleasing palette. And I know this because I am the same way—uncompromising in my ways. “I’ll be back in less than an hour.”

  “Raniero!” he yells as I walk off. “Whatever she says, do not fucking kill Jaid.”

  “Not my job,” I say with a wink, “your Tartarean punishments.”

  He devilishly grins with the face of an angel. “I love you, cocksucker.”

  “I know you do, bitch.”

  He yells as I straddle on the bike. “You know, I don’t like tartar sauce.”

  “That’s okay; you like the gravy.” I wink.

  “Now, we’re talking gospel,” he says, sticking the tips of his fingers in his pockets. “Be careful, baby.”

  I blow him a kiss.

  A Disciple of the Craft

  I peek in the back of the SUV parked at the old fairgrounds where I have been meandering for hours.

  The men switch positions as they take turns fucking the girl.

  I wish I could watch up close—a front-row seat in their live sex.

  I can see the movement—thrashing and bucking—as they go at it—my dick throbs as I rub my hand over my jeans. I couldn’t get off in Sarah. I tried, but her place smelled like grandma’s house. I was expecting meatloaf and mashed potatoes any moment, which made me hungry and meant no release of any kind.

  Sarah is still alive.

  I match my strokes with their thrusts, wanting to be taking part in their fun. I come fast as the man stills.

  Shortly after, one of them gets in the driver seat, and I dive behind the building. Running in the sloppy mess of yesteryear’s frivolity, I make it to the sexy black car I stole from Sal’s garage. It’s much more my style. I follow them, keeping a reasonable distance as we drive back into Sugargrove.

  When they pull into Father Quinn’s parking lot, I cut the lights and drive back by the rectory where the SUV parks next to the trees. In the shadow of a nearby street light, I see them dump the body and grab something from the rear. They repeatedly beat her with the object as she wallows in agony.

  She stops moving.

  I tilt my head and squint. “… Is that Iris?”

  Hitting the gas, I pull over and jump out as the two goons get into the SUV. I lunge for the driver with the hunting knife in my hand and manage to break the window. “Fucker!”

  With my steel toe boot, I kick the driver’s side taillight, and it shatters.

  “Oh…God…Iris…”

  “Ni…” she barely whispers, slurring her words as the glow in the light illuminates the truth. “Sa…”

  Her head bobs as her hands grasp for me like a zombie, and I notice her wedding ring is covered in red. Her nails are busted off below the quick. Her teeth are broken. Her skin is black and blue with bruises all over.

  “This is bad.”

  I cautiously pull back the layers of fabric—her dress split in two and her jacket. Whatever someone did is a disgusting mess as I glance with morbid curiosity.

  “Sal…”

  “I will get him,” I assure, jarring back to reality before mounting her. She is not my fresh kill. The damage is not from the efforts of my love. Iris is leftovers. “But we have to get you to the hospital now. This is going to hurt.” I carefully pick her up in my arms and carry her to the car. I grab the seatbelt but change my mind when I see the blood and fluid trickling down her thighs in the car lights. “We’re going to the hospital, sweetheart.”

  Her face is a mess as she looks at me. “Ba—by!”

  “I’m going!” I quickly drive the short distance to the hospital and glance around the lot, scanning for any security. There is none. Because they’re all out looking for me. I pull up close to the door, but not directly in front of it. I swipe a wheelchair and put the remaining portion of a girl into it. I set her purse in her lap. “I need you to hold on. Can you do that?”

  “Sal…”

  “I’ll get him,” I whisper, kissing her on the head.

  “Than—k yo—u, Nic…”

  I push her down the hill to the emergency room doors and drive to the back of the lot. I call 911 from my burner phone before throwing it in the dumpster at the hospital. I stare as the white coats rush to her aid.

  “Please don’t die, Butterfly,” I hysterically sob. “Please don’t fly away…”

  The Master

  I turn into the Swamp Shack driveway on Coronado Way, glad I didn’t take Del Rio Canyon entry. I am confident the creek is flooding, and I would never have gotten the bike through the water’s current. Even without adding the conundrum of a river running through my front yard, the hard-driving rain makes it almost impossible to see what is in front of me.

  Blinding natural forces in the darkness.

  Soaked to the bone, I park the bike in the garage and jog up the steps to the slippery splintered deck. Stripping off my wet clothes in the living room, I spot the manila envelope in the box that reads to Sal. I open it up to find the buried treasure, the missing link, the holy fucking motherlode of intel.

  I quickly change my clothes, grab an umbrella, and walk the short distance to the main house. I quietly open and close the cellar doors before lighting a candle and descending the crumbling steps into the tomb. I set the candle and two water bottles on the table.

  “Nice ambient staging.”

  “I try,” I say in the heavy hooded robe and black gloves. With my face obscured by the cloak, I blink with contempt at the girl behind bars. “Confess your sins, Jaid. My beloved sponsor.”

  “Nero sponsor,” she confides.

  “I found the box,” I admit, holding up the red leather wristband embossed with black fleur de lys. “You want to explain this?”

  “Iris may have the mafia monarchy, but I have the boys by the balls.”

  I pull up a chair and sit down. I stare at her and stroke my goatee. “I want you to explain, in detail, how you—a female—became the first Nero.”

  “I wasn’t the first,” she replies, sitting on the bed in an upright fetal position. “There was a woman years ago, who was involved in Nero until she was brutally murdered, but you haven’t figured that out yet, have you?”

  Thinking about her words, I squint and mutter, “… Jacqueline Archer?”

  “Serene’s sister and Cris Crow’s mom.”

  I crack open one water bottle and hand it to her through the bars. “How did she ever get involved?”

  “Do you have a cigarette to go with this?”

  “You know you are here for your safety,” I inform, handing her a fresh box and a matchbook.

  Packing the smokes, she says, “I figured as much, but I am safe. Serene wasn’t the first child. Jacqueline was older, a modern woman—a feminist, who knew what she wanted and went after it. She graduated high school and sought out those to elevate her career in security. Over time, she ended up here. Serene followed in her footsteps, but never quite achieved the same recognition as Jacqueline. Serene tried to accelerate her game with CAE, but you know how that turned out. Eventually, the stress became too much, Jacqueline got sick, and Serene used Nick to take her out.”

  “Holy fuck…” I snicker as she strikes the match. “I’m not letting you out.”

  “You can’t kill me either,” she quips, exhaling. “A Nero cannot kill another Nero.”

  “Iris is missing.”

  She places her toes on the floor and swings her legs from side to side. “Okay. What would you like me to do from your cage?”

  “Did Nicky have anything to do with her disappearance?”


  “I doubt it,” she speculates, taking another drag. “Nicky adores Iris, but I’d be careful if I were you. He’s not a clown hidden in a closet, but a snake in your bed.”

  “Madeline wasn’t responsible.”

  “No, she wasn’t,” she says. “But neither am I, and I tried to tell Iris this when she mentioned Kate.”

  “Did you have intel on Kate?”

  “No.”

  “Did Maddy?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Did Iris figure out Kate was Anna and Luca’s daughter on her own?”

  “You act like your wife isn’t capable of dissecting or formulating a masterful ruse,” she condemns, strolling up to the bars. “Iris is maddeningly brilliant. If you’ve underestimated her, fallen for her pretty face and charms, that is on you, not me. She’ll claim many falsehoods to protect the sanctity of her Lotus. And make no mistake; it is her Lotus.”

  “Fuck the hundreds of years of the legacy before her?”

  “I think so,” she says. “Her Lotus. Her legacy.”

  “Would you harm her?”

  “Iris has grace,” she disputes, not missing a beat. “If anyone associated with The Commission, Sanctum, or Nero harms Iris, they signed their death certificate.”

  “They’re dead either way,” I imply, snarling. “Who do you think took her?”

  “Most likely is an aged, well-seasoned feud.”

  “A vendetta,” I question, thinking. “I don’t know who all Iris has pissed off. She is very good at covering her tracks.”

  “Because she has to be,” she states with a deep understanding. “Whoever has her knows exactly who and what she is and the implications of their actions. They’re out to draw blood.”

  “You can’t talk about your cases.”

  “No, because all of the traces are ash,” she counters with a smirk. “What do you want to know? I’ll be a half-open book you can speed-read.”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  “Your photographic memory won’t help you hear,” she stipulates. “But I don’t think you’re coming after me. That would be counterproductive to fatherhood.”

  “How long have you been a Nero?” I ask, but she merely smiles. I refine the question. “Since before your abduction to Mexico?”

  “Yes.”

  “Before Kaci’s death?”

  “When you were in prison, I was approached by a very well known and influential member who was in Sanctum.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “McPhail or Altromessa?”

  She refuses to divulge an answer in any language—speech or body. “I was clandestinely working on the Sibyl,” she emphasizes, “case on Dale Archer and stumbled upon many informative things.”

  “Might as well call that the Sal Raniero’s case on Dale Archer.” She steadily tilts her head back and forth. “Does your mother know?”

  “Negative.”

  “Have you done work for your mother?”

  “No, and I won’t because my mother is challenged in her own opinions.”

  “She flip-flops.”

  “More so she goes where the power is—she always has,” she whispers. “Repeat that sentence until you’ve burned it into your mind, and you’ll have your question and answer.”

  “I don’t need to; I know the answer is Iris.” My eyes ease over her alluring face as we play the match we’ve practiced for over the better part of our lives. “Have you done work for my wife?”

  “Many times.”

  “So I am right to doubt her intentions,” I remark. “She isn’t playing nicely in the sandbox.”

  She arches her lips in a decided frown and simpers like she is stretching her facial muscles. “I would not say that. I would say she is much like all of the other…bigger…players in the game. She doesn’t dirty up her hands—fear of ruining the manicure.” She winks.

  I rise and lap my hand over hers as she holds onto the bar. “I’m leaving you here.”

  “I know,” she whispers as we’re inches apart. “One question. Ask away. I’ll break my solemn oath for you, Nero.”

  “Who paid for the attack on Cruz?”

  “Who do I think? Or what do I know?” she inquires. “Because I don’t know.”

  “Think.”

  “Pico Neves or his associates.” We stare at one another as we did over a decade ago, and I know she isn’t lying. The quiet in the cellar is so profound that I hear her breath and my heartbeat. “But I cannot prove it.”

  “You made a cool ten million that Durante Costa swiped from Carlo Torrente on order from The Beekeeper. Why?”

  “Input the data and work the problem.” She winks. “One question was enough.”

  “Because I promised Cas Hope that I would take care of her, but couldn’t because she is some psychoslut set on complete domination. She is notorious for holding a grudge, and that would explain the Kate connection…Oh fuck!”

  She grins wide. “… And?”

  “I married Iris Kettles.”

  “Very good. Now don’t do anything with this information until we play twenty questions again.”

  “I was only allowed one.”

  “I may be in a better mood next time.” Her eyes water up. “Just wait until you get the case you wished you hadn’t.”

  “I already did.”

  She hands the cigarette box and matches back to me. “One was enough. Can you please hand me the breast pump, so your lover doesn’t wet nurse on me again?”

  His Ride

  “Who the hell are you?” I ask the guy entering Mierne’s side door. He cannot see me because I am sitting in the shadows of her porch.

  “Gabriel Herrera,” he says as I stub out my smoke. “Sal asked me to come.”

  “… You’re Gabe?”

  “I am,” he says as I stand up and throw my right fist into his face. “What the fuck?”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Deacon Cruz.” I open the door, and he follows me inside. “Sit down. I’ll get you an ice pack.”

  “What the hell!” Georgia shifts her whole body between the two of us. “Deacon, what did you do to Gabe?”

  “Introduced myself.” I toss the ice pack on the table and smile like I’m a choir boy. She shakes her head. I knock twice on the table. “What do you know?”

  “You got a helluva right hook.”

  Tossing a blue flannel shirt over my white t-shirt, I grin. “Thank you.”

  “I cannot find any information leading me to believe that Iris had anything to do with the shooting,” he says, staring at me. “You want to tell me why you hit me?”

  “You want to tell me why you and your cousin were fucking our girl?”

  “Shit hap…”

  Lifting my hand, I interject, “I would stop right there before I give you a matched pair,” I warn, scowling. “Iris is Sal Raniero’s wife, and there is a very long line, starting way back there, if something happens to him, so I suggest you get in it.”

  “Let me guess, you’re first.”

  Through gritted teeth, I admit, “You bet your fucking ass I am. You don’t get to jump ahead. And neither does…Dante?”

  “I will respect your wishes as Sal’s good friend,” he says as I scrutinize over his distinguishing mug and contemplate how long it would take to scrub the blood splatter off the wall in Mierne’s nook. It’d probably be worth it. “I cannot promise Dante will do the same.”

  “Oh,” I seethe, smirking with steam and taking a bite of a delicious chocolate chip cookie. I love fucking with people—rattling their cages and making them regret ever crossing my path. “He will.”

  He seems slightly more apprehensive concerning me than he did before, and that is fine with me. I don’t want to be his friend, buddy, or chum. We’re not having drinks and we damn sure ain’t gang banging on my baby girl.

  Iris—the one thing that will stop me from ever saying I do to anyone else. My love for Sal and Iris is equal, and everyone—including Amber—is second best. I love her, I care about her
, and I like getting off in her, but I’m next up for—Sal or Iris—if anything happens to either one.

  I am the anchor.

  “Deacon!” Mierne screams, flurrying into the kitchen. “They have Iris! Nicky just dropped her off at the emergency room.”

  “… Nicky what? “I grab my hoodie and keys.” Call Sal!”

  “I have been trying,” Mierne says. “I cannot get ahold of him, but I will keep at it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Deacon… she’s bad.”

  My eyes tear up. “Who did it?”

  “Iris won’t say.”

  Running for the door, I ask, “She’s conscious?”

  “Yes, but the rape was brutal.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Gabe insists. Brutal rape. I turn as pale as a ghost. “And I’m driving.”

  The Master

  Making my way back to the house, I am on a disruptive edge in the darkness. It’s an unusual place for my mind to be, trapped within the inky recesses and uncomfortable in my skin. I reside in a tenebrous state unfit for most, but tonight—something is off. Something wicked and wild lurks just beneath the surface, ready to pull me under.

  I change out of my clothes, not worrying about Jaid’s current living arrangement. She won’t escape the cell, much like I cannot evade my Cimmerian vein festering with discontent.

  More doomed than the usual gloom.

  Chalking it up to the pressure, I dress in black—jeans, long sleeves, ball cap, and water repellent hoodie. I should put a vest on, but I’m not in the mood. I have my harness, and that is enough for now.

  Nicky won’t shoot me; this much I know to be true mostly because Nicky doesn’t play with guns. And whoever snatched Iris won’t be standing long enough to fire a retaliatory shot.

  I grab a dry pair of boots from the closet and spot the empty vial lying inside. I toss it into the nightstand drawer, lace up my boots, and spring downstairs to the pantry and the rice container.

  Just one line.

  It’s never just one.

  That’s some lie we tell ourselves to feel like we’re in control, but it’s never just one. I ignore the rice—and the cocaine I am craving therein; I pop a couple of pills and wash it with a shot of whiskey cause fuck if I am continuing this shit sober. My vespers are more explicit when I deliberately disconnect the partitions, exacting their fall and empowering the syncopated rhythms to resound within.