I smash the half-burned cigarette out because I’m just not ready to deal with Stella Oria Raniero being my mother.
On my way back in, Deacon notes the conflict brewing in my eyes. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I am fine.”
“Salvatore, now,” Father Quinn says.
On high alert, Deacons questions, “Do you need me to come with?”
I give a singular shake of my head as Quinn grabs my elbow and leads me to the restroom. He locks the door.
“We need to talk.”
“That seems to be a trend today.”
“It’s a Catholic funeral mass for a mobster’s bride,” he proclaims. “You didn’t plan on mourning, did you?”
“Well,” I admit, tilting my head. “It would have been nice.”
“We need to discuss the Irish.”
“I’m not worried about the Irish,” I admit, unzipping my fly and taking a piss.
“You ought to be.” My stream echoes in the small room as he sighs, “Must you do that now?”
“We’re in a bathroom, Padre.”
“Salvatore…”
I ignore him as I relieve myself. “Three cups of coffee and two bottles of water will do this to a guy.”
“Salvatore,” he repeats as I flush. “I am not joking. Kill Rat is coming after you.”
Washing my hands, I stare at myself in the mirror. “I’m getting so old.”
“You are all of twenty-eight and behaving like you’re nineteen.”
I rub my damp hands over my face, and he hands me several towels. “Nah, I was much more put together at nineteen. Now, I’m fucking wild.” I maniacally grin. “Crazy, even.”
“You need to prepare yourself.”
“For the Irish,” I smart off. “Because everyone knows it wasn’t my fault.”
“The blame is there, Salvatore,” he says. “You may be blind to it, but Father McPhail was murdered execution-style. I do not believe the intended hit was your wedding.”
I stop moving, breathing, thinking. “... How the fuck did I miss it?”
“A girl you have loved since childhood was murdered in cold blood,” he points out with gentle ease. “No one expects you to have your A-game on, which is why I am in a bathroom stall while you eliminate your bladder to warn you of the impending storms coming for your ass. That is my job—to protect The Unholy—more specifically, you and Deacon.”
The room spins, and I crouch down low, staring at the drainage pipes beneath the sink. “It wasn’t about the wedding,” I mumble in a low, capsizing voice. “It wasn’t me.”
“No, it was an intended hit to make it appear as though it was the Ranieros instigating a war against the Irish, and your association with Amber Rosen may be the death of you, son. You need to pull away from her now.”
“I’m in it until Peru.”
“And then, you are done with her antics.”
“Shit,” I mutter, tilting my head back. “I’m never going to untangle all of this.”
“Yes, you will,” he maintains. “But there are two things you need, and one of them you are sending back to Sugargrove to light another fire.”
“It needs to be lit.”
“If you give Nissa’s phone to Deacon now, everything will change. He will be unleashed. You will be unhinged. And Iris will be very unhappy. You best be certain your hate is worthy of the consequences considering Kill Rat is knocking on Boudreaux’s door.”
“Four Cinco members raped Zoe. Nissa hired Jack Kerris to find a couple of goons to rape Trudy. When does it stop?”
“If you send Deacon home, you fire the first shot,” Father Quinn warns. “The DNA evidence has been missing for months, Sal. Why do you want to drag this up now?”
“Hannah Beth Nelson.”
“Who?”
“Skeeter.”
He clasps his hands together and peers down his nose to me on the ground. “Yes, the bizarre new recruit of The Unholy. No one is quite sure of your motivations with that one.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, staring at the drain hole in the middle of the floor. “The only thing that matters is Cody Cameron’s DNA was all up in Ma Diaz…”
“You give Deacon the evidence and then what? Do you know what he’ll do?”
“Yes,” I reply, standing taller than I’ve felt in a while. “I do know exactly what he’ll do.”
“And then what? You send your bloodhound after Cinco? He’ll destroy Reckless Rebellion for you,” Quinn says. “He’ll let every single one of the Tennessee Twelve rip it to shreds if it means keeping his Lord and Savior safe.”
“Big words from a man of the cloth.”
“I don’t think you see how he looks at you.” His scolding glare passes over the impenetrable haze of darkness building like a vile fog in my soul. “I don’t think you know how much Deacon Cruz is in love with you.”
“People…” I state, extending my arms. “People need to pay for their sins, Father.”
“An eye for an eye is a dangerous game for you to be playing with the Lotus flower growing in the swamp.”
I take an intimidating step closer, and he backs into the tile wall. “If you don’t think I’m prepared to drink down the blood of my enemies, then you haven’t been paying attention to where we’ve been going. Catch up. Or get the fuck out of my way.”
“Salvatore, stop, and think what losing everything would mean.”
“Promises were made to keep people safe long ago, and I have failed on…”
“Few,” he interjects. “You have failed a few times, and it is those few times which keep you up at night, pacing the floor, and acting like a sociopath marked for death. Stop focusing on the losses.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Then you must be freely willing to give up everything to exhaust the efforts of retribution and prove your worth as what they believe you to be—an opportunistic monster.”
I hiss, “I am.”
“I will make sure Deacon has a way out after his justice is delivered,” he offers. “And I will properly line the Mayor’s pocket. The indiscretions will be eliminated just as Ashley and Jack were…kaboom.”
“Deliver us from evil, Father.”
“I try, son,” he whispers. “But you’re making it terribly challenging with your erratic, sometimes irrational plays. I’d appreciate a more linear approach.”
“God is everywhere,” I remind, showing him my hands. “Good and evil. And I play a mean game.”
“Don’t forget to say your prayers.”
“I’m on my knees nightly,” I stress, releasing the man from my threatening stance.
“The holy water of the saint you gulp down is tainted.”
With my hand on the door, I threaten, “Don’t go there. Lead me not into temptation… I don’t want your blood on my hands.”
Father Quinn asks, “… Is that a warning?”
“It depends if you’re going to harass me about loving another man considering how you’ve enjoyed scarring my flesh. Maybe you’re just jealous that you aren’t a young priest anymore. I give a terribly fine blow job.”
“You’re swimming with lightning, playing in the street, and laughing about it.”
“Can I run with scissors too?”
“Your luck will eventually run out.”
“I am killing those who have sought to do mine harm,” I remark, believing every word of the gospel I preach. “And if you get in my way, I will add you to the tally.”
Giving the nod, he smirks. “You are a disciple of the devil, Salvatore.”
“I need to be a son of someone,” I muse. “He seems as good as anyone else at this point. Demonologists believe there are seven princes of Hell. I have a reservation for a chair.”
“And will Deacon be sitting beside you or shoved under the table?”
I stroke my goatee. “He’ll be sitting on the table in front of me with his legs spread wide and his engorged cock on full display.”
Father Qui
nn scoffs, “There is a space between you, then.”
“And your point?”
“Be careful who you let sit in your lap, or you may end up without a chair at the table.”
“You worry about Iris?”
He pauses reflectively. “In what context?”
“… Any?”
“I worry about her as your soulmate, but I also have concerns about her chair being at the wrong table. She’s slippery. She’ll use you if she needs to because she’s that good.”
Cracking my knuckles, I warn, “I ought to knock you for that one.”
“Probably, but you won’t because you’ve had the same thoughts,” he declares with certainty. “Watch your ass and space between you and your menacing hellhound.”
Opening the door, I praise, “Thank you for the chat. The adjustment has been quite enlightening.”
Wobbling closer, he kisses my forehead. “Peace be with you.”
“And also, with you, Father,” I note the empty hallways and know I am officially late. “Shit.”
“Salvatore?”
“… Yes?”
“Godspeed to you and yours.”
9
The Potter’s Field
His Ride
“How many versions of Ave Maria can they play?” Iris jitters as we stand in the vestibule. “Are they having a scene in the bathroom?”
“I doubt it,” I reply, pulling one of the red roses from the vase and handing it to her. “We’re so very late.”
“Stealing flowers now, Sheriff?”
Oddly relaxed, I smirk. “Only for the pretty girls.”
Iris bravely asks, “Are you okay?”
“About Cat?” I question as she nods. “There isn’t much I can do about it.”
“You love her,” she acknowledges, but it flows from her lips more like a question.
“I do,” I reply. “But I won’t force myself where I’m not wanted.”
“You won’t fight for her…”
“I won’t fight if I don’t think I can win,” I admit as she gives a somber look of defeat. I’ve loved and lost. And she can’t make my wounds heal; I must heal on my own, on my own timeline. “It’s not like we’re breaking up or hating one another. She’s just distant.”
“She’s depressed, babe.”
“And there is only one person’s sadness that I will let exhaust me…and the guilt of what I can or can’t deal with is on me.”
Sal is eternally manic between hyper exuberant and melancholy. We embrace his standard roller coaster because we love him. “Sal…”
“Yes,” I confirm.
She brings the petals to her nose and closes her eyes. Her makeup still looks incredible even after our romp in the limo. “Can you cut some of the stem?”
I pull out my pocket knife and sever the blossom from the stem before handing it back. Her hair is loosely tossed into a clip, and she secures the red rose in amongst her silky dark mane. “You’re beautiful.”
“Where is he, Deacon?” she whines. “He’s going to miss it.”
In the hallway, I spot the confident stride I fell for so many years ago and mutter, “He’s right there.”
“How long do we have?” Sal asks, buttoning his jacket. “Everything okay?”
“Yes. We’ve been delaying the last ten minutes,” Iris informs as Sal pulls a phone from his inside jacket pocket and places it in my hand.
“It’s Nissa’s,” he says. “And the DNA report will be in your inbox by the time the plane lands in Austin.”
“Why are you giving this to me now?”
“Because I may forget,” Sal mentions. “I’m about to walk inside of the cathedral, and I will crash. I may not come up for air until morning.”
I drop the phone in my pocket, knowing the contents will do me little good now. “Are we ready?”
“I am ready for one of you to pop a cork.” Iris giggles.
“Hey,” Rowan says, coming in from outside. She smells of cigarette smoke and coffee, otherwise known as the dream date for a thug. “I just want to thank you again for meeting with me. I’m sorry if I frightened you.”
“You didn’t.” Iris cautiously asks, “When is Father McPhail’s funeral?”
“This afternoon,” she says.
Pulling a piece of paper from her purse, Iris scribbles down a number. “This is the restaurant we’ll be at later. Feel free to stop by.”
I glance at Sal. I can tell he’s struggling with the notions of an Irish lass. I don’t know if it is due to the situation or the fact that her nationality is arch-enemy number one of Cesario, even more so than the Anglo-Asian doll standing beside me.
“Thank you so much,” Rowan politely replies, holding Iris’ hands. “You’re so sweet. I’m sorry I called your boyfriend an idiot.”
“Fucking idiot,” Sal mumbles under his breath as he grabs the back of his neck. He can’t stay still. He’s struggling, choking on the environment, and falling apart.
“He can be,” I mutter with a crooked grin. “I don’t think we’ve properly been introduced. I’m Deacon Cruz.”
“I remember meeting your father.”
I furrow my brows. “When?”
“I was a young girl living as an orphan in the abbey and being raised by the nuns. He came over to do some business with the IRA and had dinner with my father. It was one of the few visits I remember as a child with my dad. You have your father’s eyes.”
“I’m sorry for your troubled upbringing.”
Rowan smiled. “I’m sorry for yours, Deacon. Now, I will let you be going. Thank you all again, and I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Raniero.”
Sal gives a side-eyed glance. “Thanks, leprechaun.”
“That would technically be incorrect,” Rowan challenges. “There are no female leprechaun folklore tales.”
“But, the sons had mothers!”
“Ahh, true, but I prefer little people, or if you’re feeling risky, you can call me a changeling.”
“A fae!” Iris boasts. “Replaced the child because the humans stole you.”
Sal crosses his arms, uncertain where this Iris came from, but he isn’t as empathetic as I am. I sometimes wonder if he even knows Iris has been trying to meditate for years.
“Exactly!”
Iris opens her arms and offers the girl a hug. It is a kind gesture, a tender moment, and one that I love about her. “We’ll see you this evening for bubbles and cake.”
“How about a pint, crisps, and some blaa?”
“Bubbles and cake,” the princess insists, kissing the girl on the lips.
Yes, you read that right. And Sal’s jaw was grinding so hard I feared permanent damage.
“We can have your potatoes and bread when we’re all three sheets to the wind.”
“Fair enough.”
We watch as she disappears, and Iris turns to face us. “She’s a lovely little thing.”
Uncurling his arms, Sal asks, “What in the hell has gotten into you?”
“I was never against the Irish, that was you.”
“I’m not against the Irish,” Sal maintains. “I just don’t like new people.”
“You don’t want to deal with her because she knows Mack. Mack and I have a rather tense history…”
“He was involved in Mitch’s scheme,” Sal alleges as I feel my fists tighten. “He will die. Just like the rest of them.”
“If by the scheme you mean Mack allowed himself to be ass raped by that son of a bitch all to save my ass…which is your ass…yes, he did,” Iris rallies. “If you’re going to tell the story, get it straight, Raniero.”
“While watching you two banter is entertaining as fuck, we need to go,” I remind. “They’re holding off a funeral for you, Sal.”
“That sounds bad,” Iris whimpers.
“You know what I mean,” I say as we walk to the door. Somehow, I end up in the middle. It’s a rare spot for me. Sal pulls open the doors, and I freeze.
I see the pews, the
casket, and Father Altromessa, but the memories flooding my mind are far different.
If perception is everything, then upon closer inspection, they all vary. The wedding massacre didn’t hold the same memory for each of us. Grabbing Iris and Sal’s arms, I waver, remembering I was in the dressing room with Sal…
“Stop thinking and shoot.”
“Yes, Master,” I deferred. “God…” I growled, pulsing cum into him. “I won’t give you up…”
“I would never ask you to—ever.”
I fell against his bareback and cried as I kissed the lotus brand with reverence. “Be good, my Dark King.”
“I love you, Deacon.”
“I know, I love you, too.”
I saw Iris. She was so beautiful in her peach pantsuit. I escorted her to the dressing room, and she kissed me. Not a friendly kind of kiss, but a passionate kiss, saying so much about who we were and who we were meant to be.
“Cruz, do you remember what you said to me in Italy that night?”
“Yes,” I replied. “I know exactly what I said—‘I want for one night to drop the wall and love you as you should be’. And I meant every word.”
“You should’ve taken the opportunity.”
“And break his heart?”
“Save it,” Iris whispered. “Save yourself and him. Abandon me before I destroy you.”
“We can’t.”
I marched out of the room and went to have a smoke. Cat followed me. “We need to talk after all of this.”
“I know we do.”
“You have a real problem on your hands.”
I snarled and glanced away. “It’s not the time or place for this now, Catarina.”
“You’re in love with my brother.”
Not only.
“And you can’t handle the competition?”
“I can’t handle the fact that you run as soon as he says go,” she argued. “I want to be first.”
I was in an awful place.
Iris and Sal were getting it on, and I was standing outside in the dreary moist air. “You will never be the first.”
Those were the last words I said to Cat before I walked away. The last words before I was covered in her blood.
“Deacon?” Iris whispers, bringing me back. “Are you okay?”
Diary of a Submissive (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 4) Page 7
