I take one step past the threshold and close my eyes.
I heard the single shot to Father McPhail, and shortly after that, Soryn appeared, firing round after round into the guests. Amber rushed into the chapel with a panic.
Our eyes met, and she warned, “Get down now!”
I toppled the pew over to use as a shield, and Cat dropped. I snuck a peek and saw Amber hysterically yelling at Soryn to stop. Once over the edge, there was no stopping the plummet.
“Get the fuck down, Cruz!”
There was so much gunfire.
So much crying...
So much screaming...
Tears filled my eyes as I yelled, “Stop, Stardust!”
Things were spinning out of control, and I closed my eyes, praying for it all to end. I must have blacked out because the next thing I remembered hearing was the sweet sound of Iris’ voice yelling, “Deacon Cruz!”
“Cruz?” Sal says, laying his hand on my shoulder. “Babe?”
“I’m fine,” I reply, hesitating to step inside.
With her hand clutching my arm, Iris whispers, “Follow my lead. You’re just having an episode.”
Sal mumbles, “Since when does he have episodes?”
“Since the incident,” Iris defensively responds as my body trembles in fear. “They come on without warning. I’m sure being in a church triggered this one.”
“Why do I not know about this?”
“Because sometimes you have tunnel vision, Sal,” I inform, slowly following Iris into the cathedral. “But it’s okay, we love you anyway.”
He doesn’t know how furious Iris has been either. She doesn’t blame Amber but Cas.
In her perspective, the attack was a warning from Cinco, but telling Sal that Pico is leading an army to their eventual demise is pointless.
He won’t listen.
Cinco isn’t stable with Cas’ influence on Juan and the table. They’re doing quiet business with Immortal, and Pico is marching to a slaughter, which is why I abandoned our peacekeeping treaty several days ago. I won’t stand by and witness Reckless Rebellion going down for deeds we had nothing to do with.
Our cuts no longer symbolize a unification.
And maybe that makes me Judas.
I could betray Pico, or I could send Sal to pasture. If he goes down, the flower is mine.
It would’ve been so easy to do, knowing what I do—to keep taking the deals with Cinco, loading up on the money, and understanding that Juan and Cas were conspiring to oust Pico. They were planning a vicious takedown of those who defected to join Pico’s side.
I spot Ma, her breathing intense, as she steps into the aisle and marches towards me. She knows the whole story because former Delirium members warned her to get me out of harm’s way.
And she did.
Reckless Rebellion is now split, sitting between Sugargrove and New Orleans, with the only protection coming from Father Quinn and his sloppy band of supporting gangs.
I haven’t mentioned the phone call from Morpheus, offering to extend a hand, courtesy of Lotus. I know Iris did it; she knows she did it, but neither one of us has mentioned it.
She walked into the hospital room two days after the shooting, squeezed my hand, and whispered, “I have you, Saint Cruz.”
All I could say was, “Thank you, love.”
She was willing to back Reckless Rebellion, but she rejects the ideas of helping Salvatore Raniero’s outfit. And now, I’m caught in the middle of a quiescent tug-of-war between the Dark Prince and the Lotus Queen.
I don’t have enough power in Reckless Rebellion to be the swing vote unless it comes with Morpheus’ men attached to it. At which point, I would have enough chips in the basket to become the Saint.
I can’t say it isn’t tempting.
For once, I have the opportunity to play quarterback, and it’s not a role I’ll take lightly because boys like me don’t get that chance very often. I’m second string. I’m not the expected son; I’m the forgotten one.
But if I shake Morpheus’ hand, I will be removed from The Unholy—the only family I’ve known for years—and a marked division will occur. And the worst part of it all is the only thing I care about is knowing where Lotus will fall.
Is she eliminating me by feeding my ass to the wolves?
Is she betraying Sal because of our bond?
Is she secretly hoping he’ll fail and I’ll win?
What are her motivations?
What are her secrets?
“Deacon,” Ma says, garnering my attention. “Let me sit beside you.”
I refuse to let go of Iris’ fingers, so Sal relinquishes his hold of me. Ma takes his spot on my right as we walk down the aisle. I don’t have to glance back to know his shadowy presence is engulfing around me.
There is one final option to my dilemma.
I marry the Master—in business.
I come clean to him concerning Iris’ schemes in exchange for his umbrella. I’ve never asked for his cover before, despite his offering, but the one thing I do understand is that I cannot stay alone, out in the cold, without assistance. Reckless Rebellion will starve until we collapse and turn cannibalistic.
I will not watch that occur.
Times of transition are difficult. Perceptions and motivations play into every calculated move, merger, and acquisition.
They think I’m just a filthy biker with a junk club, the lesser of the trinity, but only fools would underestimate me.
After all, I am a Saint.
Elite. Sequestered. Rarely ever seen.
My father was one of The Four Horsemen, a King by his clergical associations, and that is something not even Sal can claim.
Father Quinn exists in our world because a Catholic Saint and a Jewish Holy Mother formed a divine bond with the religious sects. In the process, by happenstance, they created a rebellious, menacing tot.
That baby is me.
In the end, the power corrupted the initiator—my father. His greedy thirst shrouded over his judgement, and it cost him his life.
The sins of the priest saved one son.
And I owe him.
The sins of the mother—“all things in the interest of Deacon Cruz”—resurrected one son from hell.
And I owe her.
The only question remaining is—who is Reckless Rebellion getting in bed with?
The Master or his butterfly?
Or should I simply ghost as my namesake did?
10
Anointing the Seed
The Master
The packed cathedral of mourners offers little wiggle room. People stand on either wall, lining up the aisle, all to pay their respects to Emily Lee Granger.
Again, some of them…er, most of them didn’t even know the sweet blonde girl with big blue moons. They’re here for one reason—my surname. Make an appearance, shake my hand, and pray I remember the interaction enough not to target them.
It is a wicked pissing contest.
On a dynamic level, I could attend countless funerals (and weddings) of the mafia just to experience social networking. I should start making my future employees study these events because there is no more fabulous way to broaden the scope.
Noting where people sit is essential.
I am between Deacon and Iris. Next to Iris is Dom, Serene, and Nico. It is standard Unholy protocol, since the shooting, to have our wives/girlfriends/significant other females wedged between two of us. We’re all trained, packing, and prepared for the fallout. I hate to say, we’re expecting it.
Zach and Zeke are behind Deacon, which makes sense considering their New Orleans connection via the elder Saint.
Morpheus, Momma Morpheus, and his flavor of the day, who surprisingly isn’t dressed like a stripper, are directly behind me.
Morpheus’ longtime, secret lover, my Great Aunt Nereza Ravenna, is sitting on the opposite side with her son, Donatien “Dragon” Ravenna, Georgia Wills, and Jas Torrente.
Bitch knows where i
t’s at.
Trudy and Dragon keep glancing at one another. I’m confident I’ll find them at the memorial service sneaking away to fuck like horny teenagers.
I don’t think Deacon is aware his mother is screwing an eighteen-year-old. And it’s not her first time. Grins. But my sins were forgivable. Dragon’s may not be.
Mass waits against the wall, listening to the priest and casting glances to me. He’s on my private payroll, doing security, and the sole reason we managed to locate Amber. I let her go because I’m not ready to kill her yet.
Not until I’ve drained the body...
In front of him, Kali Ose and Ho Hardone run surveillance for the Lotus Queen. I find it amusing our security teams are in the exact same position.
On the other side, I see Vinny Veramonte sitting beside Anna Ford. I’m not shocked, considering they’ve been running La Morte for years. Next to Vinny, his wife, Michelle, rightfully takes her place, but directly behind her, Stella waits to stab her in the back.
Wait…why is Stella so close to Vinny?
Are my parents still…involved?
Fran peers over to me. She is my only sister (half), and I don’t even know her that well. She’s always been quiet. Her brother…my half-brother, Nick Veramonte, was the loud-mouthed, stereotypical Guido Italian until Amber killed him.
Did Amber know he was my brother?
Is Fran in danger?
Remind me to tell Georgia to get a couple of guys on her. She’ll happily do it because I sent the lovely Christmas present—a vintage Volkswagen bus to match her Bug.
Glancing over my shoulder, I notice Oscar Sato, who broke his arm lunging to save X from Reckless Rebellion, sitting alongside him.
Oh, dear God… X’s hand is on Oscar’s thigh.
Somethings you cannot erase.
With Reckless Rebellion and The Commission working together to pool money to refurbish the church, I acknowledge the increase in Deacon’s status amongst The Suits. To any other man, they might be concerned about encroachment, but I feel his efforts are not in vain, but a sincere attempt to get to know my extended famiglia.
With all things being equal, Alessi Ettore has represented The Commission in their valiant philanthropy, and I am certain because of this, Deacon’s regard of Alessi is high. Deacon is unaware of Alessi’s comments concerning Iris.
“I wouldn’t mind banging her hot ass while I rip apart Lotus, though.”
If he knew the truth, Alessi might not even be here. I’m sworn not to go after my kin; Alessi may be the exception.
My hand is sweating in Iris’ palm as Deacon’s fingers rest on my thigh. I close my eyes, knowing how Oscar Sato and X are sitting as I compare Deacon and myself.
Shit.
Cruz found family…as in family…rainbow flag flying family with X and Sato.
And between Nissa’s phone, the DNA report, Dragon, and Alessi, my boy Cruz is a ticking time bomb.
I lay my hand on his, knowing I should be paying attention to the funeral, but I’m not programmed that way. Not for a girl…not for that girl…not in front of these people…not now. There will be a safe time and place to fall apart.
The funeral is not it.
Too many interesting partnerships, relationships, and unifications are surfacing. Three by three applies here. Possibilities. Outcomes. The magnificence of the grand equation as the more significant picture shifts and changes, and we react to every action, equal and opposite, sending the most loyal of followers pin-balling into a desperate gutter of demise.
The soprano steps to the center of the stage as we all rise for her performance. Without a doubt, this will be my weakest moment inside of the building, when the haunting music begins to play, and the only salvation I find is in the truth of my grief. I sway, bumping into Deacon’s shoulder and ducking my head down.
This is the minute where the shores of sadness begin to swirl around my feet. It won’t be long before I flounder in the depths of her waters just to maintain the breath in my lungs.
Emily Lee Granger is dead.
My fiancée, my friend, my playmate.
If anyone believes the effect of her loss won’t be a challenge, then they do not know me. I take the hefty emotional burdens and haphazardly stack them upon my shoulders until there is nothing to do but collapse.
It is a vicious cycle.
It is also who I am.
Breaking and rebuilding on repeat.
Deacon and Iris stand sentinel, perched like turrets towering over their wounded leader. They guard the sacred space of our triumvirate with steadfast prudence when I am at my weakest.
They will not allow the breach of the castle walls or the siege of my heart by those offering virulent words with their judgements. Iris is my healer. Deacon is my warrior. And I am nothing more than a man anticipated to leave his mark on the criminal underworld.
I am a Raniero.
I am a Veramonte.
And I have a legacy to uphold.
I glance at my sister. Her crying is a compulsion that drives me to say, “Excuse me,” mid aria as I take a stand.
On the front row, before the entire congregation, I confidently march across the aisle with everyone’s eyes upon me. In doing what I am about to do, I solidify my position as a Veramonte. I embrace and accept my genetic history.
A wise man would ignore the woman.
But I cannot.
I stop and stand before Francesca as the audible gasps fill the room. No doubt, hundreds of cameras cloaked by clothes, people, and purses are going off. I spread my arms, and she whispers, “Thank you.”
She sobs against my pounding heart as I hold her close and refuse to let go. Everyone predicted I would find sanctuary in the arms of Iris or Deacon or perhaps even Dominic—a Gennaro, no less, but I hit pay dirt with Fran as tears slipped from my eyes.
Much like Cat and I, Francesca Veramonte was a black sheep, a misfit, who needed protection more than remediation. She was alone in the world. Her parents, Vinny and Michelle, hadn’t been emotionally available since Nick’s death. She was the weakest link in the room—the one available, gullible, and up for the taking by the wrong serpent.
And he was me.
So, I did the most absurd thing, taking her hand and leading her to the most powerful person in the room. We crossed the aisle together, walking past Deacon and Iris, and standing before Emily’s biological mother, Cardinal-S, Stephanie Serene Smith-Stanton.
The next three words were the precursor to the war Deacon Cruz was about to engage. “Take her home.”
“Of course, Trotter.”
My bold move, playing on the chessboard, and moving pieces around in real-time was something that never occurred in our umbrageous world. And the poised, rather panache-y, move would garner even more attention from The Commission.
They believed I was one to watch.
But what they didn’t know was I didn’t care.
My legacy would be built on truth and justice as I saw it. And if that pissed a few people off, that was okay. A Master didn’t need to be well-behaved; he only needed to be able to control the fear like an intravenous drip.
A little less there.
A little more here.
I glanced over at Anna, still standing alongside my biological father, and she radiated with the purest smile ever. I had done her proud; I had done Luca proud; I had done The Suits proud.
And in the end, that was all that mattered.
Iris smirked as I returned to my spot. “You’re a crazy-ass, Raniero,” she whispered, clutching onto my arm. “And I fall more in love with you every day because of it.”
While I was leaving a trail of candid photos on phones, I placed my hand on her cheek and leaned down to kiss her lips. Emily’s death was not a stain on my soul, and neither was my impending engagement to Iris. I had a life to live, a woman I loved more than words, and a right-hand man I couldn’t get enough of in the form of a holy Saint.
The soprano held her final note and
calmed her instrument to a close as I turned to embrace Deacon.
We were eternally damned as hellfire and brimstone cataclysmically rained over our souls. With a low whisper, I inform, “We’re altering the direction of our arrows to focus on the one I fear the most.”
“It will take some time,” Deacon muttered. “But, I am with you, always.”
He knew Cesario was nothing more than leftover baggage of a bad childhood. He held no weight until he earned the seat at Delarte Cristos’ table. I was determined to not let Cristos’ rise to the status of God. He could be a King, but his moves were indicative of a greater plan to sit alongside Lotus, The Commission, and Immortal.
But he failed to recall one thing.
I knew his ass well…
Thank you, wifey.
And he wouldn’t just stop at the rank of God. He would go against the other Gods in hopes of complete and total domination. He was a tyrannical demon waiting for the blessing of a superpower.
The Commission turned him down.
Lotus laughed in his face.
The only idiot left in the village of the damned was Immortal, and Muerte would do anything to expand out of Central and South America.
What kind of twenty-eight-year-old street thug takes on a God?
One who believes in the righteous and divine. In the lines of my Hope’s message—take out my Dear Daddy—I had a place.
It may be a dark place, but it will be mine.
With the sacrament of the eucharist, Father Altromessa personally ministers the first row. Placing the wafer on my tongue, he whispers, “We’re in these sins together, son.”
“I have sanctifying grace.”
“As a priest, it is not my duty to judge, but as a man, I will tell you, no, you do not.”
“It’s a matter of opinion, Reverend,” I say, taking the chalice from his hands.
“Don’t insult me.”
“Touché,” I kindly reply. “And do not judge that which you do not know.” His eyes scan over Iris standing next to me. “If you do not administer her sacrament and cause a scene, you will regret it.”
“I have no reason not to for she is far more divine than you.”
Diary of a Submissive (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 4) Page 8
