“Thataboy!” I arrogantly praise. “Do your job, and I will do mine.”
“Your relationship with the Sanctum is bound only by your relationship to Quinn. I suggest you guard it with your life.”
I smirk, watching Iris take communion. “Do not forget the little boy’s club I joined, Father.”
“The Commission will only take you so far with the priests,” he warns. “It would do you well to branch out beyond Quinn should something misfortunate occur to the old geezer.”
“Are you threatening my priest?”
“No,” he professes, presenting the chalice to Iris. “I’m encouraging you to knock down the walls of the catacomb in which you reside before the demons consume your very soul.”
My menacingly dreadful gaze focuses on Father Altromessa as I confess, “You know, they already did.”
11
Cufflinks
The Master
The funeral procession to the cemetery is long and winding, guided by multiple boys in blue on bikes. We’re in the back seat of the limousine with Father Quinn, Oscar Sato, X, Zeke, Zach, Swain, Mass, Kali, Ho, Georgia, and Jas.
We’re packed with our noses buried in devices.
Needless to say, Kali is not happy about her seat between the bulky militant, Swain, and the biker, X, but I don’t have time to care about her personal preferences.
After opening a bottle for Iris, Deacon sends a quick text to me. “Is there a reason you handpicked this group? And why aren’t Dom or Nico here?”
I smile at the screen and laugh when Iris drops a sexy photo in our chat. Sitting in the middle, Deacon leans to look and grins. Iris’ expression is so nonchalant she could be reading tax forms. Her poker face is a sexy librarian handing over a book on 101 sex positions with the cover of a cookbook.
And I agree with Quinn, my butterfly knows how to work her assets, but that is part of her charm. Right?
I conceded long ago that I couldn’t be with anyone passive or meek. She would have a masterful skill and strategical reasoning behind her powerful moves that would leave me breathless with a boner.
I dig smart girls more than brainless twats. Sure, I can get off in them, but I won’t want to wake up with them.
And therein, a critical difference.
While tits and ass and flirtations are fancy, shiny, things to distract me, they are not the core of the sustenance I crave.
Even in terms of Deacon, he’s much more than a bad boy biker. He’s continuously aligning his pieces to conform with mine. And not that piece, you pervs.
So here we are again.
You and I.
Welcome to the Sal Raniero party of three.
You never imagined I’d accept this love, and I hope you gave a wide grin to my Nonna. I pray you’re laughing and enjoying the entertainment because I still do it all for you.
I peer over at Iris, and she sweetly smiles. I’ve got her, just like you planned. I understand you didn’t ask for the guy in the middle, but you had to know if I listened to your dogma, he would show.
I never thought I’d be looking at taking out Cristos, much less those associating with him, but time passes, captures happen, and good players are flicked off the board with nary a blink.
But I didn’t imagine I’d be burying Emily Lee Granger either. I didn’t talk to her much in life, and I don’t believe you have anything to worry about in death. She’s not your competition.
God, I miss you.
And the fact that I’m talking to you says a lot about the dire straits my psyche is in. I want you to respond, give me a sign, or thump me in the arm.
You had to go, but fuck, I’m terrified.
I’m standing on the precipice alone, and no matter what anyone says or does—this is all on me.
Everything up to this point was a practice run, a training session, and lessons to be learned, and if I falter—if I fail—my hands are to blame.
Gazing out the back window at all the cars, I feel paralyzed by the outpouring of emotion.
It was different in the church, trapped between four walls, and I didn’t truly acknowledge how many were present.
“Hit the button for the roof, Cruz.” He does as I strip off my jacket and tie. “Iris, give me your phone.”
“What is he doing?” Kali asks.
“He’s breaking down,” Iris replies, knowing me far too well and handing me her phone. “Should I take off my shoes, Sir?”
“Yes,” Deacon answers as I lift through the opening. She silently follows, standing over him. Her head peeks out as my arms loop around her. “You got her?”
“I ain’t letting her go.”
“Neither am I,” he mutters, staring at us.
“Oh my God…look at all of them…look at all of the lights...look at all of the souls...they go on for miles…and they’re all here for you, Sal.”
“Nah, they’re here for the scandal. Make no mistake. The only other people outside of the limo that truly care about us are in the car behind us. Dom, Nico, Serene, Trudy, and Fran.”
“He’s entirely too smart,” Father Quinn idly remarks. “It may be his biggest downfall. His keen sense of observation, coupled with a hefty dose of emotional awareness.”
“He’s damn good at acting like he doesn’t care,” Deacon replies. “But it’s the furthest thing from the truth. If anything, he cares too…so much he’ll hurt himself to save the unworthy.”
With the wind blowing, she unclips her hair and hands the red rose to Deacon. He smells the petals and smiles.
“Save it,” Iris whispers, videoing the ethereal spectacle, as he holds her legs tightly. “I would never dream of throwing it away.”
“We’re all just ghosts lining up to pass through to the next realm.” Iris blinks to me. “But I don’t want to spend my time in the waiting room with anyone else, Sal.”
“You don’t have to,” I assure, pulling her closer as we drive into the cemetery. “You never have to be alone.”
“What are you saying?”
“If someone takes an easy shot, then don’t forget who all is on your team. Don’t lose sight of them or what is important. Fight for love. Hold steadfast to your dreams. And don’t let go.”
A light giggle erupts from her chest. “We spent years training our minds and bodies to let go on command, and now you tell me not to let go…”
“There is a difference, Darlin’.”
“And if I find myself without you, weakened and heartbroken, then what do I do?”
“You follow through with the promise,” I reply. “Cruz will pick up the lead and carry you home.”
“Is that truly what you want?”
“Absofuckinglutely,” I confirm, unwavering in my faith of the man staring at my girl’s crotch. “He’ll take care of you like no one else.”
“I’m not ready for you to die, Sal,” Iris whispers, sobbing. “I’m not ready to say goodbye.”
“I understand, but we might not have the choice,” I say as tears roll down her cheeks. “Even if I disappeared into the woods…”
“Gay lumberjack!” Deacon quips. I kick his hip, and he chuckles.
“I will eternally have a target on my back because of what I know and who I know and the things I’ve seen. I’m not you, sweetheart, business is dirty when you aren’t sitting on the golden pedestal with Gods.”
“I know,” she cries. “And it isn’t fair. It isn’t right. I didn’t ask to be born a Nakamura any more than you asked to be born a Raniero.”
We scan over the hundreds of cars as they file into the cemetery. “I don’t think we planned for enough seating.”
“No, we didn’t,” Deacon begrudgingly says.
“It’s okay.”
“Not really, Boss.”
Iris ducks back into the car and Deacon wraps my jacket on her shoulders before placing the rose into the lapel. “I have you.”
“I know,” Iris sobs as Kali hands her a tissue.
Exiting the limo, I spot Vinn
y helping Stella out of the car. She has been crying. “I have to go bury my friend now.”
Deacon’s eyes well with tears. “Yeah, we do. And then we’re going to go get drunk.”
Sniffling, Iris asks, “Can we have pizza?”
“We can have whatever your heart desires, princess,” Deacon replies as I bravely put one foot in front of the other and walk towards Stella.
Vinny points in my direction, and Stella glances up. “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, honey.”
She called me honey.
An awkward moment passes as I stand, crying before my mother, and she reflects my pain with her tears. I finally give up the fight because it simply isn’t worth it. I open my arms wide and say, “Come here.”
She runs to my hold, my head dropping to her shoulder, and I let go of the fear of caring. I slobber and hold the mother I always needed and never had, and I never understood why, until now. I blamed myself. I thought there was something wrong with me.
There wasn’t.
… At least not in this case.
I didn’t have my mother, but a stand-in, a replacement. I love Mama, but it isn’t the same, and it will never be the same. The reason I didn’t know about Stella and Vinny being my parents was in direct relation to my father’s need to keep secrets and feed deceit. Mama helped hide the betrayal, and she was as guilty as he was.
I briefly let go to see Iris standing with Trudy and Deacon. We’re all a mess of emotions, wet lashes, and mascara stains. I glance at Vinny, and he nods. I return the greeting.
I’m not there yet.
One thing at a time.
And this mother thing was a big fucking deal.
“Can I meet them?”
“Yes,” I say as we walk with my arm around her back. “This is my mother, Stella.”
Trudy wastes no time and embraces the woman. “You gave birth to an incredible young man.”
“Thank you,” Stella cries, looking to me for security. “You’re so beautiful!” she marvels at Iris. “Oh, my gosh, Lucas… I didn’t realize…”
“You never truly got the opportunity to meet the Iris I am in love with.”
“My face is probably a mess,” Iris excuses, hugging my mother. I shatter at that moment, where my mother and my future wife are the two women in my world that matter the most. My head lowers to my chest, and Deacon catches my ache.
“You’re okay,” he mumbles, wrapping his arms around me. “You’re okay.”
“You must be Deacon Cruz.”
“Yeah,” he replies, extending his hand, as I stay in the crook of his arm. “Pleasure to meet you, but please don’t hurt him for his sake and yours.”
“I just want the chance to get to know Lucas as my son.”
“... Did you pick the name?”
“Vinny and I chose both of them, Lucas Salvatore,” she answers, staying close to Iris. “We were so young, and I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I say, trying to regain my composure. “It’s not too late. We’re here now. I have to go bury Emily.” I extend my hand. “Will you stand next to me?”
“Yes,” Stella replies. “I will.”
We make the pilgrimage to the tent with Stella latched onto my arm. Trudy and Iris flank Deacon. They’re holding onto his arms and looking remarkable. I quickly snap a picture with my phone of the three of them and take a couple with Stella. I need tangible more than ever.
The service drags on for what seems hours amid the hundreds of floral arrangements. Quietly, I stand the entire service with Stella by my side. Deacon and Iris sit, holding hands, directly behind me.
In the end, people disperse as Dom and Nico take to shaking hands and representing the Sal Raniero outfit. Taking off my coat, I watch as they lower her into the ground, and I collapse to my knees in a heaving wail. It’s been a hard, long day.
Inconsolably crying, I undo my cufflinks, and without thinking, I mutter, “Can you take these, Mom?”
“Sure, baby,” she says as I place them in her palm. “These were Luca’s.” She lowers to her knees.
Stella, my nasty ass, witch sister from hell, is on her knees in the dirt with me.
Me—her son—because she is my mother.
“Yeah, they were.” I cry harder than I have in years. She wipes my tears with a handkerchief. I note the double-V emblem. “You’re still together…”
“How do you know?”
“Because I pick up on these detailed kinds of things,” I say with a slight smirk. My lips twitch hard as I try to stop the tears. “It’s kind of a gift.”
“We’re off and on again.”
“Does Michelle know?” She blinks with guilt and smiles. “I love Aunt Michelle, but I won’t say anything.”
“I love you, Sal,” she promises as a mother would. Tears won’t stop falling as I lay my head on her shoulder, and together, we slowly rock.
All my remaining puzzle pieces start to fall into place.
From behind, I hear Trudy say, “He needed this.”
“Like you can’t believe,” Iris adds.
The rough, gravelly voice of a Saint comes on strong, “I only hope his newfound bond doesn’t eat away at the ones he’s spent years building.”
Flipping her hair over her shoulder, Stella replies, “You have every right to doubt me, and I have every reason to prove you wrong. And Lucas, he is a helluva right-hand man to be brazen enough to confront you with the truth. Don’t lose him.”
I peek at Deacon, trying not to crack a smirk at her praise, and claim what is mine. “I won’t lose him.”
12
Kisses in Clouds
The Master
As morose as this sounds, we rent La Chapelle for the evening. The place I proposed to Emily. The place I celebrated with my family after the meeting with The Commission. We’re Italian—the more things change, the more they stay the same—and whether it was Mario’s Deli after Old Poppa’s funeral or La Chapelle after Emily’s, it didn’t matter.
You see, the places we haunt, know us.
From knowing who and what we are to how we like our meal served and drinks made, there is beauty in the familiarity and routine. They understand Vinny is going to snort a few lines in the bathroom and be fucking loud—even for an Italian.
They understand not to question why I asked for a nonstop stream of champagne to be served to the doll sitting across from me or why two grandiose cakes fit for a wedding were placed in their refrigerators this morning. They accept our mob and reap the rewards of our tips.
And two, we have La Chapelle because we expect at least a quarter of the funeral to show.
By the looks of it, over half do. I’m in the back room with Trudy on one side and Stella on the other. Iris and Deacon sit across from me.
I do this intentionally.
Let me explain.
If they sit next to me, I do not get the visual joy. Sure, they can touch me, and I can touch them, but there is something about the distance and being able to look into her sapphires and his sad blues. I get to see reactions which to a guy with a photographic memory are worth their weight in gold.
I did not put them on the opposite side of the table from me as punishment but my perverse pleasure. I am a sick, twisted son of a bitch.
And this thing I do—mentally sizing everyone up around me—Stella does too. Only she mumbles it under her breath. I always thought she was a cunt. Of course, that might be true because I can be quite the dick.
I’ve got the sleeves rolled on my white dress shirt, and half the buttons are undone as we polish off numerous bottles. Everyone is drinking, and even Anna is sipping on Sidecars, so old school.
There is a thing about Italian funerals.
At least in my experience, we may grieve individually for weeks in private, but as soon as the casket lowers, we’re throwing a feast fit for a saint—no pun intended—until dawn. The deceased is not mentioned again. We prayed. We mourned. We buried. We’re done as a unit unless copi
ous amounts of alcohol are involved.
Thankfully, I am not paying for this shindig.
I could, but it was part of The Commission’s grief package—the hotel, the personal attendant, the funeral, and the after affair. I doubted every Rosso member received the same kind of treatment as I was. They were pampering me, and I knew it, but I wasn’t alone. They were buttering up Iris and Deacon like they were extensions of me.
And they weren’t wrong.
“Excuse me, Mr. Cruz,” our hostess says. “There is a Maeve McPhail requesting entrance.”
“You’re good,” I reply, understanding Deacon’s place is to care for me.
“She’s Irish,” she warns, panicking.
“I’m very well aware.”
The hostess skitters, “And you’re…”
“Not laying a finger on her.”
“I should go greet her,” Iris says.
I shake my head. “I’ll do it. She likes me, even has a pet name for me.” I grin. “Get another chair between Iris and you.”
I walk through the restaurant as a few people squeeze my forearms or touch my hands—quiet condolences for the heartbroken.
In a slinky midnight blue dress, Rowan waits by the elevator. “Jesus fuck…that dish might make black pudding appetizing.” I bridge the gap between us and compliment, “You look incredible.”
“I wasn’t sure what to wear.”
“You’re fine,” I reply, offering her my arm. “How was the service?”
“Can we just drink?”
“A woman after my own heart.”
Deacon stands up to pull out her chair, and I can tell by the flicker in his eye, he’s intrigued. He’s not alone. We are all rather enamored by the new girl with the light green eyes.
“It’s good to see you again,” Deacon says, pushing in her chair.
“Thank you for inviting me.”
“Your dress is beautiful,” Iris compliments. “You have amazing ink.”
“Oh, thank you,” Rowan replies. “One of the guys, Shea, does it for me.”
Diary of a Submissive (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 4) Page 9
