Diary of a Submissive (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 4)

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “I don’t want to strap you,” I mutter, refusing to touch what we’ve swiped from Cristos. “There is no reason for you to go upside down for me.”

  “Love,” he whispers, gripping my hand. “It’s something you want, and I try to grant wishes, remember?”

  “It would help if I knew what the fuck he was doing,” I confide, taking a drag and bending forward. His hand rubs my back. “Now, that, Miss Nakamura, I can help you with.”

  I blink his direction as he flicks a brow. “I know people over there. Do you want to know what Grandpa is up to? I am your guy.”

  “You would do that?”

  “I don’t mind,” he offers, pulling out his phone. “When is the meeting?”

  “Saturday.”

  “Give me five minutes, maybe three, if Georgia is in a good mood.” He grins and calls. “Hello, beautiful,” he charms. “I need a favor.”

  In my jacket, my phone buzzes with a message from Deacon.

  “Call me ASAP.”

  I walk a few steps on the path, swoosh my hair over my shoulder, and hit the button. He picks it up on the first ring. “What?”

  “Hello to you too!” he snidely says. “Look, I know you’re pissed at me…”

  “Like you can’t imagine,” I charge, uncaring.

  “I’ve got an investor,” he casually mentions. “Depending on what’s on the table.”

  I shake my head at his attempts to help me, especially after our rendezvous in the middle of the night. “Who might that be?”

  “Me.”

  “Deacon, you don’t…”

  “Don’t judge,” he quickly reprimands. “Get me a number princess.”

  He hangs up as I stare at my phone with a dumbfounded expression.

  Off the call with Georgia, Sal rubs his hand over my lower back. “It’s all set. She’s on the phone with our contacts now. Who was that?”

  “When was the last time you ran the financials on Deacon Vincent Cruz?”

  He snarls like I’m speaking in a foreign tongue. “… Never?”

  “Do it,” I demand, taking the helm. “And I’m paying for this one.”

  The Master

  “Holy fuck, that is a lot of zeroes,” I stupidly mumble behind the computer screen at Dom’s new house.

  Dom’s house isn’t really new, more like an old restored place near Juliet. According to him, the place was the second house built in Sugargrove after the old Ford estate and previously owned by none other than Antonio Campanelli, who purchased it just to piss Luca Raniero off. Eventually, it went for sale, and when it did, Anna bought it.

  Dom managed to sweet-talk her out of it.

  Georgia had sent her immediate findings for Deacon. It wasn’t an in-depth dig but a scraping of the surface. Wind-up toys fill my ear as she asks, “You want me to keep going, spumoni?”

  “Yes,” I answer in shock. “Keep going. I want a full profile. If he has a financial connection, I want to know. If he swallowed spunk, I want to know. Spare nothing.”

  “Give me a couple of hours,” she says, disconnecting the call.

  My hands shake as I sit between heartbroken and curious. Cruz had to have a reason for not telling me.

  “It wasn’t Delirium. Javier Diaz was small on the totem pole,” Dom replies, standing behind me. I peer over at Iris, beyond pissed, as she speedily pecks away on her phone.

  “The money Trudy got from Delirium is now in the Swamp Shack.”

  Shooting her head up from the phone, Iris blasts, “What?”

  “Trudy gave Cruz the money,” I brief, pressing my fingers together in a steeple to stop the trembling as my legs start bouncing. “She told Deacon to make the money disappear. His quick answer was investing in real estate.”

  “That is beyond scary,” Iris whispers. “I always suspected he liked owning real estate. Landlord Cruz.”

  Dom and I share a look of concern. “What?”

  “That he knew where to stick it…so quickly,” she rambles as we’re totally perplexed by her statements. She glances over and sighs, “Never mind.”

  I shake my head. “Where the fuck did Cruz get that kind of money?”

  “I know Reckless had a significant amount of money, but fuck,” Dom quips as he smirks at Megan coming into the room. “An even more important question is—if he has that kind of cash lying around, why the fuck is he slumming?”

  Growing more agitated by the second, I remark, “Or investing in The Unholy.”

  “He isn’t slumming as you say,” Iris corrects, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. “I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention to the high couture he has stashed in two different closets in two different cities, but those aren’t thrift store finds. You’re just missing the mark.”

  “His truck is a used POS…”

  “Piece of shit truck or not,” she retorts fast. “Ten-thousand-dollar dresses are hanging in the closet. Lots of them,” she advises with a discouraged snip. “Just because you spend money on brand new trucks and diamonds and houses in Nebraska, doesn’t mean he does.” I scowl at her elitist opinion of the state I claimed as my home base. “Cruz is more like Santa. If you admitted the truth, you’d see that. Hell, I’m guessing he bought his dilapidated shack in the flood plain for his lovely Italian bride.”

  I wave my arms out. “Are we fighting? Because I didn’t get the memo.”

  “No,” she replies. “Just pointing a few observations out to those who may be blind.”

  “Can I get anyone anything?” Megan asks, interrupting with perfect timing. “I made snickerdoodle cookies today.”

  “I need a drink,” Iris says as her cheeks flush with rage. “Something stiff and a lot of it.”

  “Preference?” With a slight stutter, Megan suggests, “We do have champagne, Miss Nakamura.”

  “Vodka, as cold as you’ve got,” Iris requests, curling on her side in the leather chair. She is so tiny. “Just bring the bottle.”

  Megan smiles. “Vodka from the freezer coming right up. Gentlemen?”

  “Nothing for me,” I say with a grin in an attempt to not stare at her ass. “Thank you, Meg.”

  “You’re welcome, Sal.”

  Dom says, “I don’t need anything, honey.”

  After rage tapping on her phone, Iris throws it again. It hits the rug. “You keep doing that, and I’m going to be buying you a new one. You need to calm down, Angel,” I warn, poking her grizzly bear. “Nowala!”

  “It’s not his money!” she furiously blurts out, pacing the length of the room. Her arms cross as Megan hands over the bottle wrapped in a plaid towel and bends over to pick up the phone. “Thank you.” Her eyes scan over Megan’s ass just like mine do. “You’re very pretty…”

  I’m glad I’m not the only one who noticed.

  “Thank you, Ma’am.”

  Opening the bottle, Iris asks, “Is Dom good to you?”

  “Very,” she answers with a nod. “And he is awesome with my son, Finn.”

  Iris turns to look at Dom. “When is Romeo coming home?”

  “Now that the house is done,” he says, grabbing his cane and walking to Megan. “We’re hoping to go get him Sunday.” He gives her a kiss and whispers in her ear before she leaves.

  I tap a pencil, avoiding my thoughts of Raine. Her daddy is a bad guy. He kills people. And he deals drugs and bangs and stares at random girl’s asses.

  “This,” I contend, pointing the pencil between Dom and Megan, closing the glass door. “Is a dangerous thing.”

  “I won’t deny that.” Dom grins. “I have been in love with that girl for a long time.”

  “As in, she’ll be Megan Folly Gennaro, love?”

  “Iris…” I scold, rolling my eyes.

  “Maybe.” Dom winks.

  Despite Dom humoring her, I’m not amused. “Where did Cruz get the money?”

  Tucking her legs underneath her bottom, Iris asks, “Do you know why they called Victor Cruz, Saint?”
/>
  “I’ve heard rumors he had some involvement with the priests,” Dom suggests. “But you know rumors…”

  “Wait,” I interject as the feeling of betrayal escalates. “Did you know about the money, Dominic?”

  “I know Saint loved that little boy more than life itself,” Dom maintains with gusto. “Love makes people do foolish things. And yes, I knew. That is why I sent him traipsing the world for three years. He needed to grow up, and I gave him an allowance out of my pocket which he has since paid back in full. We all knew about Deacon’s substantial funds.”

  Iris jets one hand up high and grins. “I didn’t!”

  “Make that two!” We grin, partnering in our confounded states. “Quinn knew about the money,” I questioningly propose. “It was more than enough reason to kill his father. Shit…”

  With a smirk, she asks, “Would you like to come up with a hypothesis, Sal?”

  Her blue-violets are fiercely focused when her business acumen is on. I can understand why they trained her to use all her assets. Those eyes would intimidate a weaker man than me, but I won’t be distracted and lose our competitive practice rounds.

  “Oh, fuck…” I close my eyes, refusing to look at her jewels, targeting me. “No…”

  “Altromessa tried to warn us at the funeral,” she bitterly stresses, putting her feet on the floor. “He wasn’t telling you to get to know just any priest. They called Victor Cruz—“Saint”—because back in the day, he was the treasurer for a little-known group at the time called Sanctum.”

  “The religious sect,” Dom adds.

  “It’s more than that,” I reply, remembering the massive binders I received from The Commission upon my acceptance. The blood bond they hold with Sanctum is nothing less than famiglia. The Nero of The Commission and Sanctum work hand-in-hand to deliver punishment. “It’s far deeper than dirty priests.”

  “Victor supposedly embezzled half of what came in according to my team,” Iris continues her lesson with a snobby librarian voice. “Lucratively sinking a substantial portion into a cannibalistic Preacher.”

  “… Zach?”

  “Do you know another cannibalistic Preacher?”

  “No,” I snicker.

  “Preacher grew through the Mid-West and eventually landed in and controlled PacWest. Daddy Cruz left the money tied to Reckless Rebellion, which was solely in his son’s—Deacon Vincent “Saint” Cruz—name at his passing.”

  “It was the only exclusivity in the will,” I inform. “Handed down from one Saint to the next to be the guardian of riches.”

  “Which means our ragtag biker is still in cahoots with Sanctum,” Iris says as we brainstorm.

  She’s different from my other partners, knowing more inside intel than data and statistics. It’s fascinating to work alongside my girl, and I’m still getting used to her methodology—her way of thinking is so opposite of mine. I tend to lean heavily on defense while she strives to make alliances, which will lead to real growth.

  And to me, that equals—Iris acts as a glass cannon.

  “And it also means Victor Cruz’s death was nothing more than a fifty-year-old retribution hit,” I angrily declare. “I can’t decide if I’m more upset with Sanctum for taking away his father or Deacon for not telling me he was sitting on a pot of gold.”

  “No,” Dom roars. “I will not have you going after Quinn or Deacon! Quinn knew about the Sanctum money, but that is not why he killed Victor. He killed Victor because Diamond Downs was pregnant with your child when she was murdered, to pay for his debt to my father, and Quinn lost his proverbial shit when the baby was murdered in utero.”

  “Catholics and babies,” Iris mutters with a shrug as Dom and I give her the eye. She has no sympathy for my lost child. None. Like because I’ve got Raine stashed, losing what I didn’t even know I had must not be a big deal. “What? It’s true! They’ll kill each other with no trouble at all until a baby comes into the mix. Children are revered; adults not so much.”

  “You’re right,” Dom agrees, defensively. “But your bluntness is unbecoming.”

  “I’m a businesswoman, Mr. Gennaro.”

  “I’m very well aware who and what you are, Miss Nakamura,” Dom charges with an authoritative tone. “I changed your diapers.”

  Iris baits, “Was that a challenge for you, Italian?”

  “Only in regard to not wanting to whip your ass even back then.”

  “Stop!” I yell, struggling, as Dom chuckles and Iris smirks. “You knew Reckless Rebellion was coming after one of their own,” I rebuke. “And you did nothing to stop it!”

  “Salvatore,” Dom calmly says, sitting on the edge of the desk. “You issued a hit on Amber, and she is arguably one of our own. You know as well as I do internal disputes happen.”

  “But when do we have the balls to stop it?”

  “You’re suggesting a moral criminal underworld,” Iris chimes in with a light giggle. “And that won’t ever happen.”

  “Deacon asked if I had found Diablo, not because he wanted to find him, but because he wanted to know how fast he needed to dump the money. So, he wouldn’t have to split it.”

  Dom quizzes, “Would you want to split all those zeroes?”

  “He was never going to have to share it. Reckless Rebellion and the treasury of Sanctum were given to specifically him,” I repeat once more. “If more siblings are located, Wendy will have to share her investments because Deacon gave those up, but it will reset with every sibling found, splitting again by the staggered trust.”

  “Twin from hell,” Iris hastens. “As if one Cruz from hell wasn’t more than enough.”

  “Ya, Diablo,” I confirm, rocking in the chair. “Wendy took what she had from all of Victor’s investments, branched out, and made a fuckton. She invested in Cinco. Deacon only got the club…”

  “And the cool bank vault,” Iris sasses. “Does anyone really know Deacon?”

  “I do,” Dom says, taking the vodka bottle from Iris. “What you need to find out is why Sanctum hasn’t asked for their funds back.”

  “Sanctum can’t, and they won’t kill him, even if they wanted to, they’d hire their favorite Suits to do it,” I point out, cracking my knuckles. “The Commission.”

  “Killing Deacon,” Dom conveys. “Does not get them the money back.”

  “Exactly,” Iris says. “So what are they doing with him? Is he still working with them? We need answers. What are we doing, kids?”

  “I don’t fucking know, but I’m going to talk to Trudy,” I reply, shaking my head. “If we find Diablo, bad things are going to happen. He’s the last missing piece in the Cruz puzzle.”

  “Wendy and Deacon are worth a fucking fortune together,” Iris elaborates, swigging back a gulp. “And we better pray they don’t unite.”

  “Or pray that they do,” I say.

  “Fuck, why?” Iris bellows. “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. One girl against two…”

  “There is more at stake than you, sweetheart,” I venture, understanding her narrow view involves only Lotus. It is hers, and she wants to protect it. But that is my job. “Because if Wendy and Deacon pulled their heads out of their asses, they’d be sitting at the adult table real fucking quick.” I swivel in my chair to look at Iris. “Did Cruz tell you?”

  “Some. The rest I got from Kali and Ho,” she whispers, biting her lip. “And we’re going to be late.”

  I hug Dom and kiss his cheeks. “You’ll be there?”

  “Of course, Megan and I will see you this evening,” he says as Iris goes to thank Megan for the hospitality. “And Boston, if things get rough over at the Swamp Shack, you and Iris always have a room here.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter, embracing him. “Do you think he didn’t tell me to hurt me?”

  “Do you want to know my honest opinion?”

  Close to his face, I nod. “Ya.”

  “Cruz doesn’t give a shit about money or power. And those two things make him one of the most form
idable competitors on the board. He always has been. And he’s always been overlooked, just like his father,” he contends as uncertainty fills my veins. “He’s never had a reason to play his hand until now. But to hurt you? No, he wouldn’t do it to hurt you unless he was after something.”

  Shaking my head, I glance at Iris, laughing with Megan, and sigh, “There is only one thing he would be after.”

  He pats my shoulder and whispers, “Watch yourself. And I wouldn’t sell a damn thing, or you may end up penniless staying at Daddy’s house for your twenty-ninth birthday. If either of your partners goes after you, they won’t only be sucking your dick dry; they’ll turn your bank account into a desert.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  He snickers, “She may be the lil girl I held, but you are the boy I raised into a man. A son will always need their father. And a father will always protect his son.”

  “And Deacon is my brother.”

  “It’s different, and you know it, Boston.”

  “… Can I borrow your car?”

  “You need a make-out session?” he teases.

  “No, I’m sending Iris back to the shack while I make a quick detour.”

  37

  skimming

  His Butterfly

  By the time I get back to the shack, it’s 5:45 PM. The reception starts at seven. I burst in the door to see Deacon standing in a white dress shirt and slacks.

  Holy. Mother of God. Hotness.

  —No, I tell myself.

  Off-limits. Do not go there.

  No. No. No.

  With slicked back blonde hair and trimmed beard, Deacon screams sex God. Gone is the grunge-covered biker with grease stains on his hands, arms, and face. He rivals my prince.

  I breeze past his gaze to the bedroom and pretend he doesn’t smell as good as he looks and that my panties aren’t soaking with a wanton build-up of this thang we’ve got going on.