“We need to talk,” he insists as I stomp into the bathroom and take off my pants and sweater.
“Don’t really have time,” I abruptly say, standing in my bra and panties. “Can you please leave so I can finish removing my clothing?”
“I was in your ass last night,” he proclaims. “You’ll get over my presence.”
I’m pretty sure I won’t.
“That was before I knew you were full of lies,” I whisper, grabbing a makeup remover and rubbing my war paint off. He stares in the mirror until I can’t take those sad blue eyes any longer and spin. With his broad frame, he traps me in between his chiseled arms and the counter. “Are you still working with Sanctum?”
He glances away.
“Answer the question, Saint Cruz.”
“Yes,” he confirms. “I am part of the reason Sal got the invitation into The Commission at such a young age. I have the reputation of my father, and I know what Sal can do.”
“The only thing I see is him being late for Valentine’s,” I mumble with agitation. “Wait, so Sanctum doesn’t know your father stole the money?”
“Stole the money?” he questions. “They gave it to him. He invested it. The original principal remains, growing as it always was.”
“And he skimmed the profits…”
“You got it,” Deacon replies, shifting his arm between my thighs. “He did it for fifty-some years.”
“I am aware of the zeroes you keep.”
“But I didn’t keep Sanctum a secret on purpose,” he mutters, rubbing his thumb on the outside of the damp fabric. “I just wasn’t sure what to say—Oh, by the way, I control the money in Sanctum—didn’t seem like an appropriate thing to just blurt out.”
“It would have been a start.” His eyes drift over my skin and land on my cleavage. His thumb pulses circles around the arousal in my panties as he curls his fingers, and they pilgrimage deeper into the wet zone. His other hand caresses the curve of my breast as I beg, “Don’t do this.”
“I am sworn to secrecy, an oath held in complete discretion,” he mutters, grazing the pads of his rough fingers along my flesh. Under his thumb, my clit rejoices, closing in on coming. “My son will take it next.”
“The one you don’t know…”
“Whichever one I choose,” he says, which sends a wave of nerves through me. “I can pick, should I ever have another.”
“Did your grandfather have it before Victor?”
“Yes,” he responds with a gravelly voice as he arches his hand against the satin and lace of my bra and rubs the scruff of his goatee against it. My nipple readily peaks. He pulls the fabric down, exposing the bud to the air from his lungs.
“And Kaci found out…”
“Yes,” he growls low, slowly fondling my nipple.
I want his mouth on me.
I want his dick inside of me.
“Oh, God…Deacon,” I moan. “Stop!”
Ignoring my demands, he wraps his taut lips on my breast and suckles like he needs me as much as I need him. My belly flutters, and my flower warms in his sun as I bloom and come in his hands.
“Fucker,” I whisper.
“That’s right,” he praises. “Talk dirty to me, baby girl.”
Deacon may submit to doing very dark things, but he is full of grace and light. Most people never see it. I do.
And I wish like fuck I didn’t.
He stands upright like nothing just happened. His blue eyes infiltrate every molecule of my being as he scans down to me. Parting his lips, he takes a breath like he wants to kiss me. And I want him to. But I can’t let what happened last night occur ever again. Hell, I can’t let what just occurred ever happen again.
He is high-risk.
And not worth my investment.
He turns to leave the room. “If you need anything, including my bankroll, you know where I am. All you ever have to do is ask, princess.”
I close my eyes as he softly closes the door behind him. I hate how gentle he can be. I hate how blunt he can be. I hate how his tender words leech onto my heart. I hate how his rough words latch between my thighs and refuse to let go.
A shiver runs through me as I stand in utter disbelief. I flip my undergarments off and step into the hot shower.
And I cry.
I cry because I feel guilty. I cry because if he had kissed me, I would have repeated last night without even a blink. I cry because I am falling for a man I cannot have.
And I cannot stop it.
I cry because I don’t want to step on the brakes.
I cry because hitting the gas could be so good.
And I pray for the sins of a Saint.
The Master
I bust into Trudy’s house in Little Bee as Rowan is eating a frozen dinner at the kitchen table. “Where is Trudy?”
“She already left.”
“Goddammit,” I curse, running my fingers through my hair. “Did she go to Juliet?”
“Yes,” she says, stirring her food with the fork. “With the guy that looks like he should be attending a high school prom.”
“Fuck!”
She picks up the bottle of Irish whiskey and hands it to me. “Want a drink?”
“I’d love one,” I reply, sitting down. “Things are so fucked up, Rowan.”
She takes a bite. “How so?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I brush off, taking a swig. “Just some shit with a group called Sanctum.”
Her light green eyes dance to mine. “My father was a member.”
Lighting a smoke, I furrow my brow. “… In Sanctum?”
Setting down her fork, she rubs her lips together and nods. “Over the years, I’ve met quite a few of them. There is tension there.”
“Why?”
“Because fundamentally, regardless of the cloth, they’re as power-hungry as everyone else. They aren’t exempt,” she alleges. “This is one time you should not be a fucking idiot.”
“Thanks!” I grab the paper tablet and pen sitting by the napkin holder. I stare at the pen like it’s a foreign object and dash into the kitchen for a pencil. I yank open the drawer of miscellany and find one. “What do you know?”
“This is antiquated as fuck.”
“Shut up,” I hiss with a cigarette dangling in my lips. “Talk.”
“From what I know, Sanctum was started by The Commission’s early associations with the priests. One thing led to another as you know when expansion occurs, so does dissension.”
“You think your father’s murder was a hit.”
“No, I know it was,” she mutters, watching the grid take shape on the page. “Dad never said anything directly concerning their club, but it was clear. They all wore red leather wristbands embossed with black fleur de lys. They wanted to protect what they viewed as the sacred state of the mafias.”
Quinn.
“And the more diverse it became…”
“The worse the struggle became within their melting pot because they were no longer all Italian or even all European. They branched out fast, including priests from the world over. And each one of those was a representative of the family…the mafia.”
Blinking up, I ask, “… Altromessa?”
“Protecting the interests of the Italian Boston families,” she contends, stealing a smoke from my pack. “Just like my father did for Kill Rat. And like Quinn is protecting the interests of The Unholy. They all came together and fought it out behind the closed door of cathedrals.”
“Jesus fuck…”
“They paid steep admission fees and earned money for added protection. No one ever considers them as an important factor when assessing the whole picture. Everyone forgets their influence because they aren’t driving around with semi-automatics, bandanas, and a gang, but they’re far from innocent, Sal.”
I drop the pencil and cover my face with my hands. “Who do you think killed your father?”
“If I were waging a guess, I would say another Irish.”
“… Internal?”
“Yeah, because they covet those positions, depending on how many families are involved and earn more influence within Sanctum. The New York families have a lot of representation. Kill Rat had one.”
“So, the higher level of concentration…”
“The more priests are invited to Sanctum,” she answers, taking a long drag. I gulp the whiskey. “That’s ultimately why there is a war for control. You recently gave PacWest to Deacon Cruz, and in doing so, you handed him a mother lode of influence in Sanctum.”
“Fuck…”
“You’re skimming the topside of the criminal underworld,” she observes, leaning forward. “If you want to get into the game, you must go deeper—into the sludge of Immortal, Lotus, and The Commission and find out who their priests are and blackmail them. Just be careful because there are unexplainable alliances, like Nakamura and Des Rosier.”
“The French upstart?” I ask, and she nods. “A Sanctum blessing skyrockets them to untouchable status.”
“You got it.” She winks. “They take power players and boost them because they get a cut. It’s as addictive as the drugs you sell.”
“I don’t sell drugs.”
“Don’t lie,” she challenges. “You may not be standing on the street corner, but you’ve dealt a few crates in your time.”
“I prefer cargo ships to carry my crates.”
“You get them, split them, and sell them off to the bigger gangs,” she theorizes. “They trickle it down with steep prices, not near as deep as yours.”
I snarl and twist my ball cap. “Works with bangs too.”
“I figured,” she says, rolling her fingers on the table.
“… You play the piano?”
“Yes,” she says. “You?”
“I play with people’s lives,” I answer. “Why has no one ever mentioned Sanctum?”
She laughs. “We don’t talk about Sanctum.”
Shaking my head with a laugh, I whisper, “Because Sanctum doesn’t exist.” I wink.
She smiles. “And now that you know this, what are you going to do?”
“Get you the fuck out of here.”
Her brow tightens. “… Why?”
“Because you are deadly and in grave danger.”
“It comes with being an invisible daughter. We’re a pretty exclusive club,” she says. “I am nothing more than the shadow they fear.”
“How many are there?”
“Less than half dozen,” she says as I guzzle some more whiskey. “It’s not something we talk about. A few Kill Rat members, Mack Larrabee, and your friends are the only ones who know.”
I tap the pencil on the table. “Why are you helping me?”
“You’re good looking,” she claims with a shrug as I laugh. “And you need some fucking help because you are going to end up killing yourself.”
“I can’t move you to Nebraska,” I muse. “I have Jas Torrente on my payroll.”
“Do you trust him?” she asks. “Though I have no desire to go to Nebraska.”
“Ya, but…”
“No, but,” she implores. “There is no room for but here. You either trust, or you do not. There is no room for gray choices. No muddy mess. It is black or white. If you have doubts, follow your intuition. Make decisions. Stick with them.”
I slump into the chair and think of her phrasing—muddy mess—and the swamp I’m in and the flowers that grow there. “… What about Iris?”
“You’re asking me—an almost stranger—what I think?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” I reply as my lip curls on one side. “I am.”
“You need to be careful with that one,” she subtly suggests. “She’s…cunning…and a woman…and no one—believe me, I know—no one is giving her credit for that. Everyone on the street is thinking Lotus is going to turn into some passive, peacekeeping bullshit. I’m angrier than hell. And I guarantee she is too. If you want to know who to watch out for, I’ll tell you—anything with a pussy.”
“Not Cruz?”
“Does Deacon Cruz have a pussy?”
“No,” I chuckle. “Not that I know about.”
“He’s going to be a lot more apt to sit down and have a discussion than she would. She’ll shut you down, lock the door, and laugh when she sends her firing squad after you. Do you know who Estrel was?”
“The mother of Muerte?” I ask, and she blinks. “Ya, why?”
“She is single-handedly responsible for the brutal murder, kidnapping, and torture of thousands,” she informs. “She built Immortal into what it is today. Do not underestimate the unforgiving nature of women.” She takes the bottle from my side of the table. “You don’t need any more of this.”
“If Iris approaches you…”
She tilts her head. “I can be purchased for the right price.”
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
“If you want me,” she suggests, licking her lips. “You better stick your flag in the base and claim it.”
Crossing my arms, I offer, “A million.”
“Not enough,” she counters with a cackle. “That might be for what I’ve handed you tonight, but we haven’t even hit the iceberg yet. I can get you Bianco status. I can get you into Nero if you want it. I can even get you into Sanctum. I have no vast wealth, but I have plenty of knowledge and escape routes. And there is a lot of power in being a haunt.”
“How have you avoided being killed?”
“You cannot kill what you cannot see.”
“You hide.” Cracking my knuckles, I accuse, “And you are using me to hide now.”
“Would I do that, Pretty Boy?”
“Ya, you would.” I stand up and knock twice on the table. “How did you know my wife?”
“I know lots of people and hear lots of stories,” she says, rising. “You need to call your father. Bind forces with Fran. Keep Deacon on a short leash. And throw flowers in the flames before the petals drop in the wind.” She winks.
“… She bought Les Pétales?”
“That’s my résumé, Mr. Raniero,” she whispers, gathering her trash. “If you want more, it comes with a stipend.” She washes her hands and turns to walk away. “Have fun this evening.”
“Rowan!” I yell, grabbing her arm and pinning her against the wall. “Who is Etienne?”
Her eyes scout over my expression as she gives a lurid smirk. “No more freeloading.”
“I’m going to find it,” I claim, caught between control and love. “And when I do…”
“I’m sure you will,” she whispers as her warm breath hits my lip. “But don’t hesitate because I won’t wait. It’s clear; you don’t trust me. You can take my offer to help you tonight or never at all.”
“Maeve…”
“Lucas,” she coaxes. “I have nothing to lose.”
I’m not sure I do either.
38
we did it all for this
His Ride
“Is he still not home?” Iris asks, appearing from the bedroom. I’m struck by how beautiful she is. “Where the fuck is he?”
“You look amazing,” I compliment, standing up. I check my watch. “It’s 7:00.”
“We’re leaving,” she declares, latching her arm into mine. “You’re my date for the night. You have another bike?”
“I have about six of them,” I reply. “Why?”
“Because you’re my ride tonight.”
I scan over her in the short red shimmering dress with the plunging dips gathering in the front and back along with the black stilettos. “That works,” I say, “If you’ll keep your feet in and agree to put on a jacket.”
She twirls on her toe and walks to the closet. Pulling out the long-sleeved leather Reckless Rebellion jacket, she claims, “This one.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No,” she spurs, putting it on. “I’m making a fucking statement. I’m the goddamned Queen. And where is he?”
“I don’t know,” I regretfu
lly mutter, fastening up the jacket. I smirk at how it swallows her petite figure when I notice the necklace beneath his collar of diamonds. I gave her the simple silver chain when we ran off. I trail my finger along the metal. She’s wearing both—the one from Sal and the one from me.
I’m starting to wish it was only my collar.
“Don’t say a word,” she whispers as her eyes fill with tears. “Or I’m going to ruin my face.”
“I’m just sorry,” I mutter. “I wish I had an answer for you.”
“Just take me dancing, Deacon.”
The Master
With my hands pinning her wrists up to the wall, I surrender to the devil in me. We hungrily kiss, tongue and teeth, pleasure and pain. I suck on her bottom pout and bite.
“You’re going to be late…”
“I don’t fucking care,” I snarl, trailing my lips to her neck as her fingers undo my belt. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Rowan.”
“I can show you how to do it,” she eases, willingly falling into me. “I can help you get it in.”
“I bet you can.”
I hear the alarm beep as Trudy yells, “… Deacon?”
We freak.
Rowan flees as I hastily fasten my jeans, take a deep breath, and turn the corner. “No, Ma, it’s me. I borrowed his bike. I had to stop by to get something for Deacon.”
“Oh,” she says, smiling. “I forgot my Valentine’s gift for Anna. It’s in the bedroom.”
She walks past, and I spot Rowan on the staircase, smirking. She kisses her finger, blows the kiss, and winks. Her eyes widen as a panicked expression comes on. I shrug quizzing. She flattens her hand, giving a sharp, downward wave, as I glance to the very obvious erection I’ve got tucked beneath the denim.
“Fuck!” I silently dread as she giggles and makes a jerking off motion. I shake my head and grin.
“Okay, darling,” Trudy says, returning from the bedroom. “Are you on your way out?”
“Ya, I’m leaving,” I reply, straightening my hoodie and wishing it was about ten inches longer.
“It’s a shame,” Trudy complains, rubbing my arm. “I asked Rowan if she wanted to go, but she said no. She’s nice, but seems lonely.”
Diary of a Submissive (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 4) Page 31
