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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  Lavish gay weddings are so much fun.

  That’s not me being an ass; that’s truth.

  I got onto her for her trashy behavior, similar to Cat’s, and she told me to fuck off. According to Skeeter, I am “an evil old man set on destroying her existence.” I cackled, and briefly, I considered going down the I-don’t-give-a-fuck-well by tossing her over my lap, dropping those zebra print leggings, and spanking her ass hot red.

  Deacon is gone.

  He ain’t coming back.

  Sister Skeeter is fair game.

  And no, she is not a nun.

  Yeah, I know…don’t remind me…nineteen.

  She’s worse than a damn puppy. Yes, I just compared puppies and teenage girls. If you haven’t left yet because of my misbehaving antics, then I’m not sure offensive is a word I checkmark under Salvatore. I’ll try harder.

  So...

  Puppies and teenage girls have a lot in common—always playful, endlessly hungry, and demanding new toys and/or makeup/clothes.

  It never fucking stops.

  Have I mentioned how much I hate shopping? Skeeter fucking loves it. Of course, genetic predisposition.

  Thank God, she can fuck with some hot wings and Bleu cheese. Adores pizza—any old pie will do, but don’t suggest the delta pie. It’s dick compatible only in Skeeter’s world.

  She’s bought fifty-two tubes of lipstick in the last twenty days. Sixteen pairs of jeans. Fourteen pairs of shoes. Thirteen lace things. Stolen almost all of Deacon’s rock band t-shirts only to sever the arms and necks from them. And I have zero Henleys left. Loves running. And watching sports. And the new iPhone I bought for her because her screen was cracked.

  She’s kind of like having a non-stop chatty, constantly horny Deacon around. I can’t decide if I’m taking a brotherly role or incredibly turned on. She’s fucking insane.

  And I’m sober…eighteen days…what the ever-loving hell?

  After talking to Dom and understanding the twenty-year difference between Meg and him, I’m honestly kind of intrigued. Not from an I’m-gonna-go-tap-that perspective, but from a socio-psychological study.

  Hear me out…

  In the last decade, I’ve worked plenty of cases and rescued hundreds of girls. I don’t actually know these girls—before or after—their methods, reasonings, or whys. I don’t understand the mental topography of women at all. We can talk about Deacon being cut down the middle of the Kinsey scale or his stereotypical gay behaviors, but he has one thing I don’t—a very clear understanding of women.

  Skeeter is a young woman.

  And makes zero sense to me.

  So, what makes a young woman such as Meg or Skeeter covet an older man? Security? Purpose? Wisdom? Guidance? A combination of all four? When does it turn taboo? Certainly, the Meg/Dom age difference is hot. He’s the wounded vet, and she’s a freaking broken bombshell. The attraction is quite visible.

  I know why at eighteen I was so gung-ho about MILF’s…Hello, hot Mama…but let’s face facts, Dom is not in the same physical shape as Deacon or I. However, Meg doesn’t seem to give a damn and relishes every opportunity to be in or on his lap. I want to point to Daddy issues, but then does that mean I have Mommy issues?

  God fuck, don’t answer that.

  The reason I know so much about Skeeter is damn Trudy Diaz has us—rambunctious teenage girl + decimated Sal—staying at her house. For obvious reasons on both counts, Trudy wants to get to know her daughter, and Ma wants to baby me.

  Just keep bending over and let me stare at your tits; the pain will fade eventually.

  It’s lovely and great, but the layout of the house is horrible for my sanity. When my cousin, the eighteen-year-old Dragon, is in town, Trudy and he go at it for hours. The master bedroom is in the middle. I am in the left guest bedroom, and Skeeter is on the right.

  I get these fucking texts from Skeet at 2:33 in the morning. “Are you listening to this?”

  “It would be hard not to hear.” And then, I’m torn between saying, “You need to go to bed because you have work in the morning,” or “Wanna come suck my dick like a good little girl?”

  It’s seriously fucking me up.

  Am I her older brother or her future Daddy?

  … Me? … Really? … Why?

  I am ten years older than her, but the maturity difference is profound. And by that, I mean, she is more mature than me, unless she’s doing usual teenage girl shit. Admittedly, I am not the best-behaved twenty-eight-year-old. But damn…she’s wise. Funny as fuck. And busy.

  One night, she messaged, “Is it weird that I’m getting turned on by Dragon’s grunting?”

  And I’m like, “No, babe. I’ve been banging your mom since I was your age. And every time she does that high-pitched screaming thing, I need to palm my dick.”

  She responded, “Gross. Old. Perv.”

  I laughed and replied, “You want a few dick pics?”

  She didn’t respond until a half an hour later when she sent a picture of her pink lace panties, dangling on her finger.

  So, my addict is living with a horny teenager, which she is until August. And to say I am hard up is the under-fucking-statement of the decade.

  Where is Iris?

  Iris…

  Iris is still at Lakeside with Kali and Ho, and I have not seen her in nineteen days. We had a massive blow-up the day after Deacon left. It was terrible. Name-calling. Crying. Hysterical. Sparring.

  The Raniero-Nakamura War.

  I pulled up in the Raptor at Lakeside, and Iris stomped out to meet me. No hello. No greeting. No hug.

  “How long have you been in love with Cruz?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, crying her eyes out over the man I was in love with. She wasn’t upset about her and I having troubles.

  No. No.

  Sal Raniero didn’t even enter her mind. This was all about her and Cruz. “I don’t know. All I know is I can’t keep doing this with the two of you. I am in love with Deacon.”

  “For a couple that is supposed to be getting engaged,” I politely reminded her of my existence on the planet. “We’ve got issues.”

  “Tell me, I know!” she hissed. “You fucked up, asshole! And now Deacon is gone!”

  “You know what, bitch?” I snapped, losing my shit. “I’m tired of being the fall guy here. I know about the pool table. If you are so in love with Deacon Cruz, then be with him! You always were a pussy-go-round!”

  “Better than being a pussy hound.” She paused for a moment as she realized what I said. “Wait, what did you say?” Before she “accidentally” blurted out, “How did you know about the pool table?”

  Iris knew she confessed it then and there. I saw the guilty look in her eyes. “I found his fucking ring.”

  “It was one time,” she excused.

  I didn’t believe her because I knew my submissives better than that. I may have been fucked up, but I was not a fucking idiot. We were on a collision course bound for heartache, and I was getting all the blame.

  It took three to fall in love.

  It took three to fuck it all up.

  We all made mistakes, but Iris blames me for her pet-pet Deacon leaving. And she probably should, but she isn’t fucking innocent.

  Because of the—busy teenage girl—I happened to never say a peep about, I was the bad guy.

  In 2009, I found Skeeter, living outside of Atlanta, because Trudy asked me to. Oh, Buckhead…how I love thee...so I find little ten-year-old Hannah, and the fresh young agent in me runs all the reports because I fucking can. Hannah’s best friend (before me) was a girl named Yara Costa. And it just so happened Yara had an older brother named Durante Costa.

  Little eager black-ops in me discovers—whoops!—Durante is only half Puerto Rican.

  Well, I’ll be!

  Would you look at that?

  Forgive the bizarre Southern twang thang.

  Durante and Yara’s Daddy was none other than Stephen Jones, aka Morpheus. Shocker, righ
t?

  I’ve known for the last ten years, and I kept hoping Iris would come clean and save Stella—which is now more important than ever because that is my mother. Did she? Nope. And she still doesn’t know I know. Grins.

  Why does this matter?

  Because if Durante goes on to marry Stella, that will make Morpheus and his money my new family.

  Yeehaw! Look at that!

  The boy who barely had a ticket to the outfield was suddenly sitting pretty in a goddamned motherfucking box suite.

  That is why—it fucking matters—and that is also why I’m pissed at the water lily. I can’t trust her in business or the bedroom.

  Place your bets.

  Shit is about to go down.

  I happen to be living with Skeeter because Trudy refuses to let me leave her house. She has said, ‘I’ve lost one son. I won’t lose two,’ so many times it’s about to turn into the “all things in the interest of Sal Raniero” show.

  And what does Ma want?

  The same thing she’s always wanted—a nice house, a new Mercedes every year, and lavish vacations to Europe with her boy toy, who happens—let’s not forget—to be my cousin and sole recipient of the Veramonte business in the motherland.

  It’s only going to take four Italian boys to change the game. Who is the third?

  I call him Meg’s Boss.

  And my Master.

  I may not seem upset, but I’m fucking heartbroken. I lost my boy. I lost my girl. But the thing is, power and love aren’t an inclusive pairing in my mind. If I must remain a street thug to be with the Lotus, that’s a problem for me. I won’t be the underdog next to Iris.

  I must be able to fight, or I fall apart because of boredom—this is Daddy Dom’s logic. When disinterest occurs, I let my guard down and do stupid shit like letting four-leaf clovers with accents swallow my squiz.

  I need to be playing a strategic game. I can have power without love, but I cannot have love without power. I need to be able to manipulate the trajectory to protect my girl.

  Like any man wants to defend his girl…

  I can’t—because she doesn’t trust me—see Durante Costa rule above.

  I’m stuck between falling apart or rising. A few calculated key moves could send me to the top—rightfully on my own merit—no growth assistance needed from a swamp or a flower.

  This is how four daegos plan to rebuild Sal Raniero.

  Who is the fourth?

  Massimiliano Vidal, of course.

  But it’s not gonna be pretty.

  And I may earn that offensive first place blue ribbon just yet.

  47

  Call Me Sir

  The Master

  “Famiglia,” Dom preaches in the rectory of Quinn’s Catholic church. “This is our new focus.”

  “We aren’t brothers,” Dragon points out.

  With his hands clasped on the highly polished wooden table, Mass gives a side-eyed glance and rebukes, “We may as well be.”

  “This is the new table of four,” Dom says as he flips the dry erase board over. His grid looks like a fucking toddler drew it. “And this is the plan.”

  Mass and Dragon stare at the indecipherable scribble. “None of this makes any sense,” Dragon mumbles, grabbing a smoke. “And the writing is far from legible.”

  He isn’t wrong.

  Dom’s handwriting sucks ass.

  With an unlit cigarette dangling from my mouth and my well-worn Boston sexhat, I swivel in my chair, get up, and erase his formula. “If we attempt to use your map, we’re going to end up running blood diamonds for Immortal.”

  “Too soon, man,” Dom snickers, shaking his head. “Too soon.”

  “Just don’t make me call you Dom East.”

  “Would that be right nut attentive?” Mass jokes with a grin. “Or are we going straight down the middle and up the crack?”

  I flip him off, and he laughs.

  Q is sitting majestically in the corner like the wise old owl I still don’t know much about. And I don’t care too. I’m learning to accept things and not understanding Strigiformes and female humans are a huge part of that equation.

  On the board, I draw a large box, and on each of those four lines, I include our names—Sal, Dom, Dragon, Mass. “This is what we have.” Off to either side, I write Dom’s nephews, Franco and Silvano. “These two yahoos also belong to us.”

  Rocking in his chair, Dragon asks, “What about Enzo?”

  “We’re killing that son of a bitch as soon as possible,” I reply. “He murdered Diamond, and justice needs to be delivered.”

  “What about The Unholy?” Mass questions, lighting a smoke. “Do we trust any of them?”

  “That’s complicated,” Dom replies, propped against the antique hutch filled with…assorted kinky implements containing my DNA. “With Deacon and Sal at odds, Unholy is sitting dead in the water for the time being. Current clients are distributed goods. Money is being made. Bills are getting paid. But growth? There is none.”

  “Deacon Cruz has all of PacWest, and New Orleans locked down tight,” Dragon points out as he leans forward and twists his hat. He’s eighteen, and frankly, he is like looking in the damn mirror of my past. “What are the odds he and Morpheus are going to unite and take over all of the South?”

  “If that happens,” I say, taking a deep breath and waving my hand around with the cigarette between my fingers. “We’ve got real problems because Lotus still owns Houston.”

  “You mean Deacon Cruz will have business from Houston to the Atlantic Ocean?” Dragon quizzes with a steady, sharp push.

  Mass tosses me his lighter as I light the smoke and exhale, “You got it, bro.”

  “What about Vinny?”

  “Vinny and Anna have La Morte, which is a small group—a couple hundred at most—of filthy rich clientele that has been dangerously outsourcing to regional gangs.

  Holding up a hand, Mass says, “Stop there. Who is running services for them?”

  “No one.” Flicking my brow, I boast, “Until now. Sal Raniero will be taking over servicing La Morte clients.”

  “We only have the six of us if we’re generous,” Dragon argues. “That isn’t enough.”

  “And Sal has stuck his dick in a good quarter of them,” Dom smarts off with a snarl. “We got this. I’ll hire fucking kids off the streets of Houston if I have to. Besides we have connections with Alex Torino and Abel Parker. And new Sheriff Kit Jolly is in snug with Salvatore.”

  Shaking his head, Mass quips, “Are you poaching from Lotus?”

  “I’ll do whatever I fucking got to do to get Sal back up where he belongs,” he defends, folding his cane. “And if that means I’ve got Dragon selling bricks out of Kate’s bakery, then that is what we’re going to fucking do.”

  “This is my town,” I earnestly say. “My Old Poppa built fucking Sugargrove, and I’m taking it back.”

  “What about everyone else?” Dragon ponders. “Where do they fit into this schematic?”

  “We ignore them!” Dom rallies. “Our only goal is Sugargrove.”

  “One of the four peaks,” Mass says, thinking with his hands steepled on his lips. “It’s a deceptively brilliant idea.”

  “You got it!” I give a priceless grin. “I’ll have Thread under my thumb by the end of the year.”

  “How the fuck are you going to do that?” Quinn asks from the shadows. “It’s on her turf.”

  “I’m a badass motherfucker, that’s how,” I arrogantly claim. “And her brother, Masa Nakamura, adores my fine efforts.”

  “Or just your ass,” Dom remarks.

  “You’re going to go play with Iris’ brother?” Mass booms. “Are you insane?”

  “Absofuckinglutely,” I snicker like the menacing devil I am. “And when I’m done there, I’m going to wreak havoc with Manon Dupre in England.”

  “… Highlandale Hawthorne?” Mass snarls. “When are you getting L’Académie?”

  “He’s not,” Dom rebukes, crossing
his arms. “C’est impossible. Etienne owns it and Les Pétales.”

  “This grand plan involves wining, dining, and schmoozing with The Suits at their entertainment hubs,” Mass states, dropping his hands. “The hustle might work if you play it right. Network the right connections. A lot of handshaking and handjobs. You got girls?”

  “Not yet,” I say, raising my brows. “That’s my next stop!”

  “Who is heading that side project? Cause I can volunteer!” Dragon teases as the boys laugh. I hate how much he is like me at eighteen. It’s fucking scary. “I mean, if you need a product tester…”

  “You’re keeping your dick in Trudy,” I stress with a serious tone as I point at him. “Your dick in Trudy is an important piece of the puzzle.”

  “I was joking,” he charms with a smile. “You’re damn right her MILF milk is mine!”

  I give a vacant stare at his crass words. Just like me.

  “You mean the keep Deacon Cruz pissed off plan?” Mass chuckles. “Because this is certainly going to do it.”

  I take a deep breath. “While we’re on the topic of mothers…”

  Mass lights a smoke. “I’ll occupy the DILFs. I could use a blow job.”

  “I’m asking my mother, Stella, to come and run some shit,” I inform, popping my jaw. “We need some fucking help with appointments, books, and shit.”

  “She’ll bring Durante with her,” Quinn assesses. “And then you get Morpheus.”

  I nod with a smile and clap at the old man. “You got it, Q!”

  “But, you eliminate Vinny.”

  “Not necessarily, Padre.” I pace into the darkness. “I use Vinny as a slow creeping expansion up the Eastern seaboard, along with Fran’s help.”

  “You’re getting awful close to doing battle with Cesario if you go there,” he comments with concern. “Unless you have Altromessa on your side. Are you sure you will be ready for a Raniero-Raniero war?”

  “By the time we get to Boston, we’ll be ready,” I say with conviction. I must believe I can do this. “I’ll have Thread, H2, and Juliet all running clients with Sal Raniero.”