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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “This is so fucked up,” Dragon says, biting on a pencil. “But, I’m transferring from Georgia to here.”

  Laying a hand on his shoulder, I smirk, “Believe in me that much, boy?”

  “My mother does,” he replies. “And as long as I’m in school, she doesn’t care where it is.”

  “We’ll get you in somewhere good,” I vow, glancing at Dom. He nods. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

  “Reza and Morpheus’ involvement lends itself in Morpheus coming your way anyway,” Mass theorizes. “Why get Durante here?”

  “Yes, it does lend itself to leaning our direction, but if we get the son involved, it’s almost a done deal,” Dom says, walking unassisted to the board. “But if Sal makes a case for himself, then there won’t be a break in the loyalty. Plus, Durante knows shit about Carlo Torrente, which could help us on the Eastern seaboard project.”

  “We’re rebuilding the Je Suis command center in Sugargrove. Ronnie Rousseau Tucker and her husband Jamichael will be heading up our security team along with my research (digging) specialists, Georgia Wills and Jas Torrente.”

  “Hackers,” Dragon remarks. “And one of them is a Torrente.”

  Staying out of the gray, I emphatically pledge, “He won’t fuck me over.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Ya,” I say, nodding. “I saved his life. I’m bringing down Kevyn Abo to run the IT, and Dr. Lani Johnson will be on call for any emergencies. Moses Hollister will be running hits with Mass.”

  With a dumbfounded expression, Mass asks, “How the hell did you get Moses out of the Lotus loss prevention team?”

  I grin. “I spend Daddy’s money real well.”

  With his hand on my shoulder, Dom smirks. “That you do.”

  “And to answer your earlier question, Megan will be running the girls.” I crack my knuckles as everything finally starts to come together. “Mock and Naby will be fishing for new contracts. Swain Mo will be my bodyguard, and Randy Bianchi has agreed to bring his toolbox.”

  “… Toolbox?” Dragon innocently asks.

  “Blood and breaking bones,” Quinn responds. “He’s going to torture those who do not play kindly.”

  “Social game,” Mass praises. “The good-looking couple of Mock and Naby is excellent for business. What about Reckless Rebellion?”

  “Deacon handed over the club to Tank,” I inform, trying not to think about how much I miss my right-hander, who played with crimson goo better than anyone I’ve ever met. “With Dom’s long-standing history with Tank, it was a shoo-in for a successful merger.”

  “You’re running Reckless?” Quinn asks.

  “I am leading RR into the future,” I reply. “Much like I am La Morte. They’re welcome to leave my umbrella anytime, but I don’t think they’ll do that.”

  Mass nods to me. “I gotta say, Nero, you’re running the most diverse Italian outfit I’ve ever seen, but it’ll work.”

  “You’re damn straight it will,” Rowan praises, walking in. Maeve Tully was the first offer of help I accepted. “And I’m going to make sure of it.”

  “Leprechauns?” Mass asks. “Really?”

  “Shut up,” she replies. “I’m getting our boy Bianco in The Commission.”

  Mass glances at me. “You’re going to have to build this thing to last then.”

  “I am.”

  “What about Cristos’ son?” He adds, “The sociopath…”

  “He’s on ignore since he sold the remaining ships to Lotus.”

  “There is one point of division then,” Quinn claims, stepping forward. “Cardinal-S is going to give you hell.”

  “Stephanie…Serene may be drooling over a Buttercup, but she likes a thoroughbred—a stallion—for her whip, Sares.”

  Quinn’s wrinkled hands lay on the edge of the table. “You’re earning Serene’s loyalty through your backside?”

  “It worked the first time.”

  “That was before she was married to a man who was into reverse human taxidermy.”

  Rowan giggles. “Nico isn’t a concern at this juncture.”

  With concern, Quinn asks, “How do you plan on feeding him?”

  “There are plenty of crackheads we can fish up and throw on the streets.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Mass laughs as he eyes Rowan and I. “And what is the status of you two?”

  “I’m an employee of Sal Raniero, nothing more,” she says. “Sal has his eyes on something else. One means to the next.”

  Quinn worries, “Are you giving up on reconciliation with Iris?”

  “No, he isn’t,” she says, speaking for me. “But, a little jealousy is good for the soul.”

  “Who is going to be on your arm at all these functions?” Quinn blasts with panic, understanding how vital the visible partner is. “Salvatore…”

  “Just a charming little southern belle.”

  “Shit!” Mass covers his face and leans back. “You aren’t just playing on the tracks; you’re running right for the train.”

  “I wanted to play bait,” I fiercely growl. “I wasn’t given that chance, so I made my own.”

  “Deacon will come after you,” Quinn remarks. “You just better hope Diablo doesn’t too.”

  “Good thing her Ma is all about that Sal.”

  “You honestly think Trudy will choose you over Deacon?” Mass questions with a stern gaze. “You are fucking insane.”

  With my fires blazing high, I snicker, “I know she will because she likes a certain young daego’s cock.”

  “Fuck…” Mass glares at Dragon who is grinning like the devil. “You are bad.”

  “You have no idea,” I taunt.

  Attaboy, Dragon.

  Make your blood proud.

  “One question,” Quinn poses, staring at me. “Who is going to be your new right-hand man?”

  Opening the door to the back porch, I wave as her long hair blows in the breeze and the beauty walks inside.

  “… You asked for me?”

  “Jaid Fucking Chambers,” Mass marvels in awe. “Or are you using Priscilla Grace.”

  “I prefer Pris Parker, but you can call me Jaid,” she replies, leaning on the table. Her hair is dyed a beautiful golden blonde, and she looks fantastic after everything she’s been through. “If you need Sal, you go through me. Just like Rowan did.”

  “Your resume is most impressive,” Mass compliments. “One killer to another.”

  “Thank you.”

  I blink at Dom, who is beaming at me. “I have no idea how you did all of this.”

  “A helluva lot work,” I reply, popping my fingers. “And whole lotta time spent on my knees praying.”

  “Not nearly enough!” Quinn complains, wobbling out. “Call me later for your confession, Sal.”

  “Yes, Sir!”

  After Quinn leaves, Mass whispers, “How do you know he isn’t on Team Cruz?”

  “He is on both teams,” Jaid announces. “Just like Dom. But we must find a way to work around it because what Sal has done in the past isn’t working. It’s time to shake up the fucking snow globe.”

  “And if Cruz or Lotus returns?”

  With her sky-blue eyes full of hope, Jaid blinks at me. “We’ll deal with them accordingly.”

  “You have a woman as your right-hand man.” Dragon naively asks, “Should we call her a right-hand woman?”

  “You can call me a right-hand man, and for that comment, you can call me Sir, too. Pink Posse rules, bitch.”

  Dom and I cackle as Mass shakes his head. “Sir Jaid?”

  “It works,” she agrees, glancing and smiling at me. We give each other a high five and a hug as she whispers in my ear, “We got this, Pretty Boy, but I ain’t fucking your ass.”

  And my second offer of help was from Prissy Pants.

  “I don’t want you to.”

  “I sent the complete file on Hannah…if you were looking for nothing, you found it,” she mutters. “The only scandalous connections are her
birth parents, Saint Cruz and Trudy Diaz.”

  “I’m in the clear?”

  Holding my wrists, she mumbles, “The daughter is free for your fall.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  48

  I Bought It, Fucker. It's Mine.

  The Master

  Later that evening, I was reading through the daughter’s file when I got the call from Jaid that I had been dreading. The Lotus jet landed at the private airstrip, and a few minutes later, Kali and Ho carried her bags to the plane. I stared at the surveillance pictures of Iris getting out of the SUV for hours.

  It’s over.

  “Iris Amarie, my little Dandelion, there is nothing—literally nothing—in the world you could do to get rid of me. You are going to have to leave this relationship because I am here for you until my last breath.”

  And she did it…

  I crumble in the bed, wallowing, and wailing as I curl into a fetal position and grip the sheet between my fingers. I try to come to terms, knowing she won’t be back. Because she won’t.

  I know.

  I always thought it would be her and I in the end. She was supposed to be the one to carry me, but she doesn’t want the heavy burden of my haggard heart. She wants something I can’t give her…we’re mismatched…after all this time…our fucking puzzle pieces don’t fit.

  What the fuck?

  She isn’t coming back.

  I know, and I knew the moment I took Amber off her hands.

  Since when do I get dumped? Me? I own cut and dry, one-night stands, easy come and easy go and even easier blows…and she can’t handle me? Because I’m just so much fun. Who am I kidding? I’m fucking misery in a good suit. I’m too much work and maintenance. I bring too much heartbreak and tears. And let us not forget, I am not a good guy.

  Iris left…gone to California…

  Specifically San Francisco.

  She’s gone….fuck…help me…

  Fuck me, I don’t know why. But Moses is still out there for two more weeks, and he’ll be keeping tabs on her and reporting back to me. We had so many hopes and dreams of doing this together, but shit got fucked up.

  We’ve had a slight snafu.

  Iris is gone.

  I have the ring sitting on my little black book in the safe at Juliet. Anna didn’t mind. She was thrilled I was offering to take over the La Morte contracts. Rich bitches like a good cut and Anna had been letting Devereux and Kate Kone lead up her dozen students to serve clients with product from the gangs. Dom wasn’t kidding about bricks or bangs in the back of the bakery.

  My father, Vinny Veramonte, was doing all the online criminal activity for those same Juliet clients. And they had been working this way for years. We were going to streamline it. I finally understood how they were doing it, but why still perplexed me. It just didn’t make sense.

  Tossing off my glasses, I grab my hat and meander out into the hallway. I’m feeling a bit lost. Deacon is gone. Iris is gone.

  Who the fuck am I without them?

  As fucked as this sounds, I don’t know. I was either with them or under Cesario’s thumb. I know one thing—I have zero desire to repeat my performance at Juliet from Valentine’s Day. It was fun for one night, but I’m getting too old for that shit.

  I peek in on Trudy. Her bed is made. I text Dragon, who took a red-eye back to Georgia for school. “Is Trudy with you?”

  His response comes quickly. “We’re staying with Morpheus. Building bridges, Sir.”

  I smile. “Good boy.”

  “I’ll be back next weekend.”

  Staring at Skeeter’s bedroom door, I contemplate checking on her, but I decided against it, fearing discussions on swimwear. She’s been online shopping for two days for the perfect bikini. I have seen so much T&A wrapped in gloriously divine packaging that I’m about ready to steal her tablet and yank one off in the bathroom.

  Why haven’t I gotten off?

  Deacon is gone.

  And I’m fucking destroyed.

  Zip. Zilch. Zero. Nadda….nothing.

  I’m starting to wonder if my dick can even get hard anymore.

  Sprinting down the staircase, I gaze at the bar full of goodies. I could have some fun with Trudy’s booze collection. I grab the bottle of Jim Beam and give up sobriety after eighteen days.

  This is for the birds.

  I wander through the house to the den, where I spot the glow of the flat screen. The room is pitch black as the horror movie plays. I peak my head around the door to see Miss Skeeter with a blanket covering part of her face. There is a pint of ice cream sitting on the table with the lid half-cocked and a spoon sticking out of it.

  Bitch ate my fucking Buttered Pecan.

  All I can see are her eyes, which is creepy as fuck on its own because they’re massive turquoise and deep blue globes with very expensive lash extensions—I know, I pay out the ass for these things that look like fuzzy spiders with no carapaces.

  “Ahh!” she squeals as I duck away to try and restrain my laughter. I desperately want to scare the fuck out of her. That’s mean, right? Though she’s the one alone in the house with a Capo, so which is scarier?

  I decide to be a dick cause that’s more fun.

  In my best fatherly tone, I ask, “Don’t you have work tomorrow morning?”

  “Ahh!” she screams. Eyes wide. Creepy spider lashes everywhere. Pretty white teeth…feel so good on my… “What the fuck!” She throws her pillow at me. “Don’t fucking scare me like that!”

  Stumbling into the room, I laugh. “Did you eat all my fucking ice cream?”

  “Yes,” she giggles as I sit on her feet. “I did.”

  “And you’re proud of this?”

  “Yes,” she says, grinning. “And I don’t have work tomorrow because it’s Sunday. Why are you up at?” She pauses the show and squints at the clock. “1:37 in the morning.”

  “I’m bored as fuck,” I honestly reply.

  “And are you going to drink that?”

  “Depends.” I flick a brow. “If I can sit here with you.”

  “Looks like you already are,” she says, pulling her feet out from under my ass and putting them in my lap. “Rub those.”

  “You are so demanding.”

  “And you are a sucker for me,” she cackles. “Always have been.”

  I shake my head. “Just because I have been watching after you for Ma for years.”

  “Exactly.” She smirks. “You like my ass.” She’s not wrong. I try not to associate that thought and the aforementioned bikini bottom, ideally not a thong. “You want to find another movie?”

  “Nup,” I say, popping her toes and kneading her arches as she grabs the ice cream and offers me a spoonful. “You fucking liar!”

  Beyond elated with her trickery, she grins those pretty white teeth and declares, “About many things…”

  Oh, Skeeter.

  This is so bad.

  And you are in so much trouble.

  The sun beaming into the den wakes me up, but I don’t move. Slumped into the sofa with my feet on the table, I give Hannah a side-eyed glance. Her head is on a pillow, propped on the arm of the sofa, and her torso is curled up while her legs and blanket outstretch on top of me. I spot the remote, the empty container of ice cream, and the still-sealed bottle of whiskey.

  Most people would be delighted by this.

  I am not most people, and my first reaction is…

  FUCK.

  I attempt to move her legs without waking the sleeping demon.

  “… What time is it?”

  Her dirty blonde locks splay around her face like a halo, and her hand with the pink talons—I pay for those too—opens by her face as she peeks at me.

  “8:17.”

  She swiftly sits up and yawns. “I need a fucking coffee.”

  “I need a church.”

  “You want to go to mass?” she seriously questions. “We can make it.”

  I shake my head as she balls the blanket
and throws it in the chair with a toss. She turns back, and her eyes quadruple in size. “Wha…”

  I can’t look at her because sometimes these things are just…fucking unexplainable. Apparently, three weeks is too long and yours truly decided to squirt like a teenager in my fucking gray sweatpants at some point in the night. To add insult to injury, I’ve got a fucking tent big enough for a revivalist meeting.

  She swallows and lifts a finger. “We need coffee. And a church!” She gets up as I put my legs down, and she stumbles…falling into my lap.

  Dear fucking God, this day.

  I shake my head, utterly mortified. I have behaved with this girl. I kissed her one time when we brought her into The Unholy.

  One fucking time—once.

  I have not seriously considered this girl as an actual passenger on the pierced beast. She’s white virgin snow, though not a virgin, just waiting for some bastard to come along and stain up. She’s sort of like a fake girlfriend because I can’t handle the idea of sex with an actual human female, or really any sex at all.

  On my arm at functions, sure. While I’m paying her well to be my companion, I also like the girl. She’s naturally gorgeous, engaging without snobbery, and people love Hannah. Plus, she has no skeletons in an overstuffed closet.

  But this rollerskate-wearing-girl on my dick?

  No fucking way.

  She’s …nine-fucking-teen.

  She’s …spunky…happy…drama-free…and existing in her strange little world of funky couture and pop music. Top 40 pop music. She chews bubblegum and blows bubbles for chrissakes.

  And her splendid tits are pressed onto my raging erection.

  Let’s repeat the word of the day: FUCK.

  “I should get up,” she says, ducking her head on my chest for saying the word up. Lifting off my dick, she balances between her knees on the sofa and my arms. “And go make coffee.”

  “Ya,” I say. She glances at me with the same peculiar expression I’ve got. Like she hadn’t considered, I might be a decent lay or even DTF. Her eyes scan over my chest, assessing the packaging as I jar my head back with a note of concern. She does the same. “Church!”