“They never expected fucking Stella to try and take it on,” I interject, fearing my witchy sister’s safety despite our differences.
Loyalty remember. And she is blood.
The three of us sit in silence, contemplating the options, the obstacles, and the opposition. The glances we give are ones of respect and admiration. I shoot up and grab another bottle of Bordeaux off the rack.
Grabbing the corkscrew, I peel the foil and ask, “How long has Iris worked both sides?”
“Years,” Jack states.
“She would get intel for them and hand it over to us,” Serene says, chain smoking. “What we didn’t know was the agreement you had with Chance. When Iris showed up out of the blue last year, we were stunned. We had no idea. That move of yours really threw us all off.”
“We need to figure out what our ultimate goal is here,” I propose, uncorking the bottle.
“To keep you alive,” Serene starts off the pow-wow.
“Just as important—keeping you out of the hands of your father,” Jack adds, taking the bottle and filling the glasses. “I think of equal importance is not letting Iris get unraveled. We don’t know what she knows and until we do, she is considered classified and lethal.”
“Iris knows something…” I whisper, my mind racing and calculating. “Chance put something in her that he wants me to find.”
Serene sips her wine and points an unlit cigarette in my direction. “You think she has intel?”
“I know she does,” I assert, intent in my convictions. “You weren’t there when the janitor—Chance—showed up in my cell. He was adamant about not letting her out of my sight. My job was to watch over her and not let her end up in the wrong hands.”
“Then we need to keep her locked down,” Jack contends. “I don’t want Iris’ blood on your hands Sal. You’ll never recover from that.”
Serene sighs deep as a tangle of emotions rises up from her gut. “You know I have to say to spite everything, and even how I might not agree with Iris being the best choice for you on a personal level—I don’t want her dead, Sally.”
Another minute of silences passes before Jack mentions with a cool persuasion, “You know I was surprised your father hadn’t groomed the hell out of you.”
Serene cackles and tacks on the rest, “I took you in because I knew you had it, not as a replacement for Mierne. I saw possibility in you.”
Possibility.
“He tried,” I reveal, locking my fingers together and setting my jaw. “He tried for years, so what about Maria?”
Resting her hands together as if in prayer, Serene says, “Latest is the hit on Maria is from overseas; the intel just came in tonight from command.”
“Overseas?” I query, more perplexed than ever before.
Snatching the paper, I growl, “Who the fuck is coming after me?”
“Yeah, we found records tracing through Highlandale Hawthorne,” Jack states as I scan over the paper. Sure enough, there it is in black and white. Money transfers. Big ones. “Manon tipped us. We owe her.”
“Fuck,” I mumble, scooting back from the table. “We got a big money player making a leap.”
“You’re probably right,” Jack says, polishing off his wine. “And that is why your bags are packed.”
“Because you want me to go play pony trainer?” I quip, totally unamused.
“Look, Sally, it’s this simple. You can go willingly to H2 or we can put you on a plane to Boston,” Serene says, breaking her prayer and waving her hands about instructively. “Either way, you are not going to Mierne’s because you had years to take that offer, and you didn’t. And you can no longer stay here because you won’t leave well enough alone with Iris. It’s a little late now.”
And it is too late.
Too late for Mierne. Too late for Serene. Too late to not sleep with Emily. And it was damn sure too late to not fall in love with Iris. My heart aches as they have me by the balls, and I know it. The ultimatum is no better than any other offer. My fate is decided. Leave the family I know and trust or head back home to being the son I am expected to be.
“I know you love Iris,” Jack says, resting his hand on my arm. “But in being the Dominant, sometimes you have to rise above even your own needs and do what is best for her, and right now you two are a volatile combination.”
“I can’t just go…”
“Yes, you can,” Serene argues, laying her hand on my other arm. “We will keep her safe with us while you figure out how to keep her safe forever.”
“We want you to go snoop about,” Jack explains, crossing his arms on the table. “See who is working what angles and bring back anything you can because the trail dies at H2.”
Grasping my hand from my lap, Serene says, “I have already informed headmistress Manon Dupre you are coming. You are on unofficial but official business with a formal invitation, you will be granted all privileges of a full-fledged member in their council.”
Stable girls here I come.
Defraud ye not one the other, except it be with consent for a time, that ye may give yourselves to fasting and prayer; and come together again, that Satan tempt you not for your incontinency.
I Corinthians 7:5
IV: Downkissed
Cherry Breeze
Cherry breeze blossoms on the trees
You promise me
To come with a please
You’re all I know
Crying so
You twist around
And bind me down
Cool blue horizon seeps
Down the trail, you weep
As my tears shock
Dripping on your hard cock.
K.M. Hope
Chapter Nineteen
The Sandwich King
IRIS
THE LEATHER COMES DOWN hard on my ass, welting my flesh and spreading a burn just under the surface as Jack continues my training. I imagine he is in the same position as Sal is with Amber.
The goal is simple—keep the girl ready.
Though I must admit a penchant for the formal rituals of a man named Dom and his pretty southern Gothic plantation. Jack derives a perverse pleasure from the games we play. Rumored to be a sadist, I have yet to encounter such. Maybe because he knows who I am or perhaps more importantly what I am to who.
I am Lucas Salvatore Raniero’s submissive.
Neat, right? Give something you don’t know.
I am acutely aware of his internal questions—Emily, Boston, Juliet, me. My goal—stand by his side wherever he lands.
Point blank and no holds barred, so if he insists on sequestering me here—I will do it because the other options aren’t really very appealing either.
The flip side of being his bastard’s halo is that I am also one of the principle infiltration units—tension relief specs—for the Gennaro family. Basically, a hired call girl who gets information via the main pipeline. Fuck hard and good, and they will spill their secrets with their seed. I have pipe dreams that they will just let me go, but really who am I kidding?
Once you’re in, they never let you go.
Given no other option, I do what bad girls do and I work it hard. My mother put her lovely daughter in this position, but I will have to find a way out on my own. Her sleepy little affair with the drug lord will be the death of me if I let it.
I am all of twelve when he meets me. It’s nice at first—this new uncle my mother says I have. Strange how he only comes over when daddy isn’t home and that is what makes what Angelo Gennaro did so fantastically easy. In essence, we were sitting ducks.
Lydia is British by birth and a real estate investor. The British part doesn’t matter much; the last part is critical because Angelo liked to buy things. Big, expensive things. Like buildings and land and whole areas of derelict housing. He would come in, buy them up, and wipe it all out only to flip the land. Honestly, it made sense and Lydia—my mother—sought out the biggest bidders for the highest reward on his property.
&nb
sp; Before long, Lydia sought out something else big and Angelo happily obliged. He was the classic Italian playboy, married briefly—long enough to have a couple spawn—and divorced. Dom is the only boy. Surprisingly, I never met the young Gennaro until Sal brought me to New Orleans.
It doesn’t take long for Angelo “Daddy” Gennaro to infiltrate our entire existence. He gets me into the exclusive Abernathy. While my parents are well off, they are far from where they needed to be to qualify for acceptance into Abernathy—even I knew that. But Angelo did it with one phone call.
And I became his little puttana.
I cannot say if I would have wanted a different existence. This is what happened, and I know nothing else. I was the outsider being groomed for an exclusive position by his side. He put the braces on my teeth and drowned out my heavily muddied up mishmash of accents with help of a linguistics coach. His secretary took me for makeovers and bought my first designer clothes.
“Make her look classically pure!”
Gennaro owned me. My junior year in high school he propositioned a play that would determine the whole outcome. He wanted his puttana to get close to Chance Ballister.
Easy.
And two years later, we married.
The closer I got to Chance, the more Angelo picked off intel, and the bigger my private bank accounts became. I am lost and lonely in the loveless marriage and I take some of the money and turn on the webcam business. Angelo eventually finds out about it and all he can say, “Look, my little puttana is being so enterprising!”
As far as I know, Lydia is screwing him until his death, but considering my parents’ divorce, I would imagine my father—Raiko—found out. He returned to Japan, and I haven’t seen him since. Though my dad calls frequently, I never hear from Lydia. And I do not ever call her mother.
Angelo Gennaro keeps the girl ready.
After his death, the ruckus band of hooligans known as La Morte position themselves to try and take over the Gennaro business. They don’t succeed at a complete overthrow; however, they do manage to unite forces. Gennaro’s business is now ran by his right-hand man, Marcello Campanelli.
No kidding, I am still owned by a dead man.
Sal knows what I want him to know. I am the rope in the tug-of-war. I am hidden here in this hole in the wall to keep me safe from the prince of the mafioso. He won’t ever accept his position, so it is imperative to keep me down.
In fine black trousers and blue dress shirt, Jack swings the whip to greet my ass again. I close my eyes and cringe through the pain, embracing my placement in the world.
I live—for now.
The whip strikes my flesh again and I think of Emily and the sweet taste of her pussy on my lips. I like the girl. The perfectly portrayal of the good girl, Emily contains the goodness Sal needs to rise above it all. I am tarnished, stained, and conflicted. Far more complicated to hold onto. Even I understand that. His selection and reasons for such are his to determine and mine to absolve. I can do nothing.
If I come out of hiding, the ghosts of Angelo Gennaro will hit me fast for failure to do the job in which I have been paid. “Take out Sal Raniero.” If they fail, La Morte will come knocking. If they miss, Cesario Raniero won’t.
The obsessed reigning king of Boston will do anything to get his son.
The truth is I never wanted to kill Sal Raniero or anyone else for that matter. I did the things I did for reasons beyond the obvious. I didn’t care about the players and their positions or even the outcome as I believe in an eye for an eye.
Angelo Gennaro took my life; so, I took his.
IRIS
The curious thing about being in this position now is how the hierarchy in the world of BDSM compares to the criminal underground. It is a language of respect and one I manage to speak fluently. The terms change to deferment, but the roster is similar.
Who runs the show? Mierne Risen.
Who ranks number one? Delarte Cristos.
Of course, from a distance that isn’t what people see. They think Anna Ford runs the show and La Morte ranks first. However, if given an opportunity to look underneath the surface, the mud clarifies quickly. Mierne Risen stands rightfully to inherit the whole of one of the four prestigious schools. Delarte Cristos’ attempts at buying up smaller rings of insignificance will measure up fast to an army no one will be able to control. They aren’t watching the ripples to distracted by the waves.
I do. And I can say Angelo Gennaro taught me to do such.
He trained me before I ever knew I needed practice.
I may not have the technology or mumble jumble gadgetry of a Sibyl agent, but I have ears and a pretty smile, and sometimes that is worth more than all the knowledge in a box. It all depends on how it’s used.
When Jack drops the whip at his feet and comes to rub my reddened ass, I sink dreamily into the feel of his warm hand. He isn’t a bad Dominant. I understand why Kaci loved him. I could love him too if my heart weren’t already spoken for.
“I have a present for you, Precious,” he growls at my ear, his warm breath sending waves of chill bumps over my skin and making me want to rip off his clothes and fuck him raw. “I have decided to take on a new apprentice.”
“The next Golden Boy,” I chime back with a decided hint of sarcasm.
“Doubtful, he’s not that pretty.”
Slam. Ouch.
“Shall I go get him for you?” he hisses again, making my nipples taut and cunt wet.
“Yes, Sir Jack,” I whisper meek and demure, trained so proper. “Bring him.”
Honestly, I have no idea who it is as I hear his expensive leather shoes shuffle across the dungeon floor. I cast a glance over to the pink bucket—the bucket Sal crafted—and refocus my attentions. My sole job now is to keep him safe. To keep him out of harm’s way. And it is why I am okay with Emily-fucking-sweet-as-sin-Granger. She offers protection in a way I cannot. As much as his father will give to have him, I will go to infinity to keep him safe. My reasons are my own. Reasons I care not to divulge.
I will pull it all down to the depths of hell when I am ready.
I scan the empty dungeon as my hands tether up to the ropes on the ceiling. It is a beautiful dungeon, black and foreboding and sexy as hell. I would have given anything to have experienced my one true Master within these walls. He is gone now. Sent on a wild goose chase across the ocean. Remember—listen.
My thoughts about Sal move rapidly to the back burner as the cell door slams. The figure hidden in the shadows behind Jack’s imposing frame refuses to reveal itself. It says so much. He isn’t confident at all, but takes a tiny step off to the side careful to not be in my line of fire. I am so much more submissive than he will ever be Dominant.
“Good evening, Snowrose.”
“Mack?” I suggest, scurrying in the bindings.
His steps stride closer to me as his being here represents more than one layer. He is multi-faceted, multi-dimensional, and this is not about control. This is a power play. A boosted move on the board collected in full by none other than Jack. Bringing Mack Larrabee into Sal’s dungeon is nothing more than spitting in his face. Add in his Angel’s presence and a recipe for disaster follows.
His fingers grab my cheeks hard—pinching—as he informs, “We are going to have ourselves some fun now.”
Tears drip from my eyes as Jack walks out. I can play his game, but I have no idea why Jack did this. Mack will hurt me. He will harm me.
And Sal will kill him.
Did Jack need an excuse to get Mack permanently removed?
The door opens again, and the answer comes quick.
“Hello, Iris… It’s been a long time,” he smiles with the charm of a stripper.
“… Mitch?”
I am more confused now as I strain against the thick, fraying ropes. They are in no danger of breaking, but it is clear they have been used before. I am stuck here with the M and M boys and staring at Jack for some sort of solution. I am not sure there is one.
> I close my eyes as my mind zooms through the moments and memories, finding the box hidden high up on the shelf marked—Chance Ballister—it all comes back to him. I daren’t pull the box down, I might reveal too much. I divert and seek out another—Dom Gennaro. Look there, do not give them whatever it is they seek. I flip hastily and start at the beginning of our trip to New Orleans. My only goal now—not giving them whatever it is they have come to retrieve. Dom is a placeholder, a placebo, a stand-in for a million triggers held in my brain.
And that is what Sal Raniero built.
IRIS
“What are you both doing here?” I ask, staring at Mitch and Mack. They smile with hungry eyes and rabid teeth and I know this isn’t going to end favorably for me.
Stay in New Orleans.
“We want a few rounds with the number one ranked sub…” Mitch comments with a snide snarl.
He is a good-looking man—perhaps overly so—but not beautifully handsome. He doesn’t own the pretty mug of a bastard. It’s far more collegiate and athletic than dangerously sexy. While appealing on the surface, I know first-hand how it is all a lie. He comes today carrying a vendetta. I declined his proposal after his ravishment scene pushed my limits too far.
“Yes, dear Snowrose…a few good rounds,” Mack says, caressing my cheek. It sickens me and makes my stomach churn. He has such a boner for Raniero and he proves that time and again. But Sal wants nothing to do with his pansy ass.
Back in November, when Mack and I were still close, he pulled some shit out at the cabin before he sold it. He managed to lure Sal out there and tie him up while Mack had at me. I thought Sal might kill him then. I know he will now.
Putting my game face on, I take no shit from either of these morons. They can use my flesh and hurt my skin, but they will not break me.
Salt Kissed Love (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 1) Page 32
