I planned on his elimination, but I ended up falling in love.
I long to be unchained from this rack. I briefly close my eyes again until I feel the stinging zap of the violet wand on my arm. I maintain a straight face and give no reaction. I’m tired, but far from revealing any of my secrets. Jack hasn’t earned those.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
I open my eyes at the sound of Nico’s voice. He’s a born killer. He thrives on the fear of others, and by luck or fate, he just so happens to be part of The Unholy and Sal’s personal hitman. I curiously wait for the massacre in the dungeon and know the puddles of blood won’t be my own.
It’s complicated.
So very complicated.
Nico and Jack are relatively the same height as they spar around the middle of the room in front of me. I’m not sure who I’d put a bet on. Probably Nico because he knows how to fight.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Jack warns. “You know better.”
Nico’s fist clenches as his jaw tightens to a marked line. “Neither should you!”
His swift swing lands against Jack’s midsection as he pummels him against the wall. Nico pulls the blade from his back pocket and presses it to Jack’s throat. I cringe, not wanting to see this without popcorn and some form of adult-type beverage, preferably with one of those paper umbrellas.
“If you do not get out of here – right fucking now – I will kill you. I will sever you, limb by limb and throw the pieces into the woods for the wild hogs to feast upon. Who are you working for, Jack?”
The force of the blade and Nico’s stronghold brings up a terrible flush of reddish-purple on Jack’s face. It’s quite a bad image for a looker like himself. “If you think I’m telling you…”
Nico nails Jack in the balls with his knee. I bite my lip and stay quiet. I can see the tears seeping from the corner of his eyes. I can feel the tension between the men. If Nico wins, I’ll be with Sal soon. If Jack wins, I’ll be a corpse in an East Texas swamp by noon. Feed the gators a swine. It’s a quick and easy cleanup job for a hostile traitor like Jack.
Pushed to the edge, Nico seethes, “Who is your boss?”
“Precious,” Jack begs, gasping for air and peering at me. “Call off your hound!”
“No,” I sass, shaking my head and whispering the command, “Fuck off. Kill him, Nicky.”
“Wait!” Jack begs as Nico’s stance tightens, and he presses the blade deeper against his throat. One wrong move and Dr. Jack Kerris is a dead man. Waving his arms, he finally confesses, “Her mother… I’m working for Lydia Kettles.”
1 AM
In the drizzling rain, Nico strips off his leather jacket and shirt and hands them to me. The half dozen cars – three big, suped-up black Ford F-250s, the Aston Martin, the early eighties BMW, and others – surround the dungeon and provide insight as to who was present. “Put these on.”
I dress as my toes sluice in the mud. The ground is saturated from weeks of rain. Considering my options, I ask, “Did Sal send you?”
“Get on.” Firing up the ATV, he teases, “I’ve got a present for you.”
I eye the shirtless man and decide to concede. We ride across the pasture to the tree-line and creep the slow descent towards the house where I was kept for six months. Sal thought Jack was safe. And I’m not sure he isn’t, but if he is selling secrets off to anyone, I know we cannot fully trust him.
The dirt splatters against my legs as we approach the darkened house. We pull into the driveway, and I note the one light illuminating deep within the house.
“I’ll be around tomorrow, but until then,” he says, pushing the remote control on the garage. “You have him to watch you.”
I spot the wheels of an Indian motorcycle painted up Americana-style with mirrored chrome finishes. I know who that belongs to.
With excitement blooming in my chest, I flurry, “Where is he?”
“Inside,” Nico politely informs with a grin as I hug his neck. “No one knows he’s here. Keep it quiet. I’ll be back tomorrow to pick you up for the auction.”
“Thank you,” I mutter, kissing his cheek and handing his jacket back to him. I run inside the garage and yell, “Thank you so much!”
“You’re welcome.”
I close the garage and stare at the piece of fine machinery. I move closer and let my trembling hand drift over the rugged grips and the leather seat. I don’t need a verbal answer to my question. The bike says it all.
Deacon Cruz.
“You know, you could graze your fingers over me like that,” Deacon mutters from the doorway. His long blonde hair slicked back as the gift of his smile upturns on his lips. He’s fresh out of the shower, his chest dripping onto his ripped jeans.
“Deacon!” I scream and run to his arms. He kisses my head as happy tears rush over my cheeks. With a gentle lift, he picks me up, and I straddle my legs around him like a monkey. “Tell me Sal sent you.”
The house is dark as we arrive in the kitchen and he sets me on the counter. “What do you think?”
“I think Sal Raniero is a brilliant bastard!”
He lights two smokes and hands me one. I wave it off, and he tosses it into the sink. “Sal called me from Taos this morning. He asked if I could come and check on you. Good thing I did because Louise called Sal in a panic at midnight.”
“… What?”
“Louise called and said the scene was getting too rough,” he informs, propping against the gas range. “Sal talked me out of murdering them all in cold blood. We decided no one needed to know I was here, so I sent Nicky to fetch you.” His startlingly blue eyes scan over me, assessing the damage. “You look like shit. What do you need?”
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth like cotton as I realize these men will kill to protect me. “Can I have some water?”
“Absolutely,” he says, walking to the fridge and opening the bottle for me. I take a sip. It’s cold, refreshing, and damn good. “You know what we need to do, but it can wait until you’re ready.”
I’m very well aware.
Sal wants the nitty-gritty.
As the feeling in my skin starts to reawaken, I realize how cold I am. My nipples hurt from the clamps, and the chill makes them even worse. I peel off the shirt and place it in Deacon’s hand.
“Jesus Christ,” he mumbles, staring at my bruises. His expression is the only mirror I need. Disappearing into the nearby laundry room, he returns with a towel and marvels, “You look like someone beat you.”
I shrug it off. “Part of the job.”
“It’s not a job anymore,” Deacon points out, knowing my loyalty belongs to Sal. “This has gotten personal.”
I’m not sure how to respond. He’s right. Sal is personal. What once was easily distinguishable as pure work has deviated into two paths. One I know better than my fingerprints; the other is as enigmatic as the man my heart belongs to.
“We were an accident.”
“The best things always are,” he says with a slight smile as he bravely approaches me. His fingers loosen the clamps from my nipples, and he lays his warm palms over them. The heat feels good. “But you need to come to terms with those feelings in your heart.”
I giggle. “You make it sound so easy.”
“There was a time, a few years back, I racked up quite a tab for your ass. I understand what Sal sees, and I’m not standing in your way.”
“… Are any of the Sons standing in my way?”
“We need to be careful who we trust.” His eyebrows lift in the center like he knows something but is too afraid to say it. “I don’t want your blood on my hands because we fucked up.”
I gulp down a mouthful of water and screw the cap back on. “You act like you’re scared of Sal. Are you?”
“If I let you die,” he says, nodding at me. “He will blame me. And I can’t deal with that.”
“I won’t die,” I argue. With his hands lifted, he sighs and paces away, gripping the bridge of his nose.
“Cruz… I’m not some delicate little dandelion blowing away in the wind. I won’t die.”
“I just want a dandelion to blow me,” he snickers with a dirty gaze, shaking his head as I scan over his thin, defined build. “There are so many moving parts to this plan of Raniero’s that if any of us fuck up, someone will end up in the dirt.”
“Don’t doubt him.”
“Then you don’t doubt your heart,” he persists, pushing my soul to the brink. “Don’t doubt your heart or Sal or your love.”
I gaze down, running my teeth along my lip. The taste of blood reminds me of the night and the pure hatred I have for those out to destroy The Unholy. “No doubts. He will win. And I will be his for all eternity.”
2 AM
Swooping my battered body into his arms, Deacon serves the role of gentleman better than I remember. He’s tender and persuasive.
Men get better with age, remember?
I didn’t know Sal before twenty-four, but I can only imagine the kind of calamity he brought forth. He fared better than most would’ve if Kaci Hope had laid her agenda on them. Her map - with all the territories and garrisons - wrapped around Sal like a vinyl bondage bag with zero airflow. Kaci didn’t want the kink; she tried to asphyxiate him to death.
In the bathroom, Deacon puts me on my feet. He draws a bath with lavender scented bubbles and places two white towels on the counter before extending his hand to help me in the water. “Be careful. It might be too hot.”
“Oh!” The pleasurable moan slips out. “This is good. The water is good. I’ve been having sex for four hours. I smell like I’ve been through a bukkake marathon.”
He chuckles at my attempt at humor, but his eyes widen at my acknowledgment of the circumstances. “Do you need me to call a doctor?”
Lowering myself into the water, I say, “No, I’ll be fine. Just stay. Sit with me.”
I never considered Deacon Cruz would end up being my savior in the night. He went to jail for safekeeping me once, and that should calm my fears of our grand plan. He’s okay. He’s sitting here. He’s real. He’s fine.
I need to believe Sal will survive in prison—in a cage.
But it’s not the same, and that triggers my fears. Deacon is a fighter by nature, and I don’t know if Sal’s street punk bravado is enough to keep him whole. I don’t know our plan isn’t doomed from the get-go.
We may all be fucking idiots.
And Sal will never be the same.
Holding my fingers in his, Deacon asks, “What’s wrong?”
“Tomorrow, I’m leaving him for three years,” I whisper, blinking through my tears. “Tomorrow, I lose.”
“I know,” he says, concerned. “I’m not happy about any of it. Sal doesn’t belong in prison, and you shouldn’t be risking your neck running. It’s all fucked up.”
“Would you prefer it if I went to prison?” I sass smirking. “And somebody else handled the secrets and lies?”
“No,” he says, turning off the faucet. “I mean, I don’t know. I feel very left out of the loop. I understand he doesn’t want to show off our asset, but running for years is hard. Try not to get emotionally involved with anyone. And don’t stay too long in any one place.”
“You do realize I’ve spent years working on my skills?” I remark, somewhat put off. “I may not be Jaid, but I’m not chopped liver, either. If you think any other bitch could pull off some of the shit I’ve done, I’ll beg to differ. I’ve revitalized a dying partnership with my intel. I’m like a matchmaker, pinpointing hot cells to the owner.”
“I’m not suggesting that you don’t know what you’re doing; I’m saying I would feel more confident if the future of our entire outfit wasn’t traipsing the globe. And Sal is hot, closer to melting down than any of us would like.”
“You’re worried about my triggers and his state of mind.”
“I am,” he grumbles as his nostrils flare. “If you end up in the wrong place at the wrong time, you could end up in the wrong hands. I don’t know if I agree with Sal on sending you to rocket through this.”
“It’s footwork, Deacon.”
“This expedition he’s sending you on hinders our ability for growth.”
“It’s already hindered,” I argue in the mountain of bubbles. “Sal is stuck.”
“Using the girl, he loves more than anything wasn’t the right solution. He’s putting you in danger, and I wholeheartedly disagree with the choices he’s made—past and present. He sent you to the bachelor party to fish Jack out. It’s social suicide.”
I hate my ability being doubted because of my lack of stick and nuts. And in reality, that is what Deacon’s issue is.
It’s sexist.
Without equality, he feeds the competitive piranhas and promotes scarcity—long live the boys club. For all the issues I have with Jaid and Amber, the one thing I can be sure of is we’re better off together than alone, and I’ll defend my girls to the bitter end.
If I played the game like his gentlemen, we’d have a bunch of bodies and no tangible proof in our hands. We need building blocks – substantial pieces – for Sal to go after his father. He may have the funds, but he doesn’t have the force.
If I have to put on a uniform and play Hostess with the Mostest Iris, displaying the possible outcomes of a Cesario outfit versus what The Unholy has to offer, I will. Call me a headhunter. I’ll get the answers and leave the trail of bodies when necessary.
Realizing we must agree to disagree, I segue the discussion. “Why are they booking him?”
“He’s the known son of a mob boss; they can trump up any number of false charges.”
“And is Cinco providing protection?”
“Along with the Brethren. They’re being implemented in the next month for his incarceration in July,” he confides, popping his jaw. “Your Pretty Boy will have plenty of cover.”
“I’ve called in a favor as well,” I whisper as his fingers cinch around mine. He sits rigid, barely breathing, and not blinking. “Don’t worry about it. Everything will be fine.”
“Who?”
“I’ve got resources of my own.”
He gives a side-eyed glance of speculation. “Tell me you didn’t call in Lotus.”
“… Would it matter if I did?”
“Yeah,” he fumes irrationally. “It would matter because the partnership with Lotus was to take place after you get back. We can’t pull the numbers. We risk their franchises eating us alive. If we’re going to owe them, Sal isn’t going to be happy with that.”
We have a different goal in mind. Mine involves securing Sal’s position at the top so that he can play with the big boys. Deacon’s plan is nothing less than oppressive. I’d rather have a few stressful years instead of twenty with only marginal growth. No one has the time to run a business like that anymore. Strap the rocket boosters on, and we’ll welcome the uncomfortable.
Who would’ve thought Deacon Cruz kept such an antiquated view of barefoot, pregnant, and dinner on the table by 5:30?
Perhaps it only regards our ranks, but with his deteriorated perspective, I cannot impress him with the knowledge of Jack’s unscrupulous activity.
So, I keep it to myself a little bit longer. Surely, my pink posse will appreciate the piece of the puzzle because if he’s working for Lydia Kettles, Jack might as well be wearing a Team Campanelli varsity letter jacket.
“I need the details,” he says.
Gazing at the swirling water, I hear the ticking clock in my head. I’m running out of time. Soon, we’ll fall with limbs and hearts flying wildly into an unknown abyss. We’re charting into unfamiliar, dangerous territory.
I’m escaping.
And Sal is going to prison.
The Master’s Ride
3 AM
Within the fenced property, the moon shines over the rolling plains of green contrasting against the colors of the rocks set within the earth. Upon a hill, an old Victorian farmhouse boasts with confident gingerbread fretwork. The hou
se makes a statement of caring owners and kind climate.
Past the woods in the valley below, a modern ranch style home sits vacant, peacefully napping or quietly decaying. These grounds are sacred. The house stays a mausoleum of memories, mishaps, and manipulations. A stream cuts through the two structures – two houses – both owned by one man. One house holds the past; one house promises the future.
One man split in two.
This man is sacred.
In the pasture of the Victorian house, the grand dungeon looms with a high-pitched old tin roof and a weathervane emblazoned with a Cardinal-S. Within the wooden tongue and groove boards, antique stained-glass pieces decorate the building like a cathedral. The rumor was Sal acquired them from two nearby churches, one burned in a devastating fire and the other succumbed to a flood.
I had to wonder if he started the fire or brought on the rain just to have the glass for his sanctuary.
His house of worship.
Her determined words - “his for all eternity” - pillage through my veins. Iris Kettles doesn’t have the core essence of Sal, and she doesn’t know him as his brothers do.
“We got a problem,” I say on the phone as I stand in the driveway and scout over the terrain for any encroachers. “I’m sorry to call you in Taos.”
“Are you aware of what time it is, Cruz?” Sal grumbles on the other end. “Jesus, hell.”
“Very much so,” I apologetically state, noting Dale Archer, leaving in his big truck from the dungeon. “Fuck!”
“… What?” Sal snaps.
“They’re leaving.”
“You cannot stop them,” he says as I hear the flick of his Zippo. “Who all showed up?”
“There were nine. Jack knows about Mierne being Chance and Julia’s. He has to. According to Iris, the whole theme of Terry’s bachelor party was about showing Mierne what she had to look forward to…”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he mumbles, exhaling. “She must be scared to death. Jack only wants to marry her to get his hands on Juliet, and we both know it. He’s got to know he has no claim to L’Académie or Les Pétales, so he’s boldly going after Juliet. Dom is going to have to tell her the truth sooner than we planned.”
Famous Last Words (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 2) Page 4
