Famous Last Words (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 2)

by Kailee Reese Samuels

“We do monthly stash clear out, but we collect so much every day that we cannot do more than that.”

  Running my fingers over the knives, I say, “May I?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  I grab one of the guns, inspecting it carefully and checking the alignment. I pop the mag and find the box of bullets. “Put this in your desk.”

  “Okay, why?”

  “Because I’m offering to eliminate your problem, but if it’s as bad as you say—Allegiance has many more numbers than what you believe.”

  Her eyes shift back and forth as she considers what I’ve said. “You think?”

  “I know,” I say, swiping a lighter. “And this is mine.”

  “Don’t get caught,” she warns.

  “I never do,” I say with a mischievous grin. We’re locked in on one another, inches from something occurring that probably shouldn’t when she steps away and does as I suggest. “Why do you trust me?”

  Sitting on the edge of her chair, she locks the gun up in the right bottom drawer. “Because my sister trusts you, and I trust her. If she says you are a good man, I believe her. You aren’t a criminal, Sal,” she contends, rising and approaching me. “I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing here, but I also know I cannot stop it. Nor will I make any report or noise to have you removed.”

  Her uniform is tight with a straight fitting pencil skirt. She tosses her small tie and unbuttons her shirt halfway down to offer a peek at the red silk bra capturing her heavy breasts. My mouth waters. “I like my job, and I get a distinct feeling that you like yours, too.”

  I run my finger from her neck to the happy place of her cleavage. “You should be wearing a vest, beautiful.”

  “You think?”

  “I know,” I say.

  “Do you need a key for the drawer?”

  I grin. “Do I look like I need a key for anything?”

  “Probably not,” she whispers, running her hands over my biceps. “I’ll wear a vest tomorrow.”

  “Please do,” I mumble, moving closer to her lips and wrapping my arms around her. “Because I would hate for anything to happen to you just because I’m here causing shit.”

  “Cause some shit, Sal,” she urges, leaning back as my lips and teeth sink into her neck. Her eyes close as I pick her up and carry her to the edge of the desk. I set her down and hike her skirt up. Shit is flying by the time I pull her panties to the side and sink my cock inside of her wetness. “Oh, fuck!”

  “You ever screwed an inmate?”

  “No,” she moans, latching onto my shoulders. “You’re the first. And I’m sure you’ll be the last.”

  “Are you calling Vega?”

  “First thing tomorrow morning,” she answers, nipping at my bottom lip. “And I’ll have my vest on.”

  “You’re such a good girl, Kristina.”

  “Please call me Kit, Sir.”

  “I need information on Barnaby Shank,” I say, thrusting hard. “A full file with medical and psych.”

  Lifting off, we soar—the Warden and the felon—as I remember exactly who the fuck I once was. “You feel so fucking good on my dick, Kit.”

  “Don’t let them catch you.”

  “I’m not a twenty-year-old, naive boy anymore, Ma’am,” I rattle off, realizing how long I’ve been apologizing for the attack on my ass in a dank alleyway. I took the hit for my wife.

  One or the other.

  She or me.

  I could’ve done more, fought harder, done better, but my fucking crazy wife emotionally paralyzed me. Kit has no clue of my history, but I know prison rape statistics like the scars on my knuckles, and it won’t be me.

  “I’m a grown-ass man, and I won’t go down without a fight.”

  17

  Hazy Violet Cum Extraction

  Several uneventful days pass. We celebrate the fourth of July by being allowed to watch the fireworks in the distance until nine-thirty. Everyone behaves and has a nice time.

  Father Quinn visited again. Only this time I felt the need to confess some things I probably shouldn’t have. He warned if things didn’t go as I planned, the bloodshed would be on my hands.

  “Lucas Salvatore Raniero, you must accept that you will eventually run out of luck.”

  “No,” I shook my head as he walked to the door of the interrogation room. “My luck is on the unholy trinity. My ace in the hole, the penny in my shoe, and the sparks on my back are all owned by one reckless fucking rebel.”

  “And his fate is sealed in the hands of the past.”

  Running my hand through the raven curls, I snarled, “Fate. It’s an interesting choice of words from a man of the cloth. If I were you, I would pray.”

  “Is that what you do, Salvatore?”

  “… Quinn, I have been on my knees for years for that Saint.”

  The guilt of my sins weighs heavily on my shoulders, and he knows—because he knows me better than most. I keep the conflict hidden in my heart, like a continuous soul-wrenching ache that infuses my blood with a slow drip of torment.

  I love the pain.

  Handcock is sent for a week to solitary. And my entourage now includes Naby, Pico, and all of Tiny’s crew. Alignments form quickly behind bars as we aim for survival.

  The environment completely shifts without Handcock being present. I know other Allegiance members are here, but they don’t have the same over-the-top bravado as Handcock. This leads me to believe his position is held secure by fear tactics alone.

  For the first time since I’ve been in general, Ronnie is working cellblock D. The trouble is finding a time to talk to her without everyone else knowing what we’re up to. I’ve been assigned to work the laundry room with Naby, and I wholeheartedly believe that was Kit’s doing.

  I owe Ella Hemsworth some time down south.

  Yes, having a Warden for a sister proves worthy enough of a Raniero-tongue-lashing.

  We’re washing uniforms when Ronnie walks in on her patrol. “Sal…”

  I toss the towel I’m folding to Naby as I move to talk to Ronnie in the storage closet. “How are you doing?”

  I shrug. “I smell like my Old Poppa’s basement.”

  She laughs and hands me a paper. “Detailed notes on finding Violet. He’s in under another name, but he spends more time in solitary than any other prisoner we have, Sal. I don’t know if the Warden even knows how much he’s in there. I mean the better part of his incarceration is in solitary, but they move him out when Handcock is down there.”

  I furrow my brow. “So, he’s out now?”

  “Yeah,” she says, looking at me with big eyes. “He works in the kitchen with Tiny and Mock.”

  “Can you get me there?”

  “Only if you leave Barnaby behind.” I peer out to check on him. We do laundry with a mixed bunch of relatively quiet inmates. They all have their teams, but there aren’t any obvious troublemakers. I’m contemplating the situation as she pushes, “We’re going to have to go now, Sal.”

  “Okay, let’s do it,” I reluctantly say. I grab the box of bleach from the closet and set it on the counter by Naby. “I have to go for a few.” He gives an approving blink of those gray-blues. “I’ll be back soon.”

  God, I hate leaving him. Not that anything has happened to cause me concern, but I worry because…well, according to Mierne, I’m paranoid.

  Following Ronnie, I want to believe I’m tall. It boosts my confidence as I prepare to contact half of the reason I’m in here to begin with. I’ve been in for two weeks today, but it feels more like two months.

  “Who am I looking for?”

  “His name is Rupert Carroll,” she whispers as we walk the long hallway to the kitchen. The smell isn’t terrible, but it’s not pleasing, either. It reminds me of the four witches attempting to learn to make red sauce and burning the bottom of the pan.

  The massive kitchen festers with activity. They easily have quadruple the staff we do in cellblock D laundry. The kitchen serves all four buildings, whil
e laundry is maintained independently in each block.

  Ronnie stands near the door as Tiny spots us. “I’ll wait here.”

  “Hey,” I say, walking up to the robust man and offering a bro shake. “You know where Carroll is?”

  “He’s at the end of the line,” he informs, pointing the length of the kitchen. “Chopping vegetables for the salad.”

  The stainless-steel counters extend for a good fifty feet with inmates all working. There are no guards anywhere, but I don’t expect them either.

  In my continued merger of fucking Kit, she has told me the easier jobs—library, cleaning the workout room, kitchen, and laundry—all go to the well-behaved. The intensive manual jobs like yard work and some mechanical go to the skilled. The prisoners on edge always get “mop & bucket” or bathroom duty. She doesn’t divide the work by race, but by individual case file, which is why two psych camp kids are working in my laundry.

  And it is my laundry.

  Cause I launder so well. Grins.

  Spotting the older black man at the very end, I smile. His gray hair and round belly don’t dissuade my belief of his true identity. “Rupert Carroll?”

  “Yeah,” he says with a gruff voice. “Who are you?”

  Keeping my voice low, I introduce, “I believe we have the same tattoo.”

  He gives me an assessing gaze. “Afraid you got the wrong fella. I don’t have any tattoos.”

  I ease closer. “I think you have a talete near your left armpit, Violet.”

  “I ain’t talking ‘bout this with you.”

  “I’m here to help you,” I encourage. “Please.”

  He turns to face me. “I don’t need or want your help.”

  “I need yours.”

  “I don’t know what you’re referring to,” he says, focusing on his carrots. “I’m an old man with a bad memory.”

  “Bullshit,” I contend, swiping the knife from his trembling hand. “You were assigned to the Bindel case.”

  “Not by choice,” he insists, irritated. “Now give me back my knife and leave me alone.”

  “You have a family and grandchildren.”

  “I have a son on the run, too, if you’re keeping score.”

  I shake my head, frustrated. “Actually, I am. He belongs in here more than you do. Somewhere in your head, you know that.”

  “I murdered two innocent people,” he mumbles, jittery. “I deserve to be in here.”

  “The little girl lived.”

  He stops cutting, lifts his head, and says, “I’m surprised considering what we did to her.”

  “What did you do Violet?”

  “Son, this happened almost twenty years ago.”

  “And you’ve spent over a decade in this hole,” I point out, maintaining my resolve. “Tell me what happened that night in 1997 that would make you ruin your whole life.”

  “Not right now,” he replies, dumping the carrots into the large silver bowl. “Go on. Leave me alone. I have work to do.” He doesn’t falter—his training is still there—but he looks me square in the eye and rants, “And keep your theories to yourself before you get us both killed.”

  After lights out, I lay in my bed thinking about Violet and wondering how his life got so derailed. He executed the order with his team and never questioned their authority. I’m bothered by the lack of cognitive thought.

  I’m disturbed that it could have been me.

  And it easily could’ve been.

  Have to be careful who you trust and what you agree to do for them. I may be an agent of Sibyl, but Kary Vega has their activities on his radar. I can play both sides but fuck.

  The cellblock at night isn’t quiet.

  In the distance, I hear the squealing and moans like I’m privy to only the auditory at live sex theater. It’s pretty fucking gross. I worry about Naby, two doors down and who will take what is mine.

  No, I didn’t just say Naby is mine.

  Okay, I did, but not like that.

  He’s an innocent kid, and I’m protecting him. Henceforth, he is mine. The guy on one side of me snores, but the other one jacks off all night. I’m caught in the nocturnal symphony of loathing. I need some whiskey and weed and a good bitch on my dick to cleanse this.

  “The shit in the cell, it’s going to change you,” Vega said at the cabin high in the Colorado Rockies. We were sipping on Maker’s Mark as the blizzard came in. We had taken my brand new Raptor in the snow to go hunting. It was never about the actual kill, but the tactical maneuvers learned while stalking the prey. “You think it won’t, but it will. It’s going to age you, like this,” he said, lifting his glass. “You’re maturing whether you want to or not.”

  “Things get better with age.”

  “You need to be stronger than you’ve ever been or it’s going to shred you to pieces,” he replied, sipping on the amber liquid. “By the way, I did some research on the new applicant at Sibyl.”

  “You mean Stanis Kozlov?”

  “Yeah, I’d keep an eye on him. He’s got bratva written all over him.”

  I gave him a side-eyed glance. “Russian mafia? Getting into Sibyl?”

  “I’m just telling you what I found out,” he said with a shrug. “Do with it what you want.”

  My idea of doing something was to have my Mistress hire Stanis as a bodyguard in the spring. I knew he was bad, but I also knew Amber “Get Your Gun” Rosen—quick to draw and disappear.

  “What do you think of him?” I asked, gripping her hips as she sat atop my dick.

  “Stanis is what he is—a large, doofus of a guy,” she said, pulling her hair down. “This is some unusual dirty talk.”

  “Whatever works,” I said, not believing his portrayal of stupidity. “No alarms?”

  “None,” she replied, tossing off her bra. The sight of her breasts ceased the serious conversation. Her nipples tightened as I suckled one and then the other. “Sal,” she said, tapping on my shoulder. “Sal…stop. What if we’re wrong and he comes after me?”

  “Kill him,” I answered, bracing my hands on her back. “Kill anyone who tries to harm us.”

  I tried to close my eyes, but the moaning reached megaphone level. Just when I thought the block would settle down so I could finally get some sleep, another one jarred me awake with a constant wail of their self-gratification.

  I’m not erect, and I’m not going to be, but fuck if I’m not horny as a motherfucker. I know I’m banging the Warden, but it’s dry (not literally, it’s quite wet) mundane sex. Normal people sex. We toss in some Ma’am’s and Sir’s enough to get me excited, but emotionally it falls flatter than a crepe at Sunday brunch.

  “Do you think you’ll jerk off a lot?” Iris quizzed, sitting on the bathroom counter as I lathered up my face. “I mean, other prisoners do it, so why wouldn’t you?”

  With the towel wrapped around my waist, I gave her a sexy smile. “I’m not everyone else. If the spark isn’t there, I’d just soon be playing a video game.”

  “Yet you fully admit being able to fuck anyone…”

  “You’re applying a physiological act to a psychological need, you can’t do that,” I said, swiping the straight razor over my cheek. “Sex starts in your brain, but it doesn’t mean you can’t spread the honey pot for any old rod insertion.”

  “That was the dullest way you’ve ever described that.”

  “Thank you,” I cockily replied. “I’m not trying to turn you on. I’m trying to tell you—you can fuck anyone. Doesn’t mean your head is in it. Doesn’t mean you love them. Hell, you could want to fucking kill them.”

  “… Little black widow debauchery?”

  “If that is what you’re into,” I replied as she eased her hand over mine and took the blade from me. I peered down as I scooted over in front of her. “Better not cut me.”

  “Please, Nero…if I wanted to cut you, it would be fatal.”

  “Jesus Christ, don’t get me hard right now.”

  Biting her lip, she swept the razor
over my cheek. “You’re such a kinky bastard.”

  I backed up. “And that is exactly what I’m talking about. Yes, I can stick my dick in any old hole. But if the kink isn’t there…the power play…the mindfuckery…it’s just not worth it.”

  “Are you admitting you need a submissive, Mr. Raniero?”

  “I’m confessing I need an Iris on her knees.” I twisted the blade from her fingers, bit the handle between my teeth, and lathered her leg.

  “This isn’t fair.”

  Lifting a brow, I smirked and mumbled, “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes,” she lustfully whispered. “But you just soaked my thighs so I may slip off the counter.”

  “Fall on to me.”

  Her fingers gripped onto my shoulder as I coasted the blade over her delicate skin. “Will you catch me?”

  “Always, baby.”

  18

  18 Long Days on the Wrong Team

  July 9

  Day 18

  Waking up to the sound of my gate opening, I’m drenched in sweat. My belly is soaked in cum. I plop my head back and cover my face with my hands.

  “Hell no…”

  I wipe the mess off myself and make a mental note to wash my sheets. I grab a fresh uniform and head to the shower. I happen to walk past one of the young guys. On a towel, he’s on his knees in prayer. I pause long enough for him to look up.

  He tilts his head. “Good morning. Would you like to pray?”

  I’m reeking of cum and this guy, who is maybe my age, is asking me to pray. I don’t know why the fuck I agree to it.

  Entering his cell, I mutter, “You’re Muslim.”

  “I am.”

  “I’m Catholic,” I arrogantly announce. “And an asshole.”

  “Good. We have something in common,” he retorts, smiling. “My name is Kevyn Abo.”

  “Sal Raniero.”

  “I know who you are,” he implies, lifting his brow and resuming his prayer. “… Do you?”

  Do I what? Know who I am?

  I don’t have a fucking clue.

  Kneeling, I lower my head and ask for my day to shift from its inauspicious beginnings. I hear his light chant, not understanding a word of it, but there is something about the absolute conviction of his spirituality, which elevates my mood. I should be praying, silencing the demons, and asking for forgiveness of my sins, but all I can do is run profiles–grids of interconnected weaves–and wonder who in the hell is this spiritual guru?