“How many other people know about all of this?”
“You and me.”
“I’m not leaving you. I won’t do it. We’ve been together for years, Sal. No one knows you or your back like I do.” He laid his hands together as if in prayer. “What are we doing?”
“There is only one thing we can do—we’re fucking hiding her ass until I figure out how in the hell to keep her wings flying through the fire.”
III
mia famiglia
29
Starvation
Heartache repeats on a spin cycle, tossing and turning, fraying the threads until nothing but a desecrated fabric remains. Much like one hurt quickly turns into two, reproducing into ten. If left alone, the virulent will attack—a hostile takeover sieging all organs until the blistering, systemic infection requires intravenous antibiotics.
Or in my case, solitary confinement.
My point here is—things fucking break.
We use and abuse everything – clothes, people, and the very flesh in which we reside. Stop smoking. Drink your water. Stop drinking. Take your pills. Stop consuming burgers like they’re a life source, and consummation is for starting the whole blasted thing over again.
Fuck them.
I’d kill for a carton, a bottle, and a burger. I hate the candy, but an anti-psychotic might be nice with this angle of the floor. I’d kill to get my rocks off. Any old bitch will do.
But—she must have teeth.
It’s kind of a hard limit for me.
And yes, I did just double entendre.
I’ve been staring at the drain for hours, praying I don’t submerge into the very depths of hell. I’ve been staring at the sweep under the door, thinking the right asshole could remove that and use it to garrote someone.
I see my fingers trapped within the sticky dew and I imagine them moving. I feel them deep inside of Iris. And then, I get an erection for which I can do absolutely fucking nothing about.
I think a lot about Juliet. If I walked out on stage right now and said I needed a fuck, how many women would volunteer?
Let’s see…
My hair is a tangled mess. My scruff is rough. I have two broken hands, so she’s going to have to be willing to work for it. Not that I won’t offer hip assistance, but I have no jewelry in the junk. I’m kind of like a pound puppy.
Who the fuck would want me?
I’m infinitely crazier than I was before the cage, and sometimes, I do bite. I’ve not had my shots. And I’m an insensitive prick. She best open her pretty mouth, spread her lush thighs, and bend over ‘cause this rabid bastard needs attention.
Who would take me home?
Oh, and I like kink—hot kink, none of this lala tie me to the bedpost and blindfold me with your silk ties.
Bitch, please.
Strip her bare. Toss her in the yard. And she better run faster than me.
Motherfuckering Sal be insane.
When I catch her, which I will, I’ll loop my belt around her wrists and savagely drag her back to my kingdom, where I will ravage her body with my lascivious desires. I’ll rip my casts off, grab a branch, and whip her ass until she cries my name and begs me to end the pain.
The pleasure arrives at the perfect time, winding tight within, as the seconds pass by so slowly. A simple kiss, a brush of fingers, and a thrust—excruciatingly, deliberately languid—don’t rush it. Savor every graze of skin. She soaks around me – drenching – pooling around my cock.
So wet. So wanting.
… with a gaze of come hither, baby.
I trust you; she opens her mouth for me.
I give you the responsibility; she spreads her thighs for me.
Take me and make me yours; she offers her submissive soul with the tilt of her hips.
Trust. Give. Take.
Trust. Give. Take.
Trust. Give. Take.
My arm flops above my head as I’m a quarter-turned on my belly. My eyes close. My mouth opens. I’m grinding, edging against the floor, and dying for release. I hear the light in her voice. I see her angelic face. I smell the perfume on her breasts. I taste the sweetness of her clit. I touch her hands with mine.
I touch. I touch. I touch.
Fingers. Palms. Hands.
Touching. Touching. Touching.
Gasping, I’m so close to letting go. She’s riding my dick beneath me. Her body arches, begging for more. Her lust hits my primal need. We want this love together. We fight this love together. We need this love together.
I’m humping. Bucking. Demanding.
Faster. Harder. More.
It’s all over as we escalate and traverse the high after the pure cut of love. It’s so good as I kiss her lips, bite with a warning, and pin her arms with a threat—the promise of us.
We are we.
“Don’t stop, Salvatore,” she moaned, latching around me. “Don’t stop. I love you.”
There is no singular she or me in this we. We are built to withstand a hurricane. We are built to withstand separation. We are built to withstand one another.
The first spurts dribble from the head and soak into the olive uniform as fireworks load into the rocket. We’re bouncing through the heavens and reflecting in the stars.
“I can’t keep going like I have been,” I mumble, slipping down the drain and falling prey to the insane. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I never meant to harm you. Come back, butterfly. Come back. Come.”
Rolling against the floor, I grunt. Drool cascades out of my mouth in fine spiderweb-like threads. I’m weaving love, hoping for absolution, and praying for salvation.
I’m not a good guy.
I gaze to the sky with tears in my eyes; my mystical flitting and flaunting pappus dances in the toxic clouds as the fire fills the air with noxious gray smoke. I cannot believe in my dream. I cannot trust the nocturne.
I cannot love when I hate.
The revelation arrives reckless and wild, swooping in and covering every piece of me in a sublime sheath—I cannot love when I hate—I cannot love anything when I hate everything. I cannot love anyone when I hate everyone. I cannot love her when I hate me.
… Where did she go?
Drift on me. Land on me. Fall on me.
Stay with me. Please, stay.
We struggle; her sharp teeth gnaw at my flesh as I capture her in my hands.
I feel her on my fingers. I breathe her in my lungs. I seize her on my cock.
I will not accept a life without her in it.
And on the cement, sloped floor, I come. “Iris…”
“What the hell are you doing?” Ronnie asks, waking me up. I must have dozed off after I came. “Why are you on the floor, Raniero?”
With a push from my leg, I toss myself onto my back and mumble, “Help me…”
Her mournful eyes slide over me. I’m wrecked, wilting, and a disgusting mess. “What,” she pauses with a distressed expression. She knows this isn’t right, and what they are doing to me is inhumane. “Why are your fucking clothes soaked?”
“I need out of here.”
She kneels and stares at the puddle on the floor. Running her finger through the goo, she sniffs them, grimacing. “Was this intentional?”
I lift a brow.
“Okay, well you’re covered in piss and cum,” she states, nonchalant. “You got any more surprises or bodily fluids I need to know about?”
I give a muffled laugh. “No, Ma’am.”
“Are you sure?”
I nod. “Can I have some water?”
“Wait…you’ve been down here for forty-eight hours…have you not ate or drank anything?”
“I tried to drink out of the toilet a few hours ago, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”
She lifts and tries the sink faucet. Nothing comes out. No water. “What the hell?”
“Who was on duty?”
“Jamichael Tucker was down here, but Cameron brought me without
orders from the Warden,” I inform, sitting up. Everything hurts.
She lifts a finger and opens her mouth. “If the Warden doesn’t issue the order to solitary, it does not happen in this prison.”
“Tell that to Cody Cameron.”
She sighs, pissed off, before trucking it with a determined march out my door. She leaves it open. “Tucker!” she chastises as I hear Handcock rattling around next door. “Tucker!”
“Sorry, Rousseau.”
“Where are Sal Raniero’s food trays and water cup? And why isn’t his sink working?”
Tucker peers in at me. “Oh, fuck…”
“Fix it.”
“What?”
“Everything!” she scolds. “Get on your fucking hands and knees and repair the damn sink if you have to, but this man is not dying on our watch. You want to kill someone,” she threatens, pointing at Handcock’s cell. “Try that one!”
“Ronnie,” he says, lowering his voice to barely a whisper. “Cameron ordered no food or water.”
“Cameron can talk to Jolly in about ten minutes when I turn his ass in. Stop getting bullied because you are afraid of disciplinary action again.”
He looks to the floor and gives an agreeing nod that runs through his entire body. “I’ll do better.”
“Damn straight,” she says, glancing to me. “I’ll be back, Sal.” Poking Tucker in the chest, she demands, “Get him some water. And when he finishes it, get him some more. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Deputy.”
She cocks her head back. “That is Deputy Sheriff to you.”
My eyes open wide as I try not to laugh watching Ronnie get her Dominant on. I can imagine the short, round Deputy Sheriff in leather gear punishing the mammoth Jamichael on his knees.
What a sight that would be…
They leave my view, but in less than a minute, he returns with a cup and a pitcher of water. “I’m so sorry.”
He holds the cup for me as I gulp down the water. It’s so good. He fills it again, and I repeat the process. By the fourth cup, I take a sip and mutter, “What did you do?”
“Excuse me?”
“What did you do to get disciplinary action?”
“There was a riot in the yard, and I used excessive force on an inmate. I was off work for six weeks without pay.”
“Who was the inmate?”
He rolls his eyes. “Who do you think?”
“The fucking idiot next door,” I answer as he smirks. I take another sip. “What was happening during this riot?”
“I don’t…”
“I’m a government contractor conducting an investigation,” I mention, keeping his focus. “Tell me.”
His fleeting skeptical reaction says a lot about his little amount of faith in the broken system.
“Martinez has been allowing the chomos to pay to…molest, assault, rape…the psych campers.”
I finish the fourth cup of water and burp. “Pardon,” I excuse, non-reactive to the prison situation. “Shouldn’t they be moved to a different facility?”
“They should be, but lots of things should be if you get my drift.”
“It’s not right,” I say as Ronnie returns with a tray. She spots Jamichael crouched low near me and smiles. “We’re bonding over penitentiary issues.”
“There are a lot of them,” she huffs, setting my tray full of double the amount of bad food on the floor. “I’ve spoken to the Warden. The orders didn’t come from Cameron.”
Jamichael stares up at her like she’s a goddess as I smell the nutraloaf and turn my nose up. “I need some real fucking food. Protein shakes. Bars. A whole fucking roasted turkey.”
They both laugh. “I’ll bring you some things tomorrow.”
“You told him?” Ronnie asks me.
“Ya,” I say, taking the spoonful of the mushy mixed fruit he feeds me. “He knows.”
Her maternal scowl runs over him as he says, “I swear I won’t say a word.”
With her hands on her hips, she warns, “You better not or your testicles gonna be dangling from your ears!” I burst out laughing as fruit drips down my chin. “Now, look what you did, Jamichael! Making a mess…” She stops and stares at the stain on my pants before giggling. “Out of our prisoner!” Her head shakes. “You got issues, Raniero.”
“Ya, I do,” I say, slurping another bite. The fruit isn’t as bad as the vegetables. “Who issued the orders to keep me in solitary?”
Her eyes dart from wall to wall as she avoids looking at me. “I really can’t…”
“Ya, you can.”
“If I lose my job…”
“If you lose your job,” I contend, taking another bite. “I have you and your three kids to take care of.”
Jamichael jets back. “You’re taking care of three kids and working the hours you do?”
“I have to,” she whispers, trying not to cry. “I don’t have a choice.”
“We need to work on the word choice with you two,” I point out. “Who issued the order, Ronnie?”
“It was probably nothing.”
“Tell me,” I interject.
“Jolly opened your file, and I noticed a name written in marker on the inside of the folder. I thought it was weird. There was a phone number, a name, and it said—all orders pass through.”
“What was the name?”
Her solemn stare fills my heart with fear as her words paralyze me in an instant. “D. Gennaro.”
“I need a phone.”
The water flows over me.
I want to drown in her flood. Breathe her in and forget we ever came up with the utterly absurd idea to split apart. This takes the (cup)cake for stupidest Sal decision ever.
Despite Ronnie really wanting to do it, Jamichael washes me. I don’t know if such a large man has ever handled me. Forget the color of his skin. That plays no relevance in my world. His hands are damn massive, and he is remarkably gentle. I imagine he’d be an awesome father.
Somethings I’ll never have.
Fuck.
I detour away from the evil thoughts and finish rinsing off. Jamichael dries me thoroughly and wraps a towel around my waist. “Are you okay?”
“In what sense?”
“In the sense that I let you starve and soil yourself for forty-eight hours because I’m terrified of losing my job.”
He assists me in stepping out of the slippery shower stall. It’s old square tiles, but cleaner than the general pop stalls by a long way. Probably because guys in solitary rarely bathe. I gag at the thought. “I get wanting to keep your job, but is there a reason?”
“My mother has some health-related issues,” he softly mutters. “Dementia. The beginning of Alzheimer’s. She needs continuous care, and I refuse to put her anywhere because she worked three…four…jobs to keep her five kids fed and clothed.”
“You let me stay naked in the cell, and I’ll drop twenty-five grand in your bank account by the end of the week.”
He is speechless.
This is why I let The Unholy sell crates of guns to very bad men. And we get away with it because I made a promise to Kary Vega.
“Is there a reason I shouldn’t arrest you now and throw away the key?” he asked as we sat outside on the deck at the cabin in Taos. “You’ve done so much shit, Raniero.”
“Let me finish what I came to do,” I urged, smoking. “You give Iris and me both immunity, and I will give you all the files from Sibyl.”
Sipping his coffee, he smirked. “How can I trust you?”
“I’ve got enough scars on my body to prove many things,” I said, eluding to the years of abuse by my father.
“You’re telling an FBI agent you are going to kill your father.”
“I am,” I cockily replied. “You can take me to jail, or you can let me do it, but we both know your sister died because of what he did.”
His younger sister was an agent until she went to work in Boston. Her investigation led to a string of murders by my father and her
eventual suicide. She should never have been on his case alone. His darkness was too consuming for most to live through.
“My sister never had a chance.”
“… Do you think I do?”
“You’re probably the only one who does,” he said, bumming a smoke from my pack. He didn’t smoke, but the stress permeated through our dialogue and forced his hand. I flicked my lighter. “If I lose you, I’ll kill him myself.”
“Not necessary,” I growled low from deep in my gut. “I do not lose.”
Without a sound, we walk back to my cell. There are a few inmates, but none more relevant than Timothy Handcock, mostly because Kit asked me to eliminate him. I mull over our conversation, playing it on repeat. She must know who I am. She must know what I do.
Why else would a Warden ask me to kill someone?
30
Emergent Moth
The Discipliner
“I want to thank you for coming, Mr. Gennaro,” the lovely Warden Jolly politely says as we take the elevator to the basement. Solitary is where he is—because that is where I put him—and if he’s as smart as I think he is, he already knows that. “I’ve done everything you asked.”
In my fine-tailored suit and Italian leather loafers, I look every bit of my namesake. I am a mafioso. Crossing my arms, I stroke the light scuff on my chin. I don’t bother to tell Jolly of Sal’s very irate message on my phone. He can be a bit impulsive when poked, but it is the passion he exhibits, leading to my belief—there is no other choice.
Our hands are tied.
His father is building an army to eliminate his only son and his associates. I plan on doing it first. He knows I’m coming because I always do.
I’m his savior. His redeemer. His Daddy.
“Save me, Daddy. Save me.” The words I long for him to say and know he never will. Our merger has reached a bitter end. I acknowledged years ago that we couldn’t stay as we were forever, which is why I gave my favorite boy a shiny Saint toy.
“Solitary is empty?”
Famous Last Words (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 2) Page 24
