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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

I understand a few things. One—Mock is at least good at research, which is saying a lot. Two—Fuck. Three—I actually like the guy. Four—Fuck. “So, what is the deal with you and Naby?”

  “Easy lay while I was here.”

  “… You’re gay?”

  “I don’t label, but I’d like you to keep an eye on him,” he replies, rinsing the piece and bandaging me up. “One done. You mind if I smoke?” I lift my hands and look frustrated. “You want one?” I smirk.

  Anything he possibly could’ve done wrong was simply forgotten in that instant. Yes, over a willingness to hold a fucking cigarette (…or four for me).

  After our first two, he says, “I thought Naby was a cute little thing. I hit on him my first week.”

  “How long were you in?”

  “I came in the last week of May,” he answers, giving me a drag.

  Staring at him, I exhale. “You were waiting for me?”

  “Yeah, I knew who you were, and I wanted the opportunity to work with you on Violet.”

  “Did you know why I was coming in?”

  He puts the butt to my lip. I squint, avoiding the smoke. “Originally, I thought you were coming in to get away from your father.”

  “I did,” I answer, knowing my shit is all kinds of fucked-up. “But there were two reasons.”

  “What did you do to piss Daddy off?”

  I give a snarl and snap my teeth on my lip as I gloat. “I bought part of a business out from under him.”

  His excitement blooms on his cheeks. “Naughty, Naughty…”

  “Ya, I never said I was a good guy,” I insist as he offers the final drag on the smoke. “Do you know Gennaro?”

  “Just met him today.”

  “Where is your loyalty?”

  He strokes his clean-shaven chin. “My loyalty is with my investors.”

  Not a bad answer. “How much do you need?”

  “It’s not money I need; it’s the investment of heart, soul, and passion. I need guys who aren’t just out for the money. We’re competing against the big guys—the Sibyls, Archer Agencies, and countless others—I want to do it better.”

  “You save me a spot?”

  “Look,” he says, propping his elbows on his knees. “When you need a job or some help, consider me. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “How stable are you internationally?”

  “I have safehouses if that is what you’re asking.”

  I sit up and decide to make all of this worth his while. “I’ve got a girl I’m about to send on a worldwide journey for three years. You wanna tail her ass?”

  “… Three years?”

  “Yep,” I say, tugging on the casts. “I’ll pay you quarterly in cash. You keep Jas informed as to what is going on. I have another guy—the same one looking for Violet’s son—named Deacon keeping tabs on her travel.”

  “You smuggling?”

  “Sorta.” I give a mischievous grin. “But she can’t get hurt, and you need to be as gentle with her as you have been with me. Nothing to trigger her.”

  “Stop,” he scolds at my pulling. “What if we just cut the three pieces of web out?”

  Before I can respond, this son-of-a-bitch has a razor blade and saws through the heavy rubbery plastic. He glances up at me. “You have bomb experience?”

  “I have many talents. Why do you ask?”

  Ignoring my massive cognitive erection, I take a breath. “Because you are very precise.”

  I hate how much I could learn from this guy.

  “Is your stashed girl about to explode?”

  “She kind of is…”

  The next two days bring more of the same as my body takes shape into a mural. He sleeps on the bed, and I’ve been staying in his comfy folding tattoo chair.

  MORE THAN inks across my knuckles.

  IRIS AMARIE stretches across my shoulder blades between my crow and wolf.

  CRUZ and RANIERO are on the sides of my forearms; CRISTOS and GENNARO are on the back of my forearms.

  In addition to all the tribal pieces, I have a dragon on my right pec in similar size to the phoenix Delilah did so many years ago, and we added a generous amount of additional tribal to my arms to integrate with the names. The dragon and phoenix hold a rosary on my chest over my heart to remind me of Nonna.

  Mock expanded the serpent and sword piece on my left calf. I decided to cover the Roman numerals for Kaci and Bertie’s deaths with more roses and skulls.

  It’s time to move on.

  Time to make choices for me.

  Three days of pain is cathartic.

  We’re doing daggers and barb wire on my right calf, and on my back, we are designing a geisha fallen angel that will be an entire back piece soon. He’ll do some tribal on my sides and blend the whole thing. I’m drawing as best I can, and he’s making suggestions.

  Warden Jolly, or should I say, Mistress Kit, has been bringing loads of food down. We had the best wedge salad and New York Strips last night. I’ve had my vegetarian pizza. And a couple of beers.

  “Do you know why she wants Handcock gone so bad?” I ask as he’s going nuts on the details of the barbed wire on my calf. We’ve got NiN on, and life is good for the most part. “I mean, it’s weird.”

  “Because if Handcock ever manages to get out,” he says, pausing and looking at me. “He will be hell to find with his Allegiance association.”

  “So, she wants me to assassinate this poor schmuck on the off chance of escaping? I’m not buying it… Would you do it?”

  He’s rubbing ointment on my leg. I won’t say how many tubes we’ve gone through. “I could do it, but I don’t know if I would. What you need to find out is who Allegiance is working with.”

  “When I came in here—no one.”

  “Maybe she knows more than she’s told you,” he says, bandaging my leg. “… Anything else?”

  “Nah,” I reply as he lights up a couple of smokes. “You realize they shut down solitary for me?”

  “I do,” he says, tossing his foot upon his knee. “You got some power, mafia son. And you need not forget that.”

  “Is there anything else I can do for you before you board the private plane for Vancouver?”

  He smiles and laughs. “I’d like a blow job.”

  “I’m not sucking your dick,” I chuckle, thinking. “You want male or female?”

  “Who is the female?”

  “Hot, young thing…she’s fucking gorgeous…her name is Charlotte.”

  “… You mean, Mistress Kit’s niece?”

  “Sure,” I snarl, raising my hands and trying to talk with them. “Why not?”

  “You’re fucking dirty, Sal.” I’m high on the ink and loving my girl as I stand up. “Stop. Lay down on your back. We’re not done.” Sliding towards my midsection, he tucks his fingers under the waistband of my shorts. I lift an eyebrow, cautioning him. “Calm the fuck down. Trust me. You’re just vain enough to love this.”

  “Fuck you!” I laugh as he is struggling to shave above my dick. “Fuck it,” I reply, dropping my pants. “You damn bathed me!”

  “Well, that makes everything about a hundred times easier. Hold it down. I don’t need you poking me in the arm with that thing.”

  I’m grinning like an idiot, shaking my head. “Can you do it?”

  “What?”

  “Keep her breathing.”

  Adding matching tribal swirls above my unpierced beast, he lifts the needle and says, “I’ll take care of her like she is my own.”

  “Don’t fuck her.”

  Now, he is smirking and tossing his head. “I tend to gravitate towards the different regarding sex. Males, trans, drag queens.” I’m quietly surprised. “I told you I don’t do labels, but you asked.”

  “Why not Cas?”

  “If Cas has an unusual kink, I might consider it, but I thought she was an addict.”

  “Itty bitty titties.” Motioning handfuls of boobs with my casts, I flick my brows. “Cas has acceptance issues th
at need correcting.”

  “Give it up,” he snips, inking my nether region. “What do you mean acceptance issues?”

  I lean up slightly and whisper, “Cas will let you do whatever you want.”

  His eyes scan up to mine. “There’s got to be more.”

  “Oh, there is, but only a few people know.” He tilts his head. “Gender fluid float your boat?”

  “You’ve got my attention.”

  32

  Uprising of a Motherfucker

  In my solitary cell, I lay on the bed and stare at the ceiling. I’ve been here at least a week. Handcock is in the cell beside me, which offers me a lot of relief that he isn’t upstairs torturing the guys. Dom included a mattress protector and a sheet for the bed, and the Warden allowed me to keep both. I cannot escape my mind.

  History. Charts. Connect the dots.

  For years, I’ve studied the research she has given me only to watch the words fly off the page and scatter around my feet. I need to make sense of it all. I want to be whole.

  The pool at The Dollhouse was warmed by the sun on the late spring day. Deacon was doing laps, and I was working on my laptop with my feet dangling in the shallow end of the water. We’d been quietly involved for about a year. As it happened on this particular weekend, a certain Cassidy Hope happened to be in attendance, and that probably would have been okay if we had realized it.

  By involved with Deacon, I mean—we weren’t truly in any kind of relationship nor did we put any limits on it. If he had a girl or I did, it wasn’t a big deal. If we were alone, we might be watching football, or I might have his body upon the rack down in the dungeon.

  We stayed comfortably free.

  I had become what Dom was to me—a Master of the Dominant sport.

  And Deacon Cruz was my favorite plaything.

  Despite our introduction with a fistfight, Deacon was one of the kindest human beings I’d ever met. He was quiet and observant, taking everything in. He was an excellent listener for my overactive talker—unless of course I was down and went silent and still. Suffice it to say, he’d never let me stay that way very long without stirring my spirit.

  We balanced without regret.

  His light to my dark…and if anyone thought otherwise, they hadn’t been paying attention. Deacon exuded a brightness to almost everything he touched while I kept a reserved seat with misery. I – myself – wasn’t miserable, but my mind damn sure was. At least, I never thought of myself as an unhappy person.

  I suspected Dom and Nico knew the depth of the thing going on between Deacon and me, but we collectively never spoke about it. After gifting Deacon to me—essentially, because that was what occurred—Dom did everything in his power to facilitate our bromance, but there wasn’t some round table discussion about my whipping his ass and getting blown afterward.

  We bonded with purpose.

  Deacon got out of the pool, naked and shimmering, as I was burning through a pack of smokes and emptying a bottle of whiskey. I was drowning in the predicament Kaci had put me in and trying to decide what my best moves were. Deacon brought welcome salvation to my savaged lands, and by that, I meant, he didn’t want anything. Not a damn thing. He didn’t need a commitment, a promise, or cuddles.

  Cruz just wanted to exist peacefully.

  And that held a great appeal because I knew what I wanted was waiting in a multitude of files scattered all over my Houston loft. It looked like a damn stalker lived there. I had pictures, maps, and details taped up like wallpaper. Deacon knew and didn’t fucking care. That worked for me.

  I had plenty of pussy every time I walked in Juliet, but the problem with that was unless she was a paying client—shit came with stipulations. And let’s not forget—my wife had just died.

  Right.

  Wrong.

  Indifferent.

  Manipulative little cunt.

  Whatever.

  Kaci was six feet underground at the White Rose Cemetery, and she was never coming back. The aftershocks of losing her reverberated through me for years.

  Deacon was simple. And simple was so good. I should’ve confessed the truth about Merritt. I knew. I knew I fucked up royally, but I got used to the simple, uncomplicated, and straightforward. It wasn’t an excuse, but it was what happened.

  Flopping into the lounge chair, he lit a smoke and glanced over at me. “You gonna work all night?”

  “I’m just doing some research on a sex ring over in the Pacific Northwest. Vega sent all these graphs, and most of it doesn’t make much sense to me. I’m pretty mind numb at the moment.” I shut the laptop, hopped up, and strolled over to the chair beside him.

  “You know you’ll figure it out.”

  “Or blow up my brain.”

  He grinned and tossed his head back as he stroked my arm. “I can think of something to blow and get up,” he flirted with a crooked smirk. I waved my hand on, welcoming him, but none of this was unusual. If he wanted to wrap his lips around my cock until I shot my load down the back of his throat, I was not saying no.

  Not to Deacon. Never to Deacon.

  Because he was—well, Deacon.

  Between my legs, he batted those blue eyes at my growing erection trapped beneath a pair of loose shorts. His hand slid up my leg, and his fingers skimmed over the length of my shaft.

  “Let me have that cock of yours.”

  I bucked my hips up, and he pulled the fabric from me. His tongue swished over the tip, and his teeth latched onto the piercing. He gently tugged as I moaned. My hand dropped to those golden locks as I encouraged him to suck me. His lips careened around my cock, working his mouth slowly. I thrust up and let him have all of me. His magnificent throat opened, and we rode our way into the horizon. His fingers spread wide, and I latched onto him. He liked being grounded by my hands.

  Always my hands.

  So, I’m the mafia prince sprawled out on the lounger getting a BJ from the biker boy when Cas stepped out the French door in baggy jeans and a ball cap.

  Whoops. Hello.

  I thought we were alone.

  “Cas,” I said, tapping Cruz on the shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

  Her eyes widened as her hand covered her mouth. A good thirty-seconds passed with our stare down until she finally broke and asked, “… What are you doing here?”

  “I’m getting off,” I asked, utterly confused by her presence. “Why are you dressed like a teenage boy?”

  “Dom prefers me this way,” she said, coming closer. “And so do I.”

  Now, I need to add something here. Cas is one of those girls that could rock heels and a dress but apparently can work the bad boy thug angle with the best of us. It is oddly arousing, mostly because I never anticipated such from Cas and—fuck, that is hot.

  A couple of years would pass before Cas handed the V-card to me, but I knew the sessions with Dom had taken the backdoor-pass. I knew because I knew Dom. If he was playing, serious moves were on the menu because of high protocol principle alone.

  Did I start banging Cas—the girl or the boy?

  I stayed in the delta, but more often than not, when Cas was with me, she wasn’t dolled up. She liked her big, baggy clothes and high-top sneakers. She was pretty in her chameleon ways and used them to her advantage at the right time and place.

  I can write a case study on the techniques Cas has used to manipulate her way to the top, and the worst part is—she is better than me. She assimilates faster, smoother, and without warning.

  Time and again, my loyalty to her is questioned and under the microscope, partly because of Kaci and partly because she is easy—to deal with, not easy as in easy.

  With her taking risks, Cas is shooting for the top. Between her odd engagement to Cristos and her running shit for Cinco, she is doing more than scratching the surface. She is gunning for gold. She is racing for a coveted position next to her adoptive father. She wants Cinco.

  I can’t ignore the facts anymore.

  When I was attacked a
nd shot at Juliet, Cas hired someone to eliminate me. The attempt was botched, but Amber’s gun was in the bike I gave to Cas at Kaci’s funeral. The assailants grabbed my gun and shot me with Amber’s. Mine was found later, at the base of the fallen angel monument in the cemetery, but I didn’t want to believe it.

  Cas knew things about me, really fucking personal stuff I liked to hide. And in my haste to cover my ass, I let it all slide. Hell, I helped hide it under the rug.

  But the truth needs to breathe.

  And I won’t deny who I am.

  “Come on, Raniero,” Cameron says, swinging open my door a week later. His eyes take in the sight of me. The ink covering a good portion of my body is now a sight to behold. My skin is art. The art of a man I’m putting my complete trust in—all for the woman I love—to get her back to me safely. He is me when I cannot be there; I have shit to take care of here in the states.

  Violent shit. Gruesome shit. Mafia shit.

  “Holy fuck…”

  With take-charge confidence, I hop up and mutter, “Who are you working for Cody?”

  “Lotus.”

  I shake my head. “You may be working for Lotus, but Warden Jolly is using you for her efforts. Who are you working for?”

  “If I tell you…”

  “If you don’t tell me, I put a hit on you the second I get out of here, and you’ll be dead in twenty-four hours, so I suggest you tell me who Mistress Kit is bringing to my fucking house. And if you don’t think Juliet is mine, you need to be studying harder.”

  “Over a damn kink school in the middle of fucking nowhere?”

  “Should I just level you out now?” I warn as he stares at my hands. “Don’t underestimate me, Cody. Don’t think those are the only tools in this box of tricks.”

  He’s scurrying, trying to determine which card to play, the one that keeps him breathing or the one where he tangos with Deacon and his shoot first, ask questions later attitude.

  “Boudreaux.” I shake my head as he whispers, “What?”

  “You work for me now, Sheriff.” His expression turns fearful. “Do you have a family? A Wife? Kids?”

  “No,” he mumbles with an apprehension. “Why?”