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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

“I can’t help it,” she sniffles, releasing the pain. “Being without you hurts so much every fucking day; I cannot breathe. And I’m not sure I want to live in a world where Sal Raniero doesn’t exist.”

  “Baby girl—don’t.” A pause shields the inevitable end of our call. “Don’t think about the bad.”

  Suddenly, she interrupts, “Yes.”

  37

  Insanity Trap

  “If you want me to marry Amber, you’re fucking crazy,” Deacon angrily mumbles as I walk into the interrogation room a week later. I’ve intentionally worn a long sleeve shirt, hoping he doesn’t notice the ink. His pretty face is scratched up bad. “There is no way.”

  “I just need you to keep an eye on her,” I request with an intense stare. “Do not fuck this up this close to the goal. Do not drop the ball on me, Cruz. What the hell happened to you?”

  He sighs irritated. “I’m not dropping the fucking ball. I will keep seeing her and playing along, but I swear…” He leans over the table and mutters, “If she so much as attempts to hurt any of my tribe, I will slit her fucking throat and let you Italians clean up the goddamned mess.”

  “… What happened?” I dare to ask, sensing there is more to his rage than the obvious.

  “What happened?” he repeats like I’m insane for even asking. “What happened is she shot fucking Diaz.”

  “What?”

  “She shot Javier Diaz,” he repeats, lighting a smoke and pushing the pack to me. “Dead.”

  Oh, shit.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” I lower my head in a sulk. “How fucking bad is this going to get?”

  “We’ve kept quiet as long as we can, but word is going to get out soon. When it does, Cinco will know their number one buyer is six feet under. And Amber’s father is dead. Stanis fucking killed him.”

  “So, Delirium and Rampage are wide open for the taking?”

  “Bingo! Well, not exactly… Rampage has already been taken over by Allegiance.” I duck my head as I want to crawl under the table and hide like a small child. I’ll play with army men and trucks and plastic guns where there is no bloodshed, coffins, or last rites. With the cigarette between his lips, he pulls off all of his rings. “We have zero fucking coverage.”

  “Resurrect Reckless Rebellion with the Tennessee Twelve and grow it…”

  “That shit takes time, brother.” His nostrils flare with agitation. There are no easy, simplistic answers. “We aren’t building a club overnight to withstand the likes of Cinco or Allegiance.”

  He’s right. No matter what we do, we won’t have the numbers even to keep Texas locked down. “Fuck it. Protect Sugargrove. Let the rest go.”

  “Sugargrove is not the Vatican.”

  Flicking the lighter, I glance up behind the flame. “Make it the fucking Vatican.”

  He stretches out in the chair, contemplating my decision. “And what if we lose it?”

  I pound my fist into the table and knock over two bottles of water. “Then we fucking take it back. Because this shit just got personal. Anna built that school, and if you think I’m standing by and letting them take it, then you don’t fucking know me.”

  Standing up, he yells, “The problem is I do know you. You will burn down everything around you to save one.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you get focused on one thing, and you fail to look around.”

  I’m about to hit him.

  “If you are referring to Iris…”

  “I’m not talking about Iris!” He bursts out, kicking the chair out of his way. “I mean sometimes you gotta open your damn eyes and look around. Kaci put blinders on you. Call in Gennaro. Call in Campanelli. Call fucking Cristos if you got to. But do not put the entire future of Sugargrove on my back because if I fail you and Cinco or Allegiance comes in to take it over, you are going to hate me.”

  “I could never hate you,” I whisper.

  “You would if Cinco managed to get in a position of taking Juliet.” He tugs his cut off and throws it on the table. “Forget Reckless Rebellion and tell me where I stand, so if I cannot be the Saint, I’m supposed to become. I want to know I have a place in your world if I fail.” He lunges across the table and gets in my face. “I need to know I’m worth more than the Cruz bloodline.”

  “You’re asking me if I would still want you by my side if you were just Deacon,” I point out, eyeing the cut. “Your father built that club. You won’t walk.”

  “You are walking away from the fishery,” he calmly argues. “What is the difference? One is an MC club. One is the mafia. It’s all the same in the end, though, so who are we without these things?”

  He’s asking a question I’m not sure I know how to answer. I’ve been running from becoming my father’s son for so long, and I don’t know how to stop. “What if I don’t know?”

  “Then we have a big fucking problem.”

  “There are so many other factors at work, Deacon.”

  “You don’t think I know that?” His head slightly tilts as he’s pleading his case. “Who the hell do you think is picking up all the pieces from your sabbatical? You got to come to prison on a fucking vacation, but out there—someone is still making The Unholy move forward. I’m not blaming you for what we did. I’m saying I didn’t expect to have to be me and you at the same time would be so much damned work.”

  “Where are the crates?”

  “They’re being taken care of,” he states, stepping away and stroking his beard. “I sold the majority of them to Lotus and some to the Brethren, but every day it’s another issue. And now I’ve got Amber going rogue and killing Diaz. I don’t have time for this fucking bullshit.”

  “I’ll call Jaid.”

  “I don’t want Jaid,” he whines. “I want you back out on the field. I don’t want to have to deal with the whole Chicago issue of a Gennaro and Campanelli war breaking out with you being behind bars.”

  “I’ll tell Vega I need an extraction.”

  “I would greatly appreciate that,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “I brought Halton Hendrix to see his father, so at least your debt is paid.”

  “Thank you.” I light another smoke off the butt. “It means a lot to me.”

  He plops in the seat. His loose pants sag on his hips. “When you pick me up, wear some clothes that fit.”

  “Are you asking me that as a favor or my Master?”

  I puff a line of perfect O-rings. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your Master,” I reply, lifting a brow. “And don’t forget it.”

  He pulls down the front of his white t-shirt and shows me the chain I put on his neck so many moons ago. “This means something.”

  “That means everything.”

  We take a breath as the stress proves exhausting. “Amber hates Ma.” I furrow my brow. “And Ma’s been talking a lot to me, Sal.”

  “If it comes down to Amber or your Ma, there isn’t a choice,” I reiterate, understanding where he is coming from. “Just give me a little more time.” His sad eyes stare at me. “…Please.”

  With his lips pursed tight, he nods and places his hand on the table. “I hate that I cannot talk to you all the time.”

  “I’m not safe right now.”

  His smile curls up on one side. “And you think I am?”

  “I don’t think any of us is right now.” I run my hand through my hair. “I need the Tennessee Twelve tight. I don’t care what you have to do, but everything needs to look like we’re building an army.”

  “I understand what you need,” he replies, blinking at me. “You want me to do the work of a Saint.”

  “Because you are a Saint, Cruz.”

  With his elbows on the sides of the chairs, he lifts his forearms. “I feel more like a busboy on most days.”

  “Keep slopping,” I reassure with a wink. “We will get there. Did Halton say anything?”

  “He asked if I will put him back
where he came from…”

  “Which is where?”

  “The devil’s cunt…”

  I laugh. “That bad?”

  “Just because I can navigate the swamp doesn’t mean I enjoy it. It’s hot and humid and full of things that bite.” Popping a piece of gum in his mouth, he says, “He’s going to make contact with Pharm.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because you pulled him from hell…and the devil always needs a dance partner.”

  “Who is yours, Saint?”

  “You—you fuckin slut.”

  In my cell that night, I go over the map in my mind, the possible outcomes, and the rules of three. It’s a traffic jam on the 405 with mix masters, perpendicular aerial pathways, and parallel freeways running at different paces that make no sense. Falling like snow, the letters scatter everywhere.

  No matter what I do, people are going to die.

  There is no way around death in war.

  If I could get Saint Cruz—the younger one I adore—off the board, I would. But the fact is he is right. I need his eyes and ears on the ground. I cannot risk losing him, especially when Dom is playing the—I am a Gennaro and this outfit is mine—card in front of the former Angelo Gennaro associates and Marcello Campanelli’s men. Campanelli is about as loyal as a zombie, and he only goes where the live meat is.

  All-out war could break out between the two. If Dom asks for support, we must decide. If we don’t help him, are we abandoning an Unholy member? If we do, are we just helping his rise to power so he can leave us high and dry?

  I don’t know.

  And I wish like fuck I did.

  Nico is stable, stationed with Serene, and poised to strike on my command. Jas is in Nebraska at an old house we set up with plenty of power and security. He’s doing his best to find connections on Chance and Diablo as well as any other research we may need. Jaid is moving her cases to international trade. Iris is tucked safely away with Mock guarding her every move.

  And Amber is shooting people like it’s her new favorite trick.

  I’m going to have to talk to that girl.

  Allegiance has taken over Rampage in Arkansas. The Russians aren’t just coming; they’re fucking here. Their network of associations is vast but well concealed. They’ll plant landmines in our path to watch us scurry like rodents with severed limbs. Stanis isn’t particularly smart though, and if he is leading their infiltration, that is a weakness worth remembering.

  Brethren keeps to themselves in PacWest. We’ll keep building the relationship because I think long-term The Preacher, Zachariah Evans, and his son, Ezekiel, could prove beneficial in securing some of the Lotus deals on the West coast.

  Delarte Cristos is expanding at a phenomenal rate. Thankfully, our relationship is still amicable. The Unholy cannot afford to take the hit of losing his association because if everything went south, Cristos will give my ass coverage, at least temporarily. It won’t come cheap, and his terms for repayment will be steep, but I have his right-hand man, Jonathan Finkle, secured under my thumb and that is priceless.

  House Boudreaux is run by Gage Boudreaux. He’s an up and comer, a future regional-sized Cristos. He scares me more than anyone because he is poised to take out Reckless Rebellion and cause Je Suis a lot of grief.

  Boudreaux could easily consume any of the smaller pop-ups, but with Allegiance in Arkansas, they may get into an old-fashioned turf war—not necessarily a bad idea—particularly if we aren’t involved in any way. I could pit one against the other and knock the numbers off both.

  Juarez “Muerte” Herrera oversees immortal. Unfortunately, I don’t know nearly enough about their operation to understand what their long-term plans are. If they’re planning on going against the Kings, it will be a massacre. I’m only onto them because of Jas’ research into Cinco international connections, and Immortal repeatedly surfaces.

  La Morte’s intentions are erroneous. If Iris is telling me the truth and Anna is behind them, her goals must be relatively simplistic, and that isn’t an insult, but an ideology. Anna cares about one thing—Juliet—it’s pivotal because everyone seems to believe she will be handing it to me. The mere idea puts the school itself at considerable risk.

  I am Cesario Raniero’s son.

  Of course, the belief being that I will drop down before Daddy, submit to his wishes, and therefore give the Raniero’s a presence in both Boston and Texas. It’s a pointless consideration (at least for me) because I would never do that, but this game is all about perceptions and poker faces.

  Deacon believes he cannot resurrect Reckless Rebellion, but what he fails to see is how people love him. His father was a great negotiator, a social butterfly, and never showed fear. The young Saint Cruz has these same skills, and he just hasn’t tried to use them yet.

  Lotus is the wild card. Their franchises are popping up like chicken pox at a daycare with no clear cut, identifiable goals aside from accelerating their growth by a mass infestation. More is the name of their game, but could they pull it together in the end or are there too many cooks in the kitchen with Iris’ grandfather, Keishi Nakamura, taking a rather lackadaisical backseat position?

  Fuck if I know.

  I hate to include Sibyl, but I feel as though I must. They are a loose cannon where hit for hire is the name of the game. He who bids the most wins. The scary part is my association with them. Few know, but if anyone discovers the depth of my involvement, I could be in their crosshairs in no time. It was bad enough having a bidding war going on for my protection; I don’t want one for my head.

  And my Unholy band of misfits which logically never should have come together, but we did. We wanted to build a stronger tree to withstand the impending storms the likes of Immortal and Cinco. There are others, but these are the major players on my radar and the ones which pose a significant threat. Our fathers may not survive alone; this much we know.

  We must do better.

  This much we believe we can change.

  38

  In My Genes

  I’ve avoided the chapel because I feared truth into my prison stint. My religion is practiced, but my spirituality encompasses far greater bounds than that of the rosary. Why I’m standing at the door this late in the day at the end of August remains a mystery.

  “What are we doing?” Naby whispers like we’re in a library. “We should go in.”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m a sinner for a Saint,” I mutter, knowing the meaning will be lost on him. I wound up thinking about identity a lot behind these walls. From Mike and Milton to Naby and Mock, everyone discovers themselves at a pace unique to them. I suppose I’m no different, but when did it start or is this thing with Deacon unique?

  An imperfection in the machine…a flaw in the mainframe of me…a seduction by suggestion…or is it so much finer in meaning? Did I – the only Raniero son – want to conquer a Saint?

  Possibly.

  To rule out the competitive aspect entirely might be a great mistake because heaven knows, I do like a good challenge, and Deacon Cruz is my absolute rival in many ways.

  I cannot deny on occasion playing the manwhore to attain what I think we need, such as with Cristos or Fink, but would I have ever gone there had it not been for Dom and Deacon?

  Dom was more coerced, perhaps by the persuasion of Kaci, as I respectfully viewed him as a Master. Declining his advances would have been an insult to not only him but to the sacred bond of D/s.

  I fucking chose Deacon.

  I didn’t have to do it, but I did because he got under my skin. His mayhem caught the attention of my mischief. His biker lured in my mafia. His need to serve brought out my Master.

  Point blank.

  I would not be who I am today without Deacon Vincent Cruz kneeling before me and surrendering his trust to my will. It was a beautiful gift and one I will forever cherish, but how do we survive amidst the chaos?

  “What are we doing?�
� Deacon asked in the king-sized bed as the three of us laid there in total darkness. We were all naked and nervous as can be. “Someone say something.”

  “You’re talking a lot for the guy who never talks, Cruz,” I chided, laughing.

  He poked his head up. “And this is weird. We should be watching a movie or something.”

  “The silence is good,” I informed, smacking him in the bicep. “If you would hush.”

  “Maybe you should make me,” Deacon challenged as I sat up.

  Laying between us, Iris kicked the sheet off and commanded, “Stop it, and one of you fuck me.”

  I close my eyes as the twitch in my cock forces my turning away from the chapel doors. Naby grabs my shoulder. “Where are you going?”

  Fearing the worst, I excuse, “I can’t do this.”

  “Yes, you can,” he says, refusing to drop his hand away from me. “It’s so much worse in your mind than it is. If you quit analyzing and bring your mind to a place of acceptance, it will be so much healthier for you. Not just in terms of your sexuality, but in the business world.”

  I furrow my brow into a tight line. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re the Raniero legacy,” he politely points out. “You cannot escape or erase it. All you can do is play the best hand you can. Much like, however, you feel in terms of your sexuality.”

  What the fuck?

  How the hell does this kid know more about me than I do?

  Feeling moderately offended, I shrug off his hand, take a deep breath, and step closer to the doors. I stare at the handles like they will electrocute me if I touch them.

  My relationship with God has been conflicted since Kaci. I blamed and questioned and found guilty as my figurative best friend unless I had a scene with my literal best friend.

  Somehow Deacon alleviated doubt, and I got lost in love. I remembered who I was with Deacon and all the lessons Kaci ever gave me suddenly came into play. They were good soldiers standing up to do battle with the demons of her cancer. I couldn’t win the battle; neither could she. But those same soldiers came marching in when it came to doing battle with the emotional demons.