Folding his hands in his lap, he regretfully sighs, “One of the few things I do not know.”
“I don’t care what lies you have to tell Boudreaux, but get his focus off of Deacon’s club.”
“I could distract them with the appropriate amount of friction, pressure points, and expensive call girls.” His eyes spark with delight, not typically seen in a man of the cloth. “I will take care of it for you and yours, Salvatore.”
“I’ll pay whatever I have got to pay,” I hastily say, not caring about the cost of keeping Deacon safe. “Do not let them go south of Baton Rouge.”
Stroking his chin, he cackles, “If you give me an unlimited budget, I can cause much strife for you, my boy.”
“Keep the killing to a minimum,” I reiterate, “Distraction not death.”
“And if it goes beyond that?”
I grip the bridge of my nose. “You mean what happens if one or both of the leaders end up dead?”
“I do.”
“Not my monkey,” I mutter, shrugging. “If these two upstarts want to kill each other, let them. Keep your collar clean, Father.”
“How did you find out I killed Victor?”
I smirk. “Honestly, I guessed. You’ll be the first to reprimand Deacon, but the first to praise him, too. It wasn’t hard for me to imagine you taking the lead in this regard.”
“It wasn’t easy, Salvatore. But sometimes a choice must be made between what you love and what is just. These form the basis of our character, and regardless of how tarnished mine is, I still believe I did the right thing in eliminating Victor. He was turning into something he was never meant to be. If I can prevent that from happening to you and Deacon, I will. I’ve watched the two of you grow up, and it is has been my greatest joy, but don’t mistake these actions of mine. You’re going to be forced to decide at some point. Choose wisely. Choose long-term.”
He doesn’t need to teach me about the big picture. I already visualize it. I allow the images of what I want to spin fluidly on repeat, but it doesn’t assure the goal. There are no guarantees, promises, or absolutes. I could walk out of the penitentiary tomorrow, get shot, and bleed out on the sidewalk for no other reason than I am Cesario Raniero’s son and I have lived with that burden my entire life.
Flipping the pack of smokes open, I pull another cigarette and light it. The cloud of nicotine trails up as I suck my cheeks in and exhale, “Who killed her?”
“One of Campanelli’s men,” he informs, grabbing a tissue and holding it in his fingers. He reaches for the smokes, and I scoot them closer. I feel sorry for him and the secrets he keeps. I cannot imagine. I flick the lighter and notice his trembling, wrinkled hands. There is an undefined closeness between Quinn and I that has existed for years. I’ve permitted his taking my body, lashing his graceful whip to my backside, and welcoming his warm cum on my flesh. No one is innocent; no one is free. We are all enslaved and chained to the past. “I believe Dom’s cousin, Lorenzo Gennaro.”
The sirens in my mind blare with intensity as the red lights whirl and blind me. The doubt creeps in, and I mutter, “… Did Dom know?”
“I assume he recognized his cousin tying him up, Sal.”
Maybe I didn’t need to hear the truth at such close range.
Dom knew Diamond was pregnant with my baby.
And he allowed Enzo to kill her anyway.
40
Refusal to See Anyone
After hugging Father Quinn goodbye, I head outside. I need a long run. I need to sweat. I need pain—lots of fucking pain.
“Why do you look so pissed?” Ronnie says, nudging up on me. I give her the I-cannot-be-fucked-with-right-now glare. “What’s wrong?”
“I want to run.”
With her fists planted firmly on her hips, she quizzes, “Like as in escape?”
“No like as in distance.”
She nods. “So… Why aren’t you? You’re not in the hole; you can go run the yard.”
“The big one?”
Her eyes open wide. “Yep. Go. Run. If anyone says a word, boo, tell them Rousseau told you to go do it.”
“You’re too good to me.”
She smiles as I head through the small yard with the equipment. The weird chomos wolf call because that is what they do, and I try not to pay attention to the one psych shoving his fingers in his mouth. Most of them stare aimlessly. I make my way through the open gate and take off on the path surrounding the inner perimeter. Multiple rounds of tall, barbed wire and electric fences pose no threat to me. I’m not breaking out of jail.
I’m running from the shitshow my life is becoming.
In the center of the area, which is about the size of two football fields, the prison garden grows. Those on yard duty are working hard in the summer sun. It is August in Texas; it’s fucking hot as a MILF in a sports car. I strip off my shirt because I don’t care anymore. I tuck it into the back of my pants and trod along the beaten path. A few of the guys glance up, but for the most part, I’m left alone and lost in my thoughts.
Diamond Downs was pregnant with my baby.
My baby.
Mine.
Something I created was stolen away.
I realize it couldn’t have come at a worse time. I was twenty-one, and Kaci had just passed away. I wasn’t ready to be a father, a role model, or a Dad for that matter, but sometimes the best things are the worst timed. I should’ve had a shot at redeeming myself. I would’ve at least tried.
My feet pound the dirt as I acknowledge there is not a damn thing I can do about it now. Enzo brutally maimed Diamond. I remember seeing her bloodied body. I remember holding Cruz.
He doesn’t know about Merritt Amos Hope-Cruz, and that is all on me.
It fucking hurts.
Not only am I dealing with my lineage chasing me like hungry ghosts, but I must also clean the mess I made in my youth. When did I grow up? When did being an adult get so damned complicated? Why does it all hurt my heart?
I run faster.
If I can exhaust my body, my heart can withstand the heartache. Sweat pours from me. My hair drips. I miss the weight of my jewelry—my cross, my bracelets, and that jewelry I keep in my dick. I’m accustomed to the movement of them, and it’s missing. I feel vacant, full of despair, and depleted.
I imagine how Diamond must have felt as the knife plunged into her belly. She had to know her life was over. My mind jars as I imagine this happening to Iris and I collapse to my knees. I’m quietly sobbing as the loose dirt and sand cling to my skin. I’m filthy.
And so is my soul.
Diamond exhaled, “Tell me, Sal.”
“I am a paid submissive,” I confessed, gripping my hands together. “That was my first scene in this role.”
“… As a Dominant?”
Blinking up, I muttered, “Ya…”
The flicker of a smile spread across her lips as she touched my hand. “Want to go for another round?”
Grinning like the devil, I boasted, “Fuckin’eh… Yes, absolutely!”
I was a male escort, serving the ladies of Juliet on the side when Kaci parachuted into my world and concealed my life under the fabric. We were hidden in her bubble until it popped on her death, and the masses came for me. I was reborn with everyone wanting something and having ulterior motives.
Everyone but Deacon.
He was my saving grace, handling my meltdowns, and serving up large doses of whiskey, weed, and charm. We were the most unlikely of pairings, and yet, we connected. I cannot imagine what happens when I tell him the truth of his son.
I cannot imagine my life without Deacon Cruz.
“Hey,” one of Tiny’s men says. “You ok?”
His hand waves in my face offering to help me up. “I’m Moses. You a fighter?”
With the sun blinding overhead, I squint up to him. He might as well be Jesus at this point because I’m down for the count. I need a savior, and a guardian angel sent me Moses.
“Nah,” I mumble, taking hi
s hand. “Salvatore.”
“I know who you are, Boss.”
Pulling the sweat-covered towel from his neck, he hands it to me. It sounds disgusting—using another man’s stench covered rag—but the generous act profoundly affects me. Reaching out, I embrace the strange yard wanderer.
“Why did you come to find me?”
“Because you stumbled and fell to the ground,” he says with a stern expression. “It’s damn hot out here. And the Sal Raniero I’ve been studying for months doesn’t go down without a fight.”
I would be remiss if I failed to mention how I’m grieving over what would have been my mulatto baby and being saved now by a very black man. His skin is the color of coffee beans. Diamond was a few shades lighter. Our baby would’ve had crazy curly hair and vivid green eyes…and oh my God, what if it would’ve been a girl…
I try and go down again, but this time, Moses catches me. “You gotta stop that.” He takes the water bottle from his pocket, unscrews the lid, and pours it into my mouth. “You’re killing yourself out here.”
“I just found out something bad…”
“And letting yourself cook in the heat is a better alternative?” He chuckles, giving me another sip of his water. “You’re going to think this is off, but I get it.”
“What are you in for Moses?”
“Robbery,” he says as I scan over his muscular physique. He’s built and about the same size as me. “I need a fighter.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to beat the shit out of someone.” And if he didn’t have my attention yet, he damn sure does now. “One of the C.O. does pit fights. I was supposed to go a few rounds with Pico Neves, but he’s gone. I need to find a fucking replacement to compete against me, or he’s throwing my ass to the chomo right before I get out.”
“Which officer?”
“Martinez.”
I can’t say as though I’m surprised. We start walking the path as I ask, “Why me?”
“Because you’re the fucking badass that went up against Handcock.”
I glance down at my hands, covered in dirt and swollen. “I can’t fight like I used to.”
“Wear your damn gloves, man. I don’t care. I just need someone willing to go in that room with me.”
“… And no one will?”
“I’m mean, Boss.”
I snicker under my breath as I’m actually considering it. “When are you getting released?”
“In less than two months,” he informs as we turn the corner back towards the buildings. “But if I don’t find someone willing to fight with me, Martinez swears he’ll throw me in the hole and let them have me. Handcock won’t hesitate to join in on that fun, either.”
Shaking my head, I sigh. Handcock needs to die. Fuck the righteous and the Ten Commandments. Sometimes, shit doesn’t matter.
“If I agree…”
“I promise I won’t hurt your pretty face,” he teases with a grin and bumps into my arm. “We don’t have to kill each other, bro.”
I stop walking. There was a time I probably could’ve beat the shit out of Moses, but now—now, I’m not so sure. My hands are fucked. My body is not what it was.
“If I agree to this, you have to promise you won’t be easy. I don’t want some wimpy fight. When is it?”
“Two weeks.”
“Will you train with me?”
His astonished expression is priceless as he knows I’m considering it. “Hell yeah!” We’re close to the main block when the alarms sound. The yard crew runs towards the building, which seems like such an odd thing to do. “Fuck! We’re on lockdown!”
We run for the chaos at the doors and through the mess hall. I spot the SWAT team and the first responders—ambulance and firetrucks—in the distance. Once in cellblock D, I bump Moses in the arm and say, “I’ll see you in the gym.”
His broad smile cheers me up as I flop into my cell. The doors slam shut like dominoes. “We’re on full lockdown,” I hear one of the nearby C.O. say. “There is a breach in the security of the main office.”
I’m not sure what is going on, but I feel like I’m waiting to be picked off. If someone pointed a gun in the cell, I’m fucking stuck. There is nowhere to go. I’m trapped like a rat in a cage, and they can do with me whatever they see fit.
This is the first time I truly understand what I’ve done.
And in two weeks, after the fight with Moses, I will have Lily Miller-Armstrong sign my release, and Kary Vega will implement the extraction plan.
Rumor spreads fast about what went down in the office.
One of the crazy pedo guys went to the infirmary and pulled a syringe on Dr. Gigi Swank. She is fine, but he held her hostage for a good while. According to Tiny—Martinez saved the day and shot the inmate.
Because of the six-hour lockdown, our cages are opened until midnight. Almost everyone heads to the mess hall for dinner, but I need a fucking shower first. I have plenty of ramen noodles and beef jerky from the commissary in my cell.
I’m alone in the shower stalls, washing away the disgust of the day when Martinez walks in. He taps his baton on my ass as he blocks the exit.
Oh. Fuck. No.
“I hear you’re fighting Moses.”
I give him a side-eyed glare. If he touches my ass again—with anything—I will kill him with my bare hands. “I hear you saved Dr. Gigi.”
“I did,” he boasts, smiling. “Did you happen to have anything to do with Santino Neves being removed from the unit?”
With my best innocence, I reply, “I had nothing to do with it. I was in the chapel—praying.”
“On your knees, no doubt.” My jaw tightens, and my shoulders tense up. “I knew there was a reason you liked bunking with that fucking faggot, Naby. Too bad Pico didn’t kill his ass.”
As much as I want to punch his teeth into his throat, I don’t react. I’m trained to be calm in tense situations, but this…this is a lot to ask of anyone. I finish rinsing the soap from my body and turn off the water.
With a confident swagger, I step to the exit where he is blocking me in. His arms are stretched out on either side as I long to knee him in the groin and offer up a starry vision for the rest of his evening. But I don’t do it as we stare at each other. We are eye-to-eye.
Martinez is the crooked cop; I’m the mercenary mafia son.
These things don’t make sense, but suddenly, I understand—they don’t have to. They just are. And acceptance in my mind, as Father Q poignantly illustrated, is far more complicated than the challenges posed to the physical being.
I don’t bend. I don’t buckle. I don’t break.
I’m one tough motherfucker.
Leaning closer, he mutters in my ear, “If you fake that fight with Moses, I’ll spread your ass cheeks for Handcock myself. Do you understand me, boy?”
“Yes, Sir,” I respectfully seethe.
“We’re pitting a wop and a nigger against one another and make a fuck ton of money off of it.”
Thoughts of the baby I created with Diamond fill my mind. Little pink or blue blankets. Singing lullabies. First smiles. And all the laughter and love we would have shared. My temper blooms like a mushroom cloud of maddening wrath.
I’ve had enough.
Enough of the lies, the deceit, the betrayal, and most of all—my silence. This just became personal, and I’m a vindictive bastard. Knowing I will kill this son-of-a-bitch one day, I merely reply, “Si, Señor.”
Martinez drops his arm to let me pass. I grab my towel, squeeze past, and think some tequila and a cigar would be tasty right about now.
And as I add Martinez to the retribution box of will destroy later, I close my eyes and hear Dom’s words in my head.
“You do not fuck with that which belongs to me.”
No, Sir Dom, you fucking don’t.
41
Training with a Dirty Ride
The next morning before work, I skip breakfast and meet Moses in the gym. If we’re doing this, w
e’re doing it right. He’s lifting free weights when I stride in. “So that you know, I hate that motherfucker.”
Moses’ eyes pivot back and forth as he huffs, “…Who?”
“Fucking Martinez.”
With no time to waste, I get started on the bench, doing curls and lifts. A few sets later, I’m glistening with sweat as I pull off my shirt and come to terms with who I am—a goddamned free-spirit with a huge fucking heart.
That is who I am.
Moses moves to spot me on the bar as I do chest presses. I’m pissed. Correction, I’m rabid and ready to attack. “Mock did your ink.”
“Ya,” I say, ignoring how bad my hands hurt. I wish I had gloves. “He did.”
“He’s a good guy and so was Barnaby.”
I blink up to him. “So are you.”
“I’m trying,” he says, guarding my ass like a hawk. “I did some shit wrong.”
“We all do.” I grimace. The weight isn’t the problem, but my hands aren’t ready for this, which only throws fuel onto my already fired up mental state. “Enough.”
Quickly, he takes the bar from my hands and sets it down. “You’re not ready for this.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I will avoid them,” he insists, eyeing my hands and tossing me a towel. “But you have to time your moves. I can stop myself from going after your hands, but you have to not go mad and do something dumb.” I wipe my face off and drape the towel around my neck. “Are you a southpaw?”
“Ya, how did you know?”
He grins. “Because I am, too, and I recognize the dominant left-hand moves.”
“You have a wife, kids?”
“Both,” he says, doing some pull-ups. “I can’t wait to see them.”
“Why the hell were you doing a robbery?”
“Stupid shit mostly,” he stutters with strain from the bar. “I’m only twenty-six.”
“Jesus, you’re making me feel like an old slacker.” He drops down, and we both laugh. “What were you supposed to be doing?”
“If I tell you, you have to promise you won’t laugh. Remember, I said I did stupid shit.” I smirk, waiting to listen to his tale of woe. “I was in college and wanting to be a police officer.”
Famous Last Words (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 2) Page 33
