We’re fumbling like teenagers with tiny kisses and caresses and giggles that warm my heart. Sex loses the sport as I hastily edge near my release.
“I know this is probably going to bite me, but I want you to know something. And you don’t have to say it back to me.”
“What Em?”
“I love you, Salvatore.”
I want to say it—but I can’t.
“Em,” I mumble against her lip. “I’m not a good guy.”
But I got a damn good roll with my rod.
63
Drowning Lashes
“The Raniero Fisheries will be put up for sale January 1, 2016.”
Rocking in my desk chair, I stare at the email on Monday morning which goes on to mention the excellent work and integrity that Luca Raniero put into the business he built from his own hands—literally, he constructed the original outbuildings and offices. Near the end, the email reads:
“Unfortunately, it is time for Raniero Enterprises to move forward for the new generation.”
I spend the better part of the day absentmindedly thinking about everything. I want to call Iris, but my phone keeps lighting up with Emily. She’s called twice, and I’ve ignored her both times.
I’m an asshole.
“We’re going to get dinner. You want to come?” Cat asks, spotting my dismal attitude. “Oh, no…” She shuts my door and moves around the desk. Her eyes glance to my screen. “He’s selling it to the highest bidder. Make sure that’s you.”
Chewing my gum, I ask, “Is there more to the fishery?”
“What do you mean?”
“… Hidden assets?” I whisper sternly. “Anything that Old Poppa could have purchased.”
She looks stumped. “You know I’ve never seen the full list of what all it includes. It’s possible there is more to it than just the docks, boats, trucks, and offices. Where would I find out?”
“You won’t find it,” I contend, picking up the phone and calling someone who would. “Hi, Anna…”
“Salvatore!” she booms as I lift a finger for Cat not to leave. “How are you?”
“I’m good,” I say, strumming my fingers on the desk. “I wanted to know if you knew what all Luca bought under the fishery,” I ask, bluntly. “Are there other businesses?”
“It didn’t take him very long,” she says, acknowledging the sale being posted. “If you want the answers, you need to look inwards, Salvatore.”
My eyes shutter closed as I hiss, “That’s a riddle, Anna.”
“I’m very well aware of what it is,” she sasses with a giggle. “Are you going to ask about Iris?”
“There is nothing to say.”
She lightly remarks, “You can be so cold when you cut yourself off.”
Feeling the tension escalating in my shoulders, I sigh. “Fine, how is Iris?”
“She’s surviving.”
With a firm tug to my hair, I snicker, “She’s fucking Deacon…”
“What did you think she was going to do, Sal?” she angrily defends. “You may not like the ugly truth, but you built this ship, figure out how the fuck to sail it.”
Anna hangs up on me.
“Anything?” Cat asks.
“Yes, no, maybe,” I rage, pacing. “She’s not ever going to come out and say it. She’s protecting Luca…and me.”
Dialing Iris’ number, I get the same generic message, and it rubs me the wrong damn way.
“Fuck you! I’m tired of leaving goddamned messages. You want to talk to me; you know where the fuck I am. Relationships are a two-way street. You fuck up; I forgive you. I fuck up; you forgive me. I cannot do this with you anymore. I don’t know where we stand, and the silence is unbearable. This is my last attempt to contact you. I love you. Goodbye.”
“Wow…” Cat’s eyes widen as her mouth gapes open.
I’m steaming as I stare out the window. “How much for your services?”
Cat blinks. “What services?”
“If I want to hire you to manage my money?”
She stares at the ceiling, and I snap in front of her face. “What I’m making here with my stock is plenty, but I’d love more vacation, maybe access to a beach house somewhere.”
“… Six weeks? And a beach house?”
“Yeah,” she says, stunned. “That would be awesome. Why?”
“Because the stipulation of my contract was never that I had to work at Raniero Enterprises,” I explain, shutting my computer and grabbing my jacket. “And I’m turning in my resignation.”
Her attitude shifts to one of pure joy. “Sal… it’s good to see you,” she mutters with a slight smirk. “Where are you going?”
“To get some goddamned smokes, get these clothes off, take a fucking shower, and go for a goddamned ride.”
“And what are you going to do if Iris calls?”
Straightening my sleeves, I mutter, “Iris knew this would be tough, but she’s checked out, and that’s not on me. That’s on her. I’ve tried. And she’s not the woman I thought she was. My goodbye stands firm.”
On my way home, I call Georgia.
“Hello, my Italian darling!”
“Where are you?”
She pauses. “I am in Nebraska at the moment, helping Jas update all the systems. Do you need something?”
“Ya, a couple of things,” I say, pulling into the convenience store to buy a carton of smokes. “One, I need a complete background on Juliet, the Raniero Fisheries, and my sisters—all of them. Two, I need you to find out where in the fuck Hennessey Bindel is. Three, I want a list of property for sale in Nebraska. You know what I like. You got all that?”
“Writing it all down now, Sir.”
Her saying Sir makes my cock stir.
“Carton of Camels, please,” I say to the cashier. I swipe my card and say, “Thanks!”
“You got more?” Georgia asks.
I plop down in the seat of my car prepared to fight. I pack the box and light one. It’s been over a month. I almost moan. “How did you know?”
“Because Sir, you get a little crazy sometimes when you start barking orders at us,” she informs. “But it’s okay because I love your ass.”
“That much is clear. I need you to find out who all is planning on bidding on the fishery and how much I can sell the ten percent of Cristos Casinos for and send Emily flowers, something pink—nice, sweet, pretty. Thank her for the weekend. And keep those flowers going every week.”
“What about the ones to Kaci’s grave?”
“Cut them back to once per month,” I say, inhaling. “Holidays and birthdays, decorated accordingly. And get Bertie’s headstone up.”
“I have a question,” she asks, tapping her pencil. “The value of the Cristos investment, is it because you need money?”
“I might, but I’m going to talk to Dom first,” I honestly answer, driving towards the house. “My father is about to get his ass handed to him.”
“How?”
“I’m working on it,” I inform. “I need to know where Cas and Mitch are. And if I stop taking all these drugs at once, am I going to give myself a heart attack?”
Hearing her long nails click on the keyboard, she says, “I would recommend a taper, Sal.”
“I don’t have time for a taper,” I reply, pulling in the drive. “I’m tired of not being myself.”
She makes a snarling noise. “It will be bad. I would suggest being somewhere dark and alone for at least a week. He’s got you on some experimental shit. You may end up being crispier than a taco shell.”
“Great, okay… I’ll talk to you in a week.”
“Wait!” she yells panicking. “You’re doing this now…in Boston…unassisted?”
“I won’t be in Boston, babe,” I counter, lighting another smoke. “But yes, right fucking nowala.”
“Do you need me to call someone to be with you?”
There isn’t anyone left.
“Not necessary,” I assure, though privately, I’m not
as confident. “I got this.”
In the shower, I watch the hot water steam up the room as I come to terms with everyone being gone. My family scatters like an upside-down puzzle, and nothing is right. In fact, it is all very much wrong.
But what can I do?
Dom is splitting Gennaro and Campanelli in Chicago. Amber is the whore who lied to me about my daughter, and I refuse to speak with her. Nico is having a baby with Serene in Florida. Jaid is too much of a hot mess basking on a beach in Florida. Deacon refuses to talk to me, so it doesn’t matter where he is. And despite knowing how much trouble I have communicating, Iris has chosen silence.
I, alone, am The Unholy.
Me.
I’m tired of living in the light. It’s November 9, and it feels like Lent. Wearing thin, I’m tired of fasting from the madness I need to function. I’ve lived in light for forty days. That is enough for one lifetime.
I’m a killer. I’m a mafia son.
I am the darkness.
And I am one tough motherfucker.
My bags are packed into the truck, and I’m ready to leave as soon as I get the nerve. Wiping a hand towel across the condensation on the mirror, I stare at my reflection.
“Have you seen Sal Raniero?”
Dropping the white towel around my feet, I grab the needle with shaking hands. I take a breath and prepare for the worst. Forty days in the light has turned me into a pussy, so I find the fight in the things I hate the most.
Dad’s beating the shit out of me again and calling me names—pretty boy, sissy boy, faggot—until his voice fries everything in my brain, and he wins.
I won’t let him win.
Not this time, Dad. Not this time.
Grabbing my cock, which has brought me so much pleasure and caused so much pain, I jab the needle through my former apadravya hole and thread in the post.
“Ow! Fuck!” I bellow, unaccustomed to pain anymore.
I find the fight in the things I love the most.
I’m all fucked up. I feel emotions I don’t want only to struggle with physical pain. I’m all haywire, a jumbled mess of electrical wires, catching fire and charring my life to ash.
Walking through the cinders, I don’t want the emotions because I don’t fucking know how to deal with them. I want to shut them down. I want to cauterize any resemblance of feeling because I can’t be me like this any longer. If that means having one and not the other, then I accept it. I choose physical torture to deal with my emotional wounds.
I am a masochist.
I am a sadist.
I am a Dominant.
I vow to refrain from inflicting my Dominance on anyone because the only thing I ever do is cause emotional harm, but I’ll self-serve the hurt because I need the control. Dr. Harry would throw my ass in the psych ward for this, but I’d rather be sitting in a bathtub with a fucking razor blade between shaking fingers, clinging to the pain than floating through the river of sludge.
Maintaining my brain means controlling my pain.
“So, what are we going to do?” Iris said, straddling over Deacon. She always looked so beautiful fucking him. “Are we going to keep just being three?”
I wedged in between his legs, lubed up my cock, and slid deep into Iris’ ass. “We’re living like this for the rest of our lives.”
Gripping her cuffed hands, I locked them together behind her back before wrapping the blindfold around her head. She deserved to feel all the love. Deacon and I thrust together, casting our spell, and holding hands to cage her in.
Feeling his cock on the other side, I mumbled, “This is love.”
“This is everything sacred,” Deacon moaned, staring at me. “We are a holy trinity.”
We were high on one another, but the release of endorphins and adrenaline didn’t hurt either. There was nothing like our grand love affair, and we were addicted, bound together for all eternity.
With my hand gripped around my cock, I squeeze tight, drilling the needle through the ampallang hole, and slip in the post. My eyes flutter back in my head from the excruciating pain, but I can’t stop my fist from pumping.
With a low growl, I mumbled, “Cruz?”
Squeezing my fingers tight, he said, “Yeah, Nero?”
“Now!” I charged, directing our intimate choreography with absolute conviction and transparent trust. “Iris…come for me, baby!”
In my mind, the sound of the whip grows louder, vibrating in my soul as I press against the hay bale. Snapping the lash to my flesh, I hear my voice as I drown my father’s hate. With every strike, the whip tears the past from my body as I rebirth of my choosing. And I come.
The magic cross of The Unholy is back.
And he is unapologetically pure Sal Raniero.
64
Hacking into the Binary
Parking the truck outside my parent’s cabin, I unload the half dozen blankets, the weeks worth of dry groceries, and my gear from the backseat.
I carry in the four double-sized cases of water bottles, three cartons of smokes, six small cases of twelve-packs of gum each, and extra lighter fuel. I bring in three small trash cans with bags, larger trash bags, laundry detergent, cleanser, bleach, and a mop.
I pop the tailgate and unload the four ice chests filled with two bags of ice each and eight extra bags of ice. I load up the freezer as much as I can before retrieving my case with the guns and ammo. I check the stack of wood in preparation for possible inclement weather. The cabin can get cold if it snows.
I prepped everything, and the refrigerator looks like someone went OCD with color-coordinated plastic boxes of food. I lock all the liquor up in the bar and put the keys, along with my truck keys in the cab before locking the door.
I make six protein shakes for the next two days. I put out large bowls of individual bags of chips and chocolates. Not that I like either, but I might need them. I make a nice bowl of assorted fruit.
I plug in my phone. I turn every light on. I find sports on the flat screen and stash the remote in the drawer. I make the bed. I toss a sheet and pillow on the sofa. I line the top of the chest of drawers with two clothes bundles per day for eight days. I set out three pairs of running shoes and my hiking boots.
From my backpack, I set out the ten bags of Lactated Ringer’s and IV catheters, along with medical tape, gauze, and medical kit on the dining room table. I have a blood pressure monitor and thermometer as well as four fresh boxes of razor blades. I take one box and set it on the coffee table.
In the bathroom, I load the shower with shampoo and body wash. I set my dental floss, toothbrush, and toothpaste on the counter, along with my straight razor, electric razor, shaving powder, whisk, bowl, and cologne.
On the coffee table, I open the gun case and pull out the Glock and an extra clip. Then like little soldiers, I line all the drugs—six scripts and two fresh vials of cocaine—on the coffee table. We won’t talk about what happened to the first two vials or the subsequent ten. Or the gram a night habit I’m about to pick up if I don’t stop.
I’m fifteen days in.
If I hit twenty-one, I will be fucked.
This much I know about myself.
And I promised someone I wouldn’t kill myself—hard limit.
Forty days of toxic light incinerates my brain like a neurological meltdown of right and wrong for my devious vampire. Somewhere, I know who I am. Now, I’m finding him.
I think his name is Lucas.
Detox is harder than one might imagine. My body has gone through it before. But never quite like this—never of my choosing. Despite the crackling of the current fire, I’m going to have to walk through ravaging flames to survive this. Double the burn. And this is what pure discipline of an insidious monster looks like.
I change out of my jeans into some gray sweatpants and an oversized white t-shirt. I take off my shoes. I put the Red Sox ball cap on backward like a motherfucking boss ready to slay this shit. Yes, the one from Ma Diaz. I light some incense and say a silent pra
yer on my knees.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost… Guide me, Hope.”
I make the sign of the cross.
I set out the sixteen bananas—two per day.
I need to remember how much I hate them.
A proper balance between positive and negative emotions is imperative.
Hate is a vital negative emotion if used in small doses. The problem is hate gets out of control, people overdose, misdirect, and use it to hurt others. I use my hate for fuel. Nasty motherfucking bananas will pull me through the darkness. Trudy will rage at me to convince me to go away to save face. Anna will hand me a riddle to piss me off.
Love, too, can be overdosed. The need to continuously provide regardless of the personal damage inflicted. The dangers of dopamine and receptors flying out of control with the longing of praise, lust, and love is a continuous threat to our mainframe. We are—in many ways—out to destroy ourselves from the moment we first cry from between our mother’s legs.
I wish I could’ve stayed in the womb. Protected, guarded, safe, and secure with no need to have the environmental effects seep into my brain like hungry termites reproducing and populating and shredding the matter beneath my skull to mush.
I wait.
Because that is all I can do to resurrect the frayed map after the cataclysm. My mind is fried, and my heart is overreacting to the dismal condition. It is trying to compensate, but there must be a balance. Regrowth will occur. Resurrecting the functioning code of the lobes is possible.
I’ll be twenty-four hours in at exactly midnight. I inhaled my final line last night at 11:59.
November 9 is my ground zero, my day one of saying—no more drugs—not man-made or brain-made.
I’m giving up the scripts because they are making me crazy. I’m giving up the coke because I’m using it as a bandage for the scripts. I’m giving up my Dominance to help control the itch spreading throughout my spirit. And I can’t deal with any of it anymore.
Famous Last Words (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 2) Page 51
