While we should be discussing my future wedding, I’m delaying those plans as long as possible. Accepting my father’s terms of marrying Emily Lee Granger was initially easy, but following through with them has thus proved far more difficult. I decided to stay on with the family business, Raniero Enterprises, for a little bit longer despite my gut reaction of running away.
I pray, I don’t regret it.
At ten in the morning, the chapel is empty. I respectfully genuflect, remove my coat, and take a seat in the fourth-row pew. Morning mass has long since passed, leaving the small but elaborate sanctuary with an eerie atmosphere. The dismal weather knocks like a boogeyman outside as the stained-glass pieces don’t serve enlightenment, but take on a rather ominous portrayal, much like my current frame of mind.
“Salvatore…” Padre says, strolling from behind and laying his hand on my shoulder. “How are you, my boy?”
I quickly stand to shake his hand. “Quinn... We need to talk.”
“I’m aware,” he says with a stern gaze. Smoothing his hands over the cassock and taking a seat, he understands the gravity of our situation better than most. He knows my dirty laundry and welcomes more. “We are safe to speak in here. There are two women in the office, both of whom are as old as the hills and too busy discussing quilting patterns to pay us any attention. Father McPhail is on a healing mission in South America with a medical team.”
“Ahhh… the Irish…”
“Yes, I’m risking a lot by even agreeing to this,” he informs, clasping his hands together. “And you won’t like the price I agreed upon.” I give a side-eyed glance. “Father Patrick McPhail will be performing the wedding ceremony of the only Raniero boy.”
“Fuck…” I lower my head and grip the bridge of my nose. I am the only Raniero boy. A damn Irish priest. I’m fine with it, but my father will crap his pants and chap my ass hard. “Seriously?”
“Pat and I have a long history,” he proudly reminds. “His work with Kill Rat has kept their violence at a minimum.”
Shaking my head, I cross my eyes and shutter them closed. Kill Rat is one of the many Irish gangs. A lot of them have some strange names, but that isn’t what matters here. What matters is I’m an Italian kid getting married by an Irishman.
In the severity of my father’s racism, I was going to have to beg for Q to do the ceremony because he doesn’t have an Italian name. Dear dad wants Father Jorgé Altromessa to do it. He’s a fine priest, but Father Q knows my shit because he’s served as my confidante like an island in the unstoppable storm since I was nineteen.
“How long will you be here?”
“The next month.” Laying his wrinkled hand on my knee, he smiles and cordially asks, “What brings my favorite disciple to see me?”
“There is movement down south with Boudreaux and Allegiance,” I reply, staring at the altar decorated purple for Lent. “And I need to know if you managed to implement a strategy to impede growth at all?”
“I have their focus off of the New Orleans parish.”
Pulling off my black leather gloves, I crack each knuckle individually as I snarl at the large rosette stained glass window. The colors are stunning against the darkened exterior, evoking a deeper message like the petals of the lotus flower. We are all rooted in the mud with hidden secrets, as our fibrous roots cling to any source leading to our survival and subsequent bloom. We aim to complete the life cycle at all cost.
“But I don’t like where they went,” I admit, knowing the crawl back east towards Florida poses a definite threat to Delarte Cristos. “Atlanta is hot.”
“I’m well aware, but you can only have one or the other,” he remarks, spoon-feeding the bitter bile down my throat. “You cannot have both.”
“The area is rife with rival gang activity,” I point out. While the idea of playing politico is tempting like the southern cuisine, I cannot because my schedule is booked tight through spring. And if I really want to earn respect and business from the gangs in Atlanta, I’d have to go down there for a few weeks. I can’t right now. “There are so many, if Allegiance gets a foot in the door…”
“I understand, but you’ll have to compete for that if you want it,” he adds with a nod. “You should be more concerned with Lotus or The Brethren going after them and succeeding.” His eyebrows lift with scrutiny. “But you need to look at the demographical statistics of what you’re saying. The odds of any gang in Atlanta holding the hand of a Russian…”
With a wide smile, I snicker. “I know you’re right. That’d be like the son of an Italian Kingpin getting married by a damn Irish priest,” I laugh, knowing the odds are never in my favor. “You want me to put on my best thug attire and go grassroots in the ghetto of Atlanta?”
He imparts an air of wisdom and resilience I always embrace. Time is on my side, at least in this regard. “Whatever it takes, Salvatore.”
“Do you plan on keeping Nawlins secure?”
“Of course,” he says, smirking. “Fear not…”
I’d be lying if I said my kinship to New Orleans, really all of Louisiana, wasn’t personal. It is. From my boy Deacon’s home turf to the memories of Dom and my wife, I love the place, and I won’t have it turned into a war zone if I can help it.
“Anything else?”
“I received a phone call from your…girl.”
“… Iris called?” I whisper, leaning closer. “When?”
“Two days ago, on Ash Wednesday,” he cautiously says. “You should use this time to talk to her. Valentine’s Day is Sunday.”
I’m sideswiped by her reaching out to Quinn. “Can you have her call me?”
“I can send her a text message if you would like,” he says, thumbing over his phone. “Though it is late there and she might not respond.” From my inner jacket pocket, I pull out my phone and wait. Within a minute, my screen lights up. Quinn smiles as he stands to leave. “Peace be with you, son.”
“And also with you, Q.” Dropping my coat on the pew, I rise and embrace him before kissing his cheeks. “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” he assures. “Answer it.”
With sweaty palms, I accept the call. “Angel Baby?”
“God, you sound so incredible!” Her light feminine voice drops me to my knees. I rest my arms on the pew in front of me and lower my head. I lick my lips. “How are you?”
“Missing the fuck out of you,” I mutter, trying not to break down. “Where are you?”
“I’m in bed,” she giddily says. “Where are you?”
I perk my head up and look around. “I’m in a church.”
“Are you going to go to church every time you think of me?”
I snort. “If I did that, I’d end up being a priest with one sin.”
“Probably more than one,” she suggests, teasingly. “After all, you’ve got Cruz.”
“I’ve got a couple of bangs, too.”
She laughs. “Ahh, yes! How is work with Daddy?”
I ease my butt into the seat and lie down like a little kid. “It’s about as entertaining as you might imagine, always full of drama.”
“How is Emily?”
I want to say she’s tight, but I don’t. And I don’t actually mean that in a salacious way either. I mean she is, but that isn’t my thinking. Her focus on me is tight. Emily is bound to me in a way I never expected her to be. She would do anything to assist in my success.
I hesitate too long, and she says, “Don’t hold back, Lucas.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I mutter, staring at the ceiling. “I put an engagement ring on her finger. She accepted, but we both know it’s not right. I’ll never love…”
“Stop,” Iris interrupts as the stress in her concerns me. “Don’t compare. Try again. Tell me how she is.”
Over the center aisle is a humongous golden chandelier. I kind of hope it falls right now and kills me dead. “Emily is sweet, attentive, rides my cock every night, and makes a wonderful stir-fry.”
�
�Go back there…”
Studying the construction of the old wooden rafters, I ask, “Where?”
“Rides my cock every night,” she counters with a mischievous giggle. “Does she enjoy my cock?”
I run my hands through my hair. “God, yes…”
Seductively, she questions, “And does my cock enjoy her?”
I close my eyes, feeling my pierced beast throb. I loosen a few buttons on my shirt. “Jesus, are we doing this here?”
“Jesus is right, considering where you are,” she snarks. “Are you getting hard, Sal?”
“Yes.”
“Answer the question,” she repeats.
I play her game. “Your cock frequently partakes of Emily’s tight little pussy…”
Her light moans fill the line as she touches herself to our conversation concerning the love of her life fucking his fiancée. This is how fucked up my life is. “… And does she get wet for you?”
Yes, but not like you.
She isn’t you.
“Very much so, she likes it when I lose it.”
“When we get off the phone, you’re going to go find her and fuck the hell out of her with my hard cock. You’re going to take what you want and claim it as your own.”
And pretend she is you.
“I’m going to Maria’s wedding,” I inform, breaking the spell. I adjust myself and think of all the reasons not to jack off in God’s house. This love I have for Iris is true, and my intentions are good. I’ll kill my father if it means having her by my side. “But I’ll do my best.”
“Awww,” she sappily replies. “I’d tell you to wish them my love, but it will have to wait until I claim my dick again.”
“Happy Valentine’s, Iris.”
“Same to you, babe,” she says, taking a distinct downward spiral. “I have to go. I love you.”
Click.
“What the fuck?” I mumble, gazing stunned at the screen. She’s gone and tears well in my eyes. I thought we would have more time. I set the phone on my lap as I rub my hands over my face and try to regain my breath and composure. She can’t be gone already.
Oh, God, fucking hell what have we done?
I let the water fall from my cheeks because if I’m going to breakdown, there is no better place. We moved her to Old Poppa’s house in Guam, believing she would be safe there. But safe from who? My father, or me? The vibration of my phone sends a startling shockwave to my cock. “Iris…” I grab the phone and confirm my guess. “What the hell was that?”
“That was I don’t want to think about being without you on Valentine’s. I hiccuped. I’m allowed.”
“Fair enough,” I mutter, breathing deeply. “We can't have too many of these calls.”
“I know, it hurts,” she agrees, sniffling. “We’ll make a game out of it—a competition to see who can hold out the longest. I’m one and you’re zero.”
“Technically, you called twice, but I’ll agree with one.”
“You better,” she teases, sounding like she’s smiling. “Now go dip my dick in that pussy.”
“You know, you’re cruel…”
“Says the man who flew me almost eight thousand miles away,” she challenges. “Pot call Kettle black…”
“Pot call kettle black black…”
“Oooh! You remembered!”
“How could I forget your double blacks?”
“Do you know why?” she asks as I spot the crack in the Virgin Mary glass. “Because the kettle is black and the rainbow is all of the colors absorbed into the spectrum.”
“Black is the absence of visible light.”
“We live in the darkness, Sal.”
“… You want me to chase the rainbow?” I tease, drying my tear-soaked hand on my slacks.
“No,” she seriously implores. “Be the light and fucking shine like a beacon in the night. And don’t stop because you are that good.”
“I’m only good because I have you,” I confess, tucking my thumb beneath my belt and laying my fingers flat against the fabric. I daren’t strum or rub at the erection. I’ll instantly blow. “Tell me how much you love me.”
“Words cannot even explain my feelings for you, Sir.”
My heart hurts when I hear the word—Sir. I crave the intensity and build-up of our tension, who we become not in just the throes of a scene, but together—all the time. We are 24/7… No, it isn’t enough. We are 25/8 with a constant addiction to each other. I’m not sure it’s healthy; I’m not sure I care.
“Iris,” I growl from deep in my throat. “Iris…”
“Stroke it, baby.”
Her encouragement does nothing but entices my wickedness. I unsnap the belt, draw the zipper down, and wrap my hand around the shaft. “I’m going to reside permanently in hell for this.”
“And I will sit in your lap...loving you…for all eternity,” she whispers. “Think about me, baby… think about gripping my ass as I stride on your dick. Think about the moments we’re going to have. Think about the love we’re going to share. Think about the wild ride ahead of us. God, I’m so fucking wet.”
“I’m going to come soon,” I mutter, falling into the momentum where it won't matter who sees me. I need the release. I need to let go inside of my girl.”
“Do it, Lucy…do it.”
We’re reckless in our journey, hellbent on ever disintegrating, and crazy enough together that we always find paradise. She is my beginning and my end. “Every minute, I love you…”
“I know…I love you, Sir…I love you,” she gasps out. With my ears trained to the sound of her orgasm, I pump it hard, jumping off the edge and coming on my hand and slacks. Strings of cum stretch between my fingers as I sit up and retrieve the handkerchief from my back pocket. “Happy Valentine’s!”
Drying my hand, I respond, “Happy Valentine’s, baby girl.”
This hell fucking sucks.
2
Bones of a Man
My cousin Maria’s taste in music for her wedding reception borderlines on familial disgrace and cause for scandal. Mind you, I love her kinky choices which all involve copious amounts of swallowing dick, booty bouncing, and money shots. Her new husband, Chris, seems unfazed by it all. Maria Veramonte instantly became Maria Kincaid.
The notion sparks an unexpected jealousy in me. I don’t want to give Emily my name. It sounds selfish and wrong, but I’ve already married once out of guilt and the need to do the right thing. I hate the idea of making the same mistake twice.
I proceed to do what I always do—head to the bar. I’ve got one hand on Em and another around the neck of a big bottle of whiskey. Some regional Tennessee brand the bartender talked me into.
I want out of the tux, and I need Em out of that dress.
But let’s pause for a moment to pay our respects to the dress I dropped a couple grand on. Forgive my distraction, she’s dancing with Cat on the overcrowded dance floor, bumping and grinding like that’s not my sister and they may start making out any moment.
We ran in the rain through the crowded streets of Boston right before Christmas. I’d insisted Cat make appointments at a couple boutiques for Emily. She’d planned on taking her, but an emergency meeting was called between the financial officers—someone was skimming money. It wasn’t me. And even if it was, I wasn’t stupid enough to have done it as blatantly as some scumbag was.
That was my inheritance they five-fingered. I was angry and Cat knew it, so she instigated an all-out assault on the financials to figure out who it was. And let’s just say, Cat wasn’t the kind of corporate bitch you ever wanted pissed off. She was relentless—a hound searching through the rubble to make it add up and find the thief. It wouldn’t have surprised me if she went knocking on his door with our crew to issue a thorough warning.
And everything about Italian families fighting between each other until an outside foe showed their ugly face was true. We’d regroup our forces in record time and quickly forget our inner familial war.
Frankly,
I was pissed off.
In any other business, the act might have just been criminal, but in this particular instance—it was grounds for cigar cutters and cinder blocks, if you get my drift.
Someone was stealing hundreds of thousands of dollars and everyone was pointing to one of the financial officers. There were six. My sister was one and no way in hell would she steal from her own blood—me—which meant five possible suspects. My fears for her safety urged my sending my new bodyguard, Swain Moe, to her side for the meeting.
Swain Moe boasted with six-five and about two-seventy-five of muscle-bound goodness. He was exactly one month younger than me—May 29. He was a motherfucking monster.
For the record books, he was also Dom’s early Christmas present to me. He was from Kenya, and I could go on about the beauty of Swain Moe’s physique for literally hours. The definition…the rich tone of his skin…how amazing sweat looked on his flesh after we’ve worked out…I’ve been slightly crushing.
But no one else knew this—please keep my secret.
Dom introduced my Christmas present after the skirmish at Thanksgiving. He had been working on sealing the deal with him, but after we met, there was no turning back. We connected on some sort of cosmic spiritual wavelength. He took the job to watch my ass, while I just wanted to stare at his.
I wasn’t actually interested in banging the man (or having him bang me), but I relished in the joy of his presence. Remember, I liked owning precious, rare things and Swain more than fit the bill. I tried to assess whether he was top or bottom, and I still didn’t know. He was hard to read because of his unrelenting focus on the task at hand, which lent itself to top, but he was also an incredible listener.
Swain didn’t know about Iris, but he understood I was not happy with my current situation. It had to be enough for now. He vowed to protect Emily, Cat, and Deacon—we’d gone over my preferences several times in preparation for the absolute worst case scenario.
Every Minute I Love You (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 3) Page 2
