“Would you ever show me?”
“I don’t know.”
The following Monday I’m pondering that conversation from a few weeks ago as I contemplate breaking my silence and calling Deacon. I’m staring at the phone when Father Quinn calls.
“We need to do something about the growing problem down south.”
“Which one?”
“Rumor is Campanelli is trying to find a way into Atlanta.”
Fuck.
Immediately, I hang up with Q and call Dom. He’s passive about their movement, but I’m not as comfortable taking a laid back position. I call for Swain because I’m still not driving. He pulls up in the Benz outside of Raniero Enterprises. “Home, Sir?”
“No,” I reply, pointing to the front seat passenger side and removing my jacket, as he opens the door. “We’re going to the land of peaches.”
He shuts the door and walks around to get into the driver’s side. “Now, where are we going?”
“Atlanta,” I answer as I call Em. I get her voice mail. “I have had an emergency business meeting come up. I’ll be back in a week. Love you.”
I grab my shades from my jacket and fasten my seatbelt. “You never say I.”
“I can’t,” I reply, rolling my sleeves. I have Velcro splints now.
“You can’t or you won’t?”
“I can’t because I don’t mean it.”
He tosses an uncertain gaze to me as we enter the freeway. “You cannot marry the girl unless you love her.”
“I’m sleeping,” I say, leaning the chair back. “Wake me in a few hours. I need to stop and get us some clothes.”
“Are these not sufficient?”
“Not for where we’re going.”
By the time we hit Virginia, I’m eating a Quarter Pounder and changing clothes as half dozen shopping bags sit in the back seat. “Should I be concerned?”
“You,” I say, scanning over him. “No.”
“Should I be concerned for you?”
“Probably not,” I reply.
“Is this going to become a thing?”
I laugh. “I won’t let it become a thing, Swain.”
My phone rings as I toss my ball cap on backwards. “Raniero.”
“What the hell are you doing driving to Atlanta?” Dom barks off. “You have no idea what you are doing.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m going to sell The Unholy to Morpheus.”
“It’s open fucking season down there!”
“You don’t think I know that?” I mumble, taking a bite of my burger. “It’s always been open season. No Italian family ever got their foot in the door.”
“What makes you think you can?” Dom shouts, furious. “You are such a damn hothead sometimes.”
“I know I can because I’m Sal-fucking-Raniero and I can put a better deal on the table than any Allegiance, Lotus, or Campanelli…”
His silence says a lot. He’s thinking instead of blowing up at me. “How are you going to find Morpheus? It’s not like you can just look his ass up and your answer should not begin with I’m Sal-fucking-Raniero…”
“I’m really good when I want to be.”
He knows I’m not wrong. It’s a genetic predisposition to crime. I ran the meeting with The Brethren and despite their operation being larger than ours, I had Zach and Zeke eating out of the palm of my hand. For what it’s worth, Zach and Zeke are both black. Different, I know. The Preacher runs an upstanding outfit comparable to The Unholy. Morpheus is a wealthy thug.
The fact is I know I can chameleon myself. In my core, I’m closer to Morpheus than anyone wants to admit back home in Boston. I just happen to wear a suit well.
“Do not,” Dom warns a minute later. “Do not hurt those hands.”
“I’m not using my fists; I’m using my street smarts.”
We hang up and I finish my burger. Swain’s was gone an hour ago. “You know I won’t let Morpheus take you down without a fight.”
“I won’t let anyone hurt you, either.”
I reserve a house on the outskirts of Atlanta – nothing too lavish – simple, modest, two-bedroom rental. I don’t do it for any other reason than it’s easier to get out of a house than a hotel room. And I don’t need a four thousand square foot mansion when I’m making a run for it.
Will that happen?
I sure as hell hope fucking not, but I gotta be prepared.
Half an hour later, I warn, “If something goes wrong…”
“Nothing better go wrong,” Swain interrupts as his Kenyan accent booms in the vehicle. He is well spoken, sounding decidedly more American than not, but sometimes his voice hitches with the sounds of his Africa. I imagine his reaction to my bleed-thru Italian serves up much the same kind of curiosity. “Because I will not hesitate.”
“If something does though, don’t call Iris. Call Deacon. He can tell Iris.”
“… And who tells Emily?”
I stare at his robust hands gripping the steering wheel as I ponder the unfathomable. “She is my bride to be; she has the honors at the funeral.”
I admit it because it is the right thing to do. Iris is nothing more than a mistress in a faraway land now. The reality is she has no claim to me, my name, or my possessions—and while Emily doesn’t legally have it yet either—I know my parents would honor my wishes. Emily would be provided for because I have behaved and done what my father wanted.
“That doesn’t answer the question, Sal.”
“Her mother.”
“I will do my best to abide by your wishes, but I will also do everything in my power to prevent such from happening.”
“I know.”
“Rest now,” he says, laying his hand on my arm. “I will wake you when we arrive.”
For those keeping track, I slept the better part of the seventeen plus hour trip down to Atlanta. I’m exhausted. My hands are sore and the nights have been sleepless as I lay awake for hours wondering what to do about Emily.
Something clicks in my brain during that long drive, not only do I realize I may have to succumb to demons to fit in, but I must mimic Morpheus. If he drinks beer, I drink beer. If he smokes the pipe, so do I. And so on and so forth. Beyond the immediate, I understand I need to stop fighting the process I implemented.
I am my own worst enemy.
We pull up to the house the next morning with breakfast from McDonald’s in tow. It’s a Swain habit. He loves it. I snag my McMuffin and grab the first bedroom I see. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”
Grabbing my glasses, I crack open my laptop, sign into Sibyl, and start texting Georgia concerning Morpheus. His name is Stephen Jones, played ball in college until an injury benched him in 1986.
I close my eyes.
I hate that year.
Before I get too far into our quick study, I hear Swain snoring very loudly from the other room. He’s a damn freight train. I get up, close my door, and kick off my shoes as I read Georgia’s next message. “You need to go to Foxxy’s. All the members associated with his crew have been arrested there.”
It’s not a guarantee, but it’s a good place to start.
I call Emily. Again, I get her voice mail. She’s probably working.
After a couple hours on the line with Georgia, I pass out and dream of Iris. I walk into the seedy bar and she’s there—giving a lap dance to Morpheus—when the shots ring out.
I wake up, drenched in sweat, and head for the shower. It’s seven o’clock. Swain is up singing in the kitchen. The multiple bags of clothes have been unpacked, folded, and tucked inside of the duffel bag I purchased.
I smell the coffee and roll my eyes before ducking into the bathroom. I wash, ignoring the semi I’ve got from the first part of my dream before it turned into a nightmare. I go get dressed, wearing the oversized clothes and spotting the sneakers I know Deacon would be drooling over.
“Are you ready, Boss?”
I spray my body with the can of whatever scent I picked up.
I’m smelling like testosterone on the prowl which is good considering we’re going to a strip club. In the car, we go over the plan again. We aren’t trying to make contact tonight. We’re merely making our presence known. Morpheus will come out and play if he knows a Raniero is in his club. At the very least, he will let me know how to contact him.
Days pass of the same nightly routine. Swain has gotten more lap dances than I think he’s ever had and I’ve been hit on more than I have in years. I don’t take any of the girls up on their offers, but I flirt. I make “friends.”
Emily called on day two. She’s been interviewing new artists for the December show. She sounds incredible on the phone. I’m getting out of the shower for our fifth night of partying at Foxxy’s when my phone starts ringing on the counter. I don’t look at the number, I just pick it up.
“… Raniero?”
“Call her,” Mock urgently says. “Call her right now.”
I grab a towel and go get my other phone from my back pack. I nervously dial the only number called on the phone. I’m pacing in my room, trying not to freak out when I hear her answer.
“Baby, what’s wrong?”
“Stop going to Foxxy’s, get your suit on, and write this address down.”
“Iris…wait…how do you know?” Her voice sounds amazing, but I’m startled by her passing of intel. I expected tears and I miss you and I love you so much.
“Because we have Lotus franchises in Atlanta.”
I furrow my brow and scratch my head. “How is it Lotus has a presence here but none of the Italian boys do?”
She snickers, “Morpheus won’t deal with them, but I managed to secure you a meeting thru our contact there. His name is Fumio Hada. He’ll be present tonight.”
“Did you call anyone?” I ask, panicking and thinking she blew her cover. “No.” I grab my other phone. “Are you ready?”
“Ya,” I say, taking down the address. “Is this his house?”
“Yes, he is expecting you,” she seriously informs. “And Sal, do not go packing like your type commonly does. Eat, drink, and be merry. Then you talk business in the morning.”
“Did you just score me a meeting with the gang leader in Atlanta?”
She giggles. “I did. Now don’t waste it.”
“I love you,” I mutter, trying to keep my emotions in check. She’s so put together and I’m a sobbing mess. “So fucking much.”
“Because I’ve got you eating fried chicken, wings, and collards with Morpheus?”
“Because you have my back.”
“I have more than your back,” she alleges, upping her game. “Turns out he has been feeding Pharm as much as Boudreaux. If you want his protection on Nola, go find him after you’re done getting your dick sucked in Buckhead by some ho.”
“How do you know I’m getting…”
“Some things, I just know,” she whispers, laughing. “And make sure you hug Mamma Morpheus for her grandiose spread. I love you more than words, Sally.”
11
Dirty Money
We’re driving to the airport at eleven in the morning as I nurse a hangover from hell. I’m sending Swain home and taking a flight. He isn’t happy, but he’s not the boss.
I need time to process – alone – everything the last twenty-fours slapped me with. I’ll fly back to Boston in a few days after soaking up some humidity in New Orleans.
It’s not Texas…but it’s damn sure close.
Iris was right about everything. Morpheus, his mamma, the ho, the food, the booze…the lines of snow I snorted off the ho.
When in Rome…or a Buckhead mansion…do as they do.
“I feel like I’ve been to heaven’s version of hell.”
“You missed the apple pie,” Swain badgers, starting the car at the gas station. His mammoth cup of joe is a source of envy. “That was one of the best apple pies I’ve ever had, thick and saucy, with a scoop of that honey vanilla ice cream.” I glare at Swain, the cup, and his tiny round, John Lennon-style sunglasses as his exuberance over the meal – which was delish – takes centerstage. His full lips tighten and he yells, “Ooooh! Hot damn!”
“I had Juicy grinding on my lap in the dining room,” I excuse from beneath my Bollés. The sun hurts. Someone should turn it off for a few hours. “I couldn’t very well have pie and Juicy at the same time, and I had to get out of there before his Mamma came back from the kitchen.”
He chuckled, “Was she juicy?”
“Like sweet motherfucking peach nectar.”
I only know because I fingered the girl while she was sucking my D like it was the best thing ever. I don’t know if I’ve ever had a blowjob last quite so long or be so intense. I know I need to give Deacon a new position or two—upside down and straddling over the top of me. My chest still smells like peaches.
“Dang!”
“Tell me,” I say, wishing I had two cups of pure espresso to shove down my throat. I briefly consider saying fuck it and stealing his. “Got the deal though.”
Over a seven o’clock breakfast spread, Morpheus and I shook hands and toasted our future dealings with Mimosas. He was bare-chested in an off-white leisure suit with a hat and sunglasses, looking every bit like the insanely wealthy drug dealer he was. With bare feet, I had on a pair of joggers and t-shirt, courtesy of Morpheus.
I hadn’t slept and looked like shit, but I stared at his pool while sipping on my hot ginger peach tea. We were alone except for Mamma, who checked in every so often, and two of his guys, who kept their distance.
“Go on, I know you want to do it,” he invited with a smile. “It’s twelve-foot-deep in the middle. Custom built.”
“I don’t have a swimsuit.”
“Go in your underwear,” he said, flicking the ashes of his smoke. “I don’t care.”
I smirked. “I ain’t got those either.”
Lounging out in the chair, he chuckled. “No one will be awake for another few hours. It will make you feel better. It will melt the snow. I got the best in the South.”
I wasn’t going to argue with that.
But it wasn’t the reason I felt like hell.
The first reason I felt like hell was the grotesque amount of rum I consumed. I steer clear of it most days because it’s easy to over drink the sweet shit, but Mamma made this punch drink and we were having a grand time—eating, laughing, and dancing.
I even twirled a round with Mamma.
Juicy was a former stripper he kept on staff at his spread to entertain his special clients. The girl could dance. In her six-inch stilettos and short mini, we cut up a rug, but I hadn’t danced like that in years and it was the second reason I hurt like a bastard.
I was getting old—and the things I could get away with at nineteen, hurt like a mother at twenty-six. Maybe I just needed a better dance partner.
“Who is your supplier?”
“Cristos always sends the best cuts to me directly.”
I knew this—I mean I didn’t—but I did.
“I’m going to do this,” I said, standing up and stripping off my clothes.
“You got some ink there, boy.” I turned towards him and he tilted his head at the sight of my dick. “Did that hurt? Cause it looks like it fucking hurts.”
“Bitches love it,” I snickered. “And it doesn’t hurt.”
Running down the steps, I dove into the pool. The water invigorated my skin as I swam a few laps. I hoisted myself out in the middle and Mamma was standing on the steps with her wide hips, plentiful breasts, and colorful caftan. Her lips parted when she handed me the towel. “You need to stick around and let Mamma handle you.”
Morpheus laughed and so did I. “I bet you could take very good care of me, Mrs. Jones.”
“Oh, Lordy!” she squealed and did a bit of a bouncing dance. “Where was that place you mentioned dancing last night?Juliet?”
“It’s in Sugargrove, Texas. Look it up,” I replied, wrapping the towel around my waist. “I’m certain with a sizable dona
tion and recommendation from me, you would be approved for membership.”
“And they have…men…like yourself there?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Stephen, I need to get to Texas. Mamma needs attention!”
Morpheus grinned as she waddled off. “You thrilled her, you know?”
“I try. I like making women smile. Too many assholes in the world attempting to dis our gender.”
Standing up, he offered me a pound, a handshake, and a hug. And I did the one thing so rarely done outside of the famiglia. I kissed both of his cheeks. It was about honor and integrity—even in our underworld those things existed. Morpheus might have played with dirty money, but he was a good man. “If you need anything, Raniero, you call me. I’ve got a crew and money. Let this be the start of something new.”
“How big is the crew?”
“I don’t usually reveal such things, but for you,” he hesitated, gripping onto my biceps. “I’ll tell you we’re going on close to 40k worldwide.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
He’s four times the size of my guess…he’s got to be close to the size of Lotus. I’m stunned and my reaction shows it.
Pulling off his sunglasses, he looked me straight in the eye. “But you keep that between us brothers.”
“I know nothing, man.”
“I’ll call Pharm and get a crew moved down to Nola to fend off the Cinco spillage and Immortal infiltration. They won’t come near you.”
I’m flattered by his magnanimous attitude. He clearly thinks a lot of me. “Can I ask a question?”
“You can,” he replied. “And I’ll do my best to answer.”
“How do you know Iris Kettles? Where is the association?”
He smiled. “I know Iris because Angelo Gennaro attempted to bridge the gap between Chicago and Atlanta years ago. She was part of the package, and if I had liked Gennaro, I would have done it for Iris alone. One of my former members, William Sands, was heavily involved with her future husband, Chance Ballister.”
“When did you meet her?”
“She was all of sixteen when I deflowered her.”
I blink. “… You?”
Every Minute I Love You (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 3) Page 9
