“Yeah, like I said, I would’ve done the deal and kept her for myself if Gennaro hadn’t been a dick about the split. He wanted 80/20 and I wasn’t biting. I have a vested interest in keeping the Lotus Queen safe. And I know you know where she is, which is why I agreed to meet with you. She promised you were different, not like the others, and you would come with respect. I’ve got an army for you to fight your war with if you want them. We can arrange the details later, but if you get in a pinch, you call me. We both know Cristos has the money and power, but the loyalty of men is something he hasn’t focused on. The Church of Morpheus is good for it. And good for you.”
“Yeah, you did get the deal.” Swain smiles wide, but even his grin is too bright. “That Fumio though… Man, he’s hilarious.”
Something about the way in which he says it sets me off, and I drop my shades a notch to stare at him. “Did you…”
He’s pulling out into the traffic, his big, husky body behind the wheel, and getting – dare I say giddy – at the mention of Fumio. His next sentence is broken as we enter the on ramp to the highway. “You…never asked…which way…I…swung.”
I burst into a hysterical laughter. My buff bodyguard that Dom gave me is a gay man—how absolutely poignant…my thoughts quickly detour to him banging the tiny Asian man. Or maybe it was vice versa. Who the fuck knows? Either way, Swain is in a damn good mood.
I hate to admit how much I like Morpheus and his crew. He’s a rather small fellow about my size with a single gold chain and cross and every finger in a jeweled gold ring. I know for a fact my father refuses to expand his business, regardless of potential profitability, into Georgia. There are a few states he won’t touch, mostly in the south, and all because of race.
His general disregard for anyone not Italian is a problem for many of our disagreements. He hates everyone and routinely sprinkles epithets like holy water. He’s the original holy demon alright, and I’m his spawn.
But I was raised by my I’m-almost-certain-she-was-a-lesbian-Nonna-and-many-colorful-grandmothers. I remember being four or five and on the lap of Detrice and Nadi and Caroline and Sofi. I was the spoiled one, softened by the years of caring, consideration, and understanding.
Nonna and her friends brought home the fact that people are people, no matter the age, race, or gender. And never, ever judge a book by the cover or until you’ve walked in someone else’s shoes.
I’m surprised by my father’s partnership with Delarte Cristos, but he’s a Colombian raised as a European. Honestly, he’s a bit of a mixed breed with a familiar chameleon-like quality. He easily assimilates into any crowd without discrimination and I loathe the idea of one day taking him out despite the bad things he’s done.
We’ve all done bad things.
But there are varying degrees of bad.
Some are forgivable, some are not.
In a way, I love Cristos. I’m going through his daughters one by one. Unfortunately, the one I want the most is the one I will never allow myself to have.
I send Jaid a quick message. She’s in Florida, working her trade cases, and keeping low. We talk, but it’s not the same. We’re both in some sort of crazy love with one another. One minute we’re lovers, the next we’re strangers, and sometimes we’re more akin to brother/sister. It’s a weird relationship and it always has been.
Knowing I probably could’ve spent a week or more with Morpheus, I take up the offer to use his personal phone number and send a text to thank him (and his mamma) for the spirited evening. In seconds, he responds, “Come back anytime, Salvatore. It was my pleasure. Mamma adores you.”
All mothers adore me.
Except Lydia Kettles.
But she wasn’t much of a mother and that thought gets me thinking about the woman who raised Iris. I call Georgia.
“Life is so much better when you’re here,” she answers.
“What’s wrong?”
“Jas is just…Jas.”
“It comes with the territory,” I snicker, understanding exactly what she means. Jas Torrente is a New Yorker, born, bred, and exiled from his own crime family. He was the misfit, the fat kid, and can be a bit rough around the edges. “I need you to run a background on Iris Kettles.”
“… What?”
“I know we’ve already ran it. Do it again. I need her connection to Morpheus and how much Angelo Gennaro sold off her virginity for and to who,” I say, already knowing the answer. I want it confirmed.
“How am I going to find all of what you are asking?”
“Those Entropy files we found…start decoding them…”
“Ugh,” she whines, moaning. “Do you realize how difficult that is going to be? Not only are you talking about decade plus old code, but it was written back in the eighties…”
“Then find me someone in the world who can.”
“I’ll get on finding you some old geezer who can decipher all this shit.”
“And Georgia, give Jas a break,” I politely encourage. “He’s had a rough time.”
“I know,” she replies, sniffling. “I know what happened to his wife because he gets drunk sometimes and sings the songs from their wedding.”
“Just keep trying to be gentle. I’ll send Zoe to keep you company soon.” I end the call and lean back into my seat with a heavy sigh.
With a note of concern, Swain asks, “You alright, Boss?”
“Ya, I’m fine.”
Four years into their marriage, Jason Torrent’s wife, Leeza, was kidnapped from the university campus where she was working on becoming a lawyer. He was overseas, still in the military, and took leave to join the search efforts.
They found her—still warm—but deceased in an old house in upstate New York near Sibyl. She had been brutally raped and tortured for over 21 days.
The cause of death was stabbing—fourteen times.
Rumor was rampant the Torrente family had issued the hit, but no one was ever indicted. The media circus surrounding the case showed the family to be what they were. Their business slowly began to disintegrate because despite not having enough evidence (which I think was a cover up) to issue a warrant and conviction, no one wanted to deal with the Torrente’s any longer. Our underworld prefers the quiet, where we can rustle about in the darkest of night unseen. The Torrente’s, particularly Jas’ mother—Veronica, loved the attention. She did interviews and even wrote a book.
This was all going down before I met him in 2011.
And those kinds of scars never heal.
So, when I say I know the shit that goes down in this world we live in, I know it personally. I intensively questioned Nico as I tried to rebuild the case. He would be the one to know, my resident serial killer.
But he had no conclusive answers and upon seeing the pictures from the crime scene, I knew it wasn’t his handy work for one reason alone—Leeza had no clothes or shoes on.
They were all located in a drainage ditch seven days after her capture. The work was sloppy. Not just the stab wounds, but the knots on her appendages and around her neck, and the bruising on her flesh from the various implements (BDSM-related) found at the scene. This wasn’t an experienced killer…but someone who tried to make it look like someone from the BDSM community did it.
Hundreds of documented interviews are in the records. And to this day, we are still no closer to finding out who did it or why. Were they paid to do the hit? Or was it a random sociopath trying out something new?
I’ve quietly consulted with Kary Vega on the case, but he’s chalked it up to a loss. The inherent problem with that is Jas’ ongoing suffering. I see it, I hear it, I know it. It is in my veins, in my blood. And it is that very fear of the unknown which keeps Iris far distanced from me.
The strange phone calls she received early last year—
“Dead whore. Dead whore. Iris Kettles, you are going to be a dead whore.”
I stopped looking into the case when I retrieved the tapes from Leeza's phone. My hand trembles even now as I think abo
ut it.
“Dead whore. Dead whore. Leeza Torrente, you are going to be a dead whore.”
I’m not one to run scared.
But Iris… she isn’t worth the risk.
And not because I love her more than life itself, but because she is the Lotus Queen with a mind full of triggered intel. I have no idea the contents Entropy uploaded into her or what she could do with them or who would attempt to abduct her.
I cannot risk it…
I won’t.
12
The SAINT
My flight arrives at 9:45 and it’s raining.
Correction, it’s pouring.
From the private airport lounge in Atlanta, I called Dom while sipping on my whiskey and waiting for the delayed flight. I told him about the meeting with Morpheus, but skipped over the part where Iris lost her virginity. He doesn’t need to know.
Dom is…how do I describe him…protective. Which is fine, but sometimes he goes over the edge and hires hits for reasons no one is certain about. I still don’t understand the entire motivation behind Chance Ballister’s death or even his own father. He isn’t quick to draw like Amber, but if he feels crossed, he’ll go savage. If we ever find out who raped me in the alley, heaven help the man.
I don’t need my sweet new deal with Morpheus curling up like a dying cockroach. I like Morpheus and his Mamma. They need to stay breathing.
So, while I’m not lying to Dom, I cannot provide the whole truth because if I do, I run the risk of losing an opportunity with a man who has a lot of money and the militia of Immortal.
How much money?
I don’t know, looks can be deceiving, but if I were to venture a guess—not as much as Cristos, but more than any of The Unholy.
I go to hail a taxi in New Orleans, but a curious young man in an oversized suit approaches me. “Are you Sal Raniero?”
“I am.”
“Dom requested my car service,” he says, flashing the tablet in a waterproof case with the order in front of me. “Name is Oral Semenov.”
I quickly glance up to meet his gaze. He’s young, early twenties, and a bit goofy looking. I attempt to repeat his name without laughing, but it’s almost impossible. Dom is such a prankster at times.
“Excuse me,” I say, turning and laughing under my breath. “Give me a moment.”
Stepping away, I dial up Dom because I’m not the idiot to get into a vehicle with a guy I don’t know. I also won’t go back in the house to see if the crazy demon monster with twelve legs and green acid vomit spewing out of its mouth is still running around with a pick axe…or whatever. Some things are not meant to be trifled with.
You get the drift.
You know me by now.
“Did you really…” I cannot stop laughing long enough to even say it. “Did you…” I really can’t stop as I buckle over. My backpack slides off my arm onto the wet pavement. “Oh, my fucking God…”
“Oral Semenov is very important,” Dom seriously replies without a hint of amusement. “You need to get in the car with him.”
Trying to compose myself, I ask, “And where did you find Mr. Semenov?”
“He was working for Allegiance, being trained, and decided to leave.”
“Let me get this straight. You hired a known, defecting Russian gang member to drive me… Are you putting flashing arrows pointing at my target to get me killed? What’s next? Dancing girls?”
“Trust me.” I roll my eyes at the anxiously awaiting Oral Semenov. He’s bouncing and ridiculously tall and lanky. “He’s smart, Sal.”
“He can be as brilliant as the fucking sun, but I’m not sure how I’m ever going to get past the name.”
“Just call him Dick and be done with it,” Dom deadpans and I erupt again. “Seriously!”
“It’s fucking raining buckets and you have me laughing.”
“It’s what good Masters do,” he boldly counters. “You didn’t have to go to Nola. You chose to. And for you, right now in your life, that’s like a suicide note. It’s a cry for help.”
His interpretation of my actions is spot on. “… Does he swallow?”
“Would you just go get in the damn car already?”
“I’m going,” I groan as Oral displays his toothy grin, popping back and forth on his toes. A good year of training with a hard crop could break the habit and braces could fix those gnarly teeth. “The hell, I must love you.”
“Remember that, Boston!”
Rain is coming down in sheets. I end the call, drop my phone in the backpack, and follow Oral underneath the umbrella to the limousine. He opens the door and I hastily duck inside.
Lunging across the seat, Deacon places both hands on my cheeks as his mouth collides into mine in an instant. His tongue darts between my lips as we reunite with an explosion of lust. He is so good, amazing, and real. I can’t believe he’s here as my fingers twist in his blonde hair. He shoves my backpack to the floorboard, and I back away to take a breather. I’m stunned, hot, and unbelievably hard.
“Are we seriously about to fuck in a limo?”
“We can do it now,” he says, straddling over my lap and unzipping my jacket. “Or we can do it when we get to The Dollhouse.”
A grin ignites across my lips and I touch my scruffy chin. “… How about both?”
“I’ve missed you.”
I stroke my finger over his cheek. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
Dipping down, he glides his tongue over my lips. Clothes fall off, and my hands shake as I tug off his hoodie. Shoes fly to the other seat, pants come down, and we remain lip-locked for most of it.
I need this man, not just any man—this man.
My savior—Deacon Vincent Cruz.
His intense moves force my back to crash against the leather. He kneels between my legs. He spits into his hand while pumping his cock and mine. The glorious act tantalizes all of my senses. I wish I had my phone; I'd take a video. My mouth waters as he speeds up the pace and slows to almost a halt, leaving his fist resting around my pierced beast.
What a beautiful sight!
My dick is so hard; I may come on his first thrust.
“I’m sorry,” I say, knowing it’s been months since we spoke. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“I should’ve told you,” he mutters, laying on top of me. His hand runs over my hair as those sad blue eyes peer deep into my soul. “I should’ve told you everything, I didn’t, and I’m sorry.”
“Do it,” I whisper, feeling his hand between us. The head of his dick nudges against my ass. “Please.”
Staying above me, he stops the movements of his slim body, filling my soul in a way so insanely passionate I fear capsizing. He is my addiction. My new narcotic. My absolute compulsion.
I will never be able to resist Deacon. He is the man I wish I could be, marching to the beat of a spiritual rhythm etched to his very core; he is always true to it. His words are truth. His light is justice. His beacon blisters with a radiant heat so intense…so blinding…so pure. And this is what I crave—my darkness enhanced by his light. All of my flaws, mistakes, and errors caught under the microscopic needle of one holy man.
This is why I know I will never sleep with another man.
No matter who he is, he will never illuminate the quagmire of my existence the way Deacon can.
I fall over the edge with him. I never hold back. I force the conversation and fight the dialogue of who we are as we edge closer to a place of the most intimate love I have ever known.
Because I allow it.
I consent for his pillage. I beg for his plunder. He brings me to a higher plateau so that I may sit at the highest point in the devil’s garden above the wretched vermin and slithering beasts. I will not make it to the throne without his elevation. He carelessly dives into my world, casting an aura around my caliginous armor and guarding my nefarious acts with the vigilance of a soldier, but he doesn’t consider the personal damage to himself.
“Talk to me,” he pleads, h
olding his resolve. “Tell me about the unease.”
“… What if I fail?”
“Fail what? Yourself? Me? Iris?”
“All of the above,” I mutter the verdict of my hindrance. The nebulous walls confine my flight. “What if instead of the Queen’s ring on my finger at the end of this, her blood is on my hands? I’ll never scrub away those stains. No matter how tenaciously I work the skin—Iris is in my blood, muscles, and bones.”
“And Kaci?”
“It’s different and we both know this. Her stain is more an infection in my brain.”
“Cure the manifestation of her work…change the narrative…you’re well beyond this being Kaci’s life story. This is yours and you need to own it. Make the choice and run with those decisions.” His eyes drip heavy tears onto my cheeks and they become my tears as they roll over my skin to the seat below. “Even if it means hurting me.”
“I can’t do that.”
His flood of emotions becomes the puddle sheathing around us. “Because you won’t?”
“Because I won’t choose between you and Iris.”
“Emily and me?”
“You,” I declare.
“Iris and me?”
“Both,” I proudly announce.
“Emily and Iris?”
I smile as my tears fuse with his. “There is no choice. And that is what hurts the most. I know my decision, but the excuses blast my flames like a fire extinguisher. I can’t hurt Emily because I’ve known her since she was in diapers…I can’t hurt Emily because she’s been through so much already…I can’t…”
“You can’t hurt Emily because you cannot admit how much you actually do love her,” he interrupts with an accuracy, urging my escape. If I wasn’t in the vice of his one hundred eighty pounds, I would be gone. “And to admit that – which may very well be your only way out of this – will be your greatest act of self-harm.”
“The only way to heaven is through the nightmare of love…”
“Yes,” he rapidly answers. “Admit how much you love Emily because in doing so, you also admit the magnitude of how much you love Iris.”
I hadn’t seen the undercurrent but his pointing it out threatened to sweep me out into volatile, sinister seas as I sobbed in inexplicable sorrow. Thank God, Deacon always secured a life rope around the cage of my heart, but it was for his safekeeping – this hidden treasure of my heart – to squeeze the red pulp and devour the juice alone. And as droplets trickled from his mouth and tongue, I would welcome his consumption.
Every Minute I Love You (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 3) Page 10
