“Who am I using to ship the sexy beast?”
I spend the night in a seedy motel because sometimes it’s fun to eat a greasy burger and wonder where all the stains on the curtains and walls come from. I stop by my favorite diner—the one I always stop at—but it’s closed.
As in, no longer in business.
As in, gone.
I’m struck by the harsh reality that everything changes. People come and go, marry and die, and the best breakfast south of Houston is now extinct. I cry. Like a motherfucking baby in the parking lot of the dusty, dilapidated diner that looks to have been closed down for years.
How could I have missed this?
How could something once so important to me go unnoticed?
It’s trivial in the context of the eating establishment, but pivotal in my choices as I apply those same questions to Iris.
How could I have missed this?
How could something once so important to me go unnoticed?
I grab a decent—but not my standard—breakfast sandwich from the truck stop in the next town and continue my drive south. I’ve done this drive several times. It’s peaceful and offers a quietly dangerous self-reflection. I think about Iris, Emily, Deacon, and Cat. I mull over the notes I started taking last night on Indigo “Bleu” Swann. She’s bipolar, depressed, a mess, and just like me.
I cannot wait to take the brief job.
Because I need it, I miss it.
And Bleu’s issues may be the ones to solve my own.
Pushing the code for the sprawling South Texas estate, I pull through the heavy wrought iron gates and smile at the notions of coming home. There was a time when this place—the Neves’ family compound—was my home away from home.
Juan Neves, Kaci’s adoptive dad and upper ranked member of Cinco, opens the door with a broad smile. He extends his hands in a welcoming manner and steps out in his boots and jeans. He only ever wears his cut when he’s on the bike.
“Beautiful truck!” he admires, peering inside, as I pop my sunglasses up in my hair. “When did you get it?”
“Yesterday,” I reply, laughing. “How are ya, old man?”
I hop out of the truck and shake his hand. He gives me a hug and scans over the ink visible in my tank top and jeans. “You grew up! How old are you now?”
“Twenty-seven, Sir.”
“Dear heavens, Kacilyn has been gone for six years.” I give a mournful nod. “Come inside.”
“Where is Regina?”
He readily tears up. “She passed away two years ago.”
How could I have missed this?
How could something once so important to me go unnoticed?
I spend the night at Juan’s home. Just Juan and me. He misses his sons. He misses his family. He misses his youth. I leave with a renewed purpose and a few boxes of his things—he isn’t a spring chicken—and there are mementos of Regina’s and Kaci’s now packed in four large boxes in the back of my new truck.
Maybe I needed to go see him to say goodbye, because in essence, that is what we did. His involvement with Cinco is very little anymore. He shows up at the occasional picnic and every funeral. He is keenly aware his time is dwindling to a close.
This time thing is starting to be an ongoing theme with me.
Tired of wasting it, tired of losing it, tired of not adhering to the principles in my core.
I stop at my restaurant, still closed, and call Cristos.
“Salvatore!”
“Juan is asking for help,” I say without hesitation.
He makes a raspy sounding growl and speculates with a guess, “He wants money to protect Cinco from Immortal.”
“No, he wants to alleviate Cinco of the Javi Neves problem,” I inform, strumming my fingers on the steering wheel. “And he wants me to do it.”
He is at a loss for words, much like I was. “He hired you to do a contract killing.”
“No,” I reply, lighting a smoke and putting my sunglasses on. “I told him I’d do it for free.”
28
Cleanse My Soul in Pixie Shards
Arriving in Houston late, I end up knocking on Jaid’s door with a bottle of whiskey and a carton of smokes. “I need to crash here for a few weeks,” I declare when she opens the door. I drop my bag on the floor and make myself at home—in my loft.
Amidst the wood and rope of my beloved fetish, I note the scintillating smell of girly. The silver suspension clips sparkle with enticement in the moonlight, but with the new decorative purple glass bead dangles attached. They feel girly, too. On my black leather sectional, hot pink pillows burst with color, providing a girly charm.
Shit.
Maybe this is a mistake.
“I need a drink and a savior.”
“You look like you need a bed,” she says, closing the door and fastening the row of locks. I smirk at the memory of Kaci begging my ass to install them all.
“So, I can have some more nightmares about where Iris is?” I grumble, kicking off my shoes and flopping on the sofa. “Or so I can wake up to the idyllic dream life I don’t want to have?”
“That’s morose.”
“I prefer beautifully melancholic.”
“Sounds like a contagious disease.”
I’m tempted to ask her if she’d like to get infected, but instead I declare the crux of my issues. “I have to kill Javi Neves.”
Grabbing two glasses, she slides onto the sofa and tucks her legs beneath her. “Define—have to.”
“I told Juan I would eliminate their problem.”
“Did he ask you to kill his son?”
I crack open the bottle and pour the glasses three-quarters full. “He asked if I would save his club.”
She takes a sip of the whiskey and I can tell by the uncertain reflection in her eyes, I will have to meet her arguments head on. “You cannot just kill Javi Neves without justification.”
“I have plenty of justification. He’s about to sell out to Muerte and his Immortal.”
“… You think.”
“No, I know,” I affirm, slugging back the booze. “And when he does, all hell is going to break loose.”
“Is Muerte really that bad or is the rumor mill just ripe?”
“He’s that bad according to Vega.”
Downing the liquid, she quietly sits and assesses me. “You should just get Amber to do it.”
I can’t help but laugh. “That would require forethought and Amber doesn’t have that quality. She’s just as likely to take out one of our allies.”
“Then why did you bring her back?”
“I didn’t,” I snap, refilling our glasses. “I asked her to go help get Juliet back on track.”
“With Dale…”
Ahh…yes, that source of pain. “And you are bothered by this?”
“Not in the way you are thinking,” she rebukes with a perturbed hurt. “I just don’t know that Amber and Dale have what it takes to get the school back to where it needs to be.”
“Does Dom?”
“Yeah.” Her agreement with that decision warms my gut. “Dom or you would be the two to get it back where it needs to be.”
“His future wife disagrees.”
“His future wife can go fuck herself.”
I sit up to remove my hoodie. “Where is the hatred for Ashley Randall coming from? Both you and Serene have a problem with her, hell even Em doesn’t seem real fond of her.”
“Because she is a bitch.”
“Define it—bitch—in Ashley’s case,” I ask in an attempt to understand the map of the female mind, which may be pointless, but I’m like a relentless dog with an unbreakable bone. “Please.”
“Ever since she gave birth to Romeo, she’s not been the same. She holds singular possession over the baby and throws Dom under a convoy of eighteen-wheelers every chance she gets.”
“You’re defending Dom like the roles have been reversed and there is abuse going on.”
Jaid glances to the massive St.
Andrews cross and swing. I do the same and wonder why she has my gear adorned like a queen on the catwalk. Girly. My bachelor pad is a thing of the past. I’m sad about that, like I want to turn back the clock, and do it all over again with what I know now. I’d keep Iris in a dolled-up girly cage by the window and only take her out when I wanted to play.
When Jaid pivots back, her eyes are wet with disillusionment—she isn’t the only one suffering from the affliction. “Because there is.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’ll talk a lot of smack and say a lot of things, but the one thing I will tell you is Dom was good to me during our brief two-month marriage. He isn’t the kind of guy to show aggression, ever. Ashley is trying to control his actions with the baby and she has been since she was pregnant. Maybe you’ve been too busy to notice,” she mutters as I feel the slam. “But there are many things wrong in The Unholy.”
“Is my biggest problem Ashley?”
“No,” she says, shaking her head and providing with some much needed insight from her feminine perspective. “Your biggest problem is how much Deacon Cruz is in love with you.”
After my bike arrives in perfect condition, I spend the next few weeks doing surveillance on Bleu Swann for Alex Torino. The girl is a train wreck of paralyzing emotions empowered by continuous, substantial life traumas.
It happens.
Heroes fall. God knows I cannot judge anyone.
I meet with Alex. I take pictures. I delve into the shadows.
And I love it.
The whole Swann case triggers my inner demons as I’m forced to confront choices. Iris is among the missing. Dom refused to let me work the case stating I was too close, but I’m pissed off because my eyes see things differently than the two dozen agents we have working to find Iris.
Everyone does.
Perceptions are unique.
We’re quickly tapping out of available resources to continue our search to finding Iris. There will soon come a time where we dwindle her team to six to three to none.
A cold case we cannot solve.
I can pour the money into Sibyl to pay for the continued search, but why would I do that when I could be working on it myself? I make one easy call to Sibyl’s new owner, Nico, to please call off the hounds on Iris. And he does it because he trusts me.
“Are you sure you’re ready to pull out?” he regretfully asks. “I don’t mind letting it go on for as long as it takes.”
I appreciate the sentiment. I know he has a genuine concern for Iris, but it doesn’t change the issue—I need to work the case. The only way to do that is to close the case with our agents or else Dom finds out and all hell breaks loose. “I am.”
The solemn moment breeds dark clouds, like a funeral attended by masses.
The condolence wishes come like driving rain, hoping I—Sal Raniero—will forgive them for their incompetence and not use my mafioso connection to come after them.
I spend the day making eighteen agents feel better about themselves. The conversations may as well be scripted because they all go the same way—an apology for their lack of skills, the sympathy card for my loss, and a speck of light no one truly believes. The “maybe she’ll show up” or “we’ll get a lead soon” are the hardest ones to hear.
In two weeks, I’ll be back in Boston and Nico will fire the final six agents from the case. I’m excited to go solo with my private team—Georgia, Jas, Lula, and Swain. I formulate the plan to keep Emily busy in her new business with Maka, and Cat agrees to hold back the probing family I’ve been born into.
Begging in a two-hour long phone call, I happily add in Randy Bianchi because his strategical skills in reconnaissance missions are infamous in our league. His brilliance at predicting outcomes garners enough attention that people have speculated a psychic-like ability. I send him everything I have on Iris.
And wait.
With the pinch of time—because I need to get to work on the Iris case—I shift gears into overdrive, pulling out all the stops, and doing things which could be construed as stupid. I bring in the leaders from Reckless Rebellion MC—Neil, One-Shot, Noose, Kief, Caldwell, Waylon, and X (Ten)—to orchestrate the change from Delirium’s former clubhouse to lingerie factory. Even Reggie and Karissa show up to help.
I have never been so proud of my extended family.
The one who doesn’t show is Deacon. And I pretend it doesn’t sting. He’s off doing his thing with some anonymous girl, and I don’t bother to ask who. It’s not Cat and that doesn’t sit well with me. We’re not at odds, but he is living his life on his tracks, and I’m trying to stay on mine while going at a record speed.
I’m dropping shit tons of money into Em’s business when I beg Kari to prod Delilah “The Dollmaker” Banks to come home from her island hideaway in the Caribbean to manage it all. The woman knows a thing or two about fashion and fetish.
As if angels are singing in heaven, Delilah agrees.
In an instant, I know, Emily will be successful with Delilah and Kari by her side.
Everything is going splendid—like absofuckinglutely perfect.
And then, Georgia calls.
Her flaming match drops quietly on my sleeping tanker truck full of fuel and explosives. Her news concerning body #42—a young woman found raped and decapitated in Northern Idaho—decimates any remaining sanity I possess.
Because her name is Flouncy Marianne Greer.
Losing my shit, I go to an MC charity event, drink a little too much, snort a few lines, and fuck my target: Bleu in a hallway. If there is one saving grace in my epic meltdown, I stop Bleu in committing suicide. Alex Torino is thrilled with my performance and offers a substantial bonus in addition to my fees. I decline both his payment and the bonus, deserving neither.
In the view of my friends and family, I’m the motherfucking hero.
Internally, I’m the asshole loser who cannot find my girl.
One fucking girl. One fucking world. One fucking boy.
This should be easy.
I’d have better luck finding a cunt hair in a hay bale.
So, in classic Sal-style, when the shit gets rough, so do I—which is why I’m stalking around Jaid suspended on the cross and teasing the whip on the floor with a flutter of my wrist. I’m contemplating breaking my self-imposed Domination abstinence, and I’m sober to boot, which these days is a rare treat with me.
“Are you going to draw that leather or do I need to hire a professional?” Jaid provokes as I glance up to her. “Just do it.”
“I’m insulted.”
“Good,” she hollers, growing testy. “Now blister me!”
The visual magnificence of her submission is a stunning masterpiece. With the high ceilings, the suspension ropes tether around the cross to her fine flesh. Her athletic build fits snug against the apparatus and her naked skin drives my arousal to a throbbing, painful level.
“I can’t,” I mutter, dropping the whip and embracing my new biggest loser in the world status. “It’s just not right.”
“It wasn’t right to fuck the client’s girl and you did that!”
“I didn’t tie her to a fucking post and want to hurt her!” I angrily hiss, pacing around. I grip the bridge of my nose. “I cannot do this anymore.”
I hit the emergency release and the rig drops her body down the few feet. “Dammit! Salvatore!”
“What?” I yell, undoing her wrist cuffs. “I’m stuck.”
“You are not just stuck,” she yells as I turn away. She chases me to the kitchen where I pull out a glass and the bottle of whiskey. “No!” She grabs the glass and throws it hard against the cement floor. “No!”
“Fine!” I go for the bottle, but before I can, she snatches it away. “You better give that to me.”
“No! I’m tired of watching you drown,” she shouts, backing up, as I creep closer. “You want to know why Cruz disappeared? Because I can tell you. I’ve talked to him and I know—you disappeared. You got out of prison, a t
raumatic event capable of paralyzing the best agents, and dove headfirst into your father’s business. You are a goddamned ticking time bomb and Deacon doesn’t know how to defuse you.”
I’m madder than I have ever been. “Did you fuck him, too?”
Her fierce slap to my cheek comes on sudden, without warning, and hurts like hell. She smashes the whiskey bottle near the fridge and turns away, in an attempt to leave, but I grab her wrist. “Leave me alone.”
“I can’t!” I plead. “Please!”
“You can’t whip me! You won’t fuck me! Why are you even here?”
“Because it’s my house!” The words sting when I say them. “It’s Kaci’s house…And you are my friend.”
Ouch.
“I don’t want to be just your friend. You stay and I will go.”
“You stay and I will go,” Kaci said many times. “You stay and I will go.”
The words scrape like a razor-sharp mantra in my head. With all the pent-up hate and rage of the last seven years, I vehemently roar, “Don’t fucking say that to me!” I crumble to the ground in the shards of our demise. I feel the sharp edges cut into my skin as I dust the splinters from my hands against the black denim fabric of my jeans. “Don’t go…everyone always goes…”
“Because you push them away,” she cries, dropping to her knees in front of me. “Deacon warned you. I’ve warned you. We keep trying to hold you up, but the harder we try, the more you fall. We cannot keep doing this because we’re terrified that one day we’re going to fail and you’re going to end up in the ground. And your blood will be on our hands. It’s easier to leave you alone and watch you from a distance when you self-implode. Far less fallout.”
“No one said this was going to be so hard.”
“And you’re making it even harder,” she whispers as the tears stream down her cheeks. She brushes her fingers over my skin. “Every time I think you’re doing okay and you’re climbing up that mountain, you tumble right back down. I’ve watched you doing it for years, Sal. And eventually, you have to walk away from the mountain.”
“So, I don’t climb it? Admit defeat? What do I do?”
Every Minute I Love You (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 3) Page 23
