Every Minute I Love You (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 3)

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  This is also why sex with Emily is a challenge.

  Because as you well know, sex is never a challenge for me.

  If I could wipe the drive, I would. Start over with a fresh build, I would. But there would be a phenomenal loss of memories and I’m not sure I can handle that, either. So, I’m flipping through trashy waiting room mags, telling women how to orgasm better and make your man grow longer, and trying to figure out how to love Emily without loving her the way a husband should love a wife.

  I’m the only thing she knows.

  I’m the only one she trusts.

  And she’ll put up with crazy amounts of my bad behavior just to be Mrs. Sal Raniero.

  “Sounds good.”

  “What has you so distracted?”

  “I’m running out of time,” I say, hearing the ticking clock grow louder with each passing day. “I may not make it.”

  Cat leans in close and whispers, “Do you have a plan?”

  I vacantly stare at the floor and shake my head. “Not a damn clue. I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  My phone vibrates in my jeans and I stand up to see who it is. “Raniero.”

  “We have an issue,” Randy Bianchi says. “And I think you need to be aware of it. We just got done going through Martin “Red” Blum’s things. And we have good reason to believe one of our agents is in grave danger.”

  “Who?”

  “Jaid Chambers.”

  Pacing around the full waiting room, I do my best to contain the fury as Cat looks on with concern. “Go haggle with him. I don’t care what the FUCK you gotta do, get me in to that interrogation room.”

  I end the call as Cat covers her eyes and people stare. “Sorry, folks. He’s a very important guy. Good luck with your victims, er…patients…loved ones.”

  I snort as she locks her arm into mine and we dash for the door. We just get to the other side when I barrel over with laughter. “Did you just tell an entire hospital waiting room—good luck with your victims?”

  “I’ve been around my lil brother too long!” She shrugs.

  “Nevah!” I take a breath, needing the comic relief. “Come on, I’ll go buy you a cup of coffee.”

  A month later, I’m sitting in my home office. The walls are covered in memos, letters, photos, and faxes. I didn’t drown in the river, but I am certainly trying to now.

  Jaid has been missing for three weeks.

  And to put the cherry on top of the epically bad melting sundae, Red escaped.

  Now, Handcock and Red are in the public. And I haven’t slept in weeks because of it. This shit keeps me up.

  “Babe?” Emily peers in with a smile. “Dom is here.”

  “Thanks, sweetheart.”

  He steps in to the mess, scans over the walls, and says nothing. He knows I’m trying. He knows this is killing me. Not because I have an unprofessional relationship with my former partner which crosses multiple lines, but she was one of us. One of us.

  And that shit matters, you see.

  Because if they can steal Jaid, guess who else they could take?

  So, I ain’t sleeping until I find her ass…or her remains…and bring her home. Her mom has lost so much already and this will hurt bad. She won’t ever recover and anyone who says time will heal, doesn’t understand how loss fucking works.

  One daughter to cancer.

  One daughter to a different kind of monster.

  But loss is loss so who is to judge?

  And one daughter whose heart I need to destroy in the next...let me check my watch…sixty-one days.

  61 motherfucking days.

  Let that sink in.

  Two months and I am Mr. Emily Granger.

  It’s no wonder Dom is standing in my war room. He takes a seat, setting his elbows on the arms of the chair, and clasping his fingers together. He puts his shoes up on my coffee table and crosses his feet like his legs are all his—he owns it.

  Faking it until we make it.

  A whole lotta lesson in that.

  “I’m divorcing Ashley.”

  Bout damn time.

  I want to get up, grab some pom~poms, and one of those little cheerleader skirts (without panties, of course) so I can appropriately rally him on to a winning victory.

  Without moving, I lift my eyes. “Are you sure?”

  “I have to,” he says, distanced. “Her levels of abuse are escalating to new heights.”

  “You stole her son.”

  “And I convinced her that Romeo would be safer for the time being somewhere else.”

  I snicker, “It still doesn’t change the fact you took a child away from the mother. Deacon and I are far different. It may be a bitter pill to swallow, but the fact is Raine and Merritt are complete strangers. Romeo doesn’t get that privilege and neither do you.”

  “But you think about Raine?”

  “Of course, I do,” I admit, putting my foot up on the edge of the desk and rocking in the chair. “But I also think about forty some Bordertown girls who were brutally murdered and Jaid who is missing. I don’t know Raine.”

  “Yet, you’re wanting to bring them home.”

  “And you know why I’m doing that,” I argue. “Because Cas is a fucking loose cannon. When I got the report of someone seeing her in France, I knew we had to do something.”

  “… Who told you?”

  “Dale.”

  “Been working with him a lot on the Jaid case,” Dom snidely provokes. “Is there more to the story?” The innuendo is subtle, but I grab the blade before he can slip it in.

  “You mean other than he is a damn good agent?” I flop my legs down and scoot forward. I straighten my desk, pull out a smoke, and pick up the lighter from the Yanagi Hostess bar. My hand rapidly trembles. “Or because you think I’m looking for a hookup?”

  “You are not okay,” he calmly remarks. “Look at how much you are shaking…”

  “I’m fine,” I excuse.

  “And you are lying now,” he points out, tilting his head. “How much speed you popping?”

  “Fuck. You.”

  “Don’t fucking lie to me Sal. I have known you for years. I know your quirks. And you are glitching. Tell me I’m not right.”

  “You’re not right about the drugs,” I contend, rocking back and staying still. “I’m fucking exhausted and stressed.”

  “And you’re going to give yourself a heart attack before you’re twenty-nine.”

  “Dale wanted to come onto the case because he knows Jaid better than anyone,” I honestly inform. “I’ve got the whole team working on this thing 24/7 and I’m not sure I’m going to find her. If I don’t, that’s on me.”

  “No,” he reprimands. “That is on whoever took her. This case has been run tighter than any I’ve seen in a long fucking time. Have you talked to Kaci?”

  “Every fucking day,” I admit, glancing at the bookcase. “She’s never going to not be with me.”

  “Stop talking.”

  I furrow my brow tight. “… Stop talking?”

  “Stop talking to your dead wife…and see what you hear…”

  I roll my eyes, not ready to give up my crutch. “I’ve got Jas grilling Atticus,” I confide. “Because I think he knows more than he’s saying.”

  “I know you do.” He gets up and walks over to the desk. His eyes drift over my clutter. “Do you need anything from me?”

  I absentmindedly shake my head. “There is nothing anyone can do.”

  “I can give you focus.”

  “That would require going backwards,” I say. “And I’m not sure I want to do that.”

  He eases around the desk and sits on the edge. “Answer me this. When was the last time you had a good scene?”

  The truth is I don’t remember.

  I refuse to go there with Emily. Deacon and I are usually focused on repairing something and any lovemaking we do is more sensual than erotic. And the only other sub I can imagine lashing my belt with is half way around the world.
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  “I don’t know, Sir.”

  “If you change your mind, let me know.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were paying to fuck Amber?”

  “I wasn’t really paying her to fuck her,” he says. “I was fucking her and helping her out financially. The truth gets skewed and diluted. Remember who you trust.”

  I think back to Randy telling me to draw my lines.

  “Since you have experience with this,” I whisper, holding his gaze. “If I wanted to kill my father…”

  Hastily, he relays, “I would be very careful who you tell that to.”

  “You are the only one,” I reply, locking my fingers together and popping all of them at once. “And I’m only telling you because you want Iris happy. You won’t let anything bad happen to me because it will adversely affect her happiness quotient.”

  “I would not do it the way I killed mine.”

  “You mean don’t use the girl I’m raising in Emily to inject him with a deadly poison?”

  He smirks. “Interesting way of putting your betrothed…”

  “You couldn’t marry Iris, either.”

  “No, but if I could’ve…”

  “We wouldn’t be having this conversation,” I claim. “So, what would you do?” He pulls up the small chair near the desk. “Just drop the papers on the floor.”

  He does it. And it doesn’t matter because the whole office is a clusterfuck of my madness. “If I were you, I would arrange it to look like an intentional hit, but it would need to be somewhere very open.”

  “There is going to be a little soirée in sixty-one days.”

  “You could do it then, but you better make sure you hire a helluva marksman.”

  I breathe, wondering how much I trust him. “What do you know about Massimiliano Vidal?”

  “Gaspare Castillo’s hitman.” His face twitches. “Mass is lethal.”

  “Tell me, I’m having one performed by a damn Irish priest.”

  He gives a puzzled look. “… Seriously?”

  I nod. “Father Patrick McPhail.”

  “Why on earth is an Irish priest marrying the Boston son?”

  “Because damn Q negotiated it a few years ago.”

  He sits back and strokes his chin. “You do realize he is part of Kill Rat.”

  “You realize Q is part of Unholy,” I rebuke with a chuckle.

  “Fair enough, but it’s a prime opportunity—a known Irish gang member and an Italian boy’s wedding—all is fair in love and war.” He voices everything I’ve thought about for days. “But I’ll warn you Sal, this is fucking dangerous. This goes down wrong, and you will be burping corned beef for the rest of your lucky green life.”

  “I know. And I don’t like meat that much.”

  He lifts a brow over the glint in his eye. He takes a heavy breath, tilts forward slightly, and closes his eyes. “Here is the deal. If you do this successfully, everyone is going to pin it on the Irish, and they’re going to come after your ass. But what you really need to think about is how that little tartlet of the Lotus pie figures into that. You have to not only protect your interests, but The Commission and Lotus. And if you’re really smart, you guard Cristos, too. You need to make damn sure none of them have deals running with Kill Rat before framing them for your father’s murder.”

  “I know,” I repeat.

  “And you need to know this isn’t something Kary Vega is going to excuse because a dead Cesario Raniero isn’t in his best interests. He wants to fry the fucker almost more than you. This is going to piss off your relationship with the feds. This is criminal—hard time—without a chance of getting out. So, you better make damn sure before you hire Massimiliano Vidal that you have cover and no one is using your ass.”

  “I know,” I say again.

  “This is your first serious act as a mob boss, Boston.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s no wonder The Commission is sniffing your balls,” he says as his expression softens. “But I’ll tell you this. If I needed an assassin, there are only two in the world I would call. Massimiliano Vidal and Salvatore Raniero.”

  “Is he better than me?”

  He wobbles his hand in the air. “Different. Mass is a hell of a player—in the field and in the dungeon.”

  “He’s a top?”

  His eyes widen. “Master Vidal is extraordinary in his peculiar ways, imagine your focus, my discipline, Nick’s sadism, and Deacon’s spirituality with very few words and you’ll have Mass.”

  “Guess I’m going to church.”

  “Be careful, he’ll eat you up,” Dom warns.

  I curiously tilt my head. “He swings both ways?”

  “No, he swings the Mass way.”

  My pain slut is undeniably intrigued. I may take the top spot most of the time, but there is always something to learn under a truly gifted Master.

  “I have to kill Javi Neves.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re stealing my words,” I prod with a smirk. “Thing is I can remember when he was my age and I looked up to him. I thought he was a God.”

  “Neves was never a God. He wasn’t even a King. He was a fucking peasant, stealing a motorcycle club like a damn crust of bread.”

  After Dom leaves, I take a shower. I’m standing in the bathroom door staring at Emily. She sets her book down, drops her glasses on it, and smiles.

  “Why are you so beautiful?”

  “Because you make me this way,” she says, glowing. “You know we can…”

  Oh. God.

  I drop my eyes to the floor, uncertain of what to say. No, I can’t fuck you because I may get you pregnant—seems very inappropriate for a girl trying to get knocked up.

  I finish drying off and walk over to the bed I haven’t been in for a month. The recliner in the man cave is my spot. The television stays on sports all the time. And the four lap tops, two tablets, and one desk top are mine, too.

  But has Emily said one peep to me?

  No.

  She is content, working on testing Ever Hope’s online website, and continuing along with my decorating trend. How gay of me. Because I’m such a dedicated shopper—ya!—no. So, panache-y.

  Ignore the fact that there was blood splatter everywhere.

  Or those two unfortunate souls who weren’t breathing.

  I crawl in bed and flip the channels until her hand is on my belly and sliding southbound. I’m engaged to this girl and I have to play along until Massimiliano Vidal takes care of everything.

  I pray I’m not putting too much faith in his doctrine.

  I close my eyes, find the snapshots of Iris riding me, and boom—it’s magic! Instant arousal. Add in some Deacon and I may go double.

  Nah.

  That shit is sacred.

  Checking my text messages on my phone in bed the next morning, I wish I had a fucking cup of coffee. In a little cherry blossom covered silk robe, Emily walks in with a purpose in her step as she is carrying the tray of French toast and bananas.

  I enter into another dimension of Hades.

  She has no idea who I am.

  She smiles and I fucking fake it. “You’ll never guess what happened this morning!”

  Sipping on my tea, I say, “Hmm?”

  “Anna Ford called and asked if we could come for Thanksgiving!”

  I almost drop the hot tea on my morning wood as I do a double take.

  … She fuckin’ what?

  “Em, I’m really busy with work right now,” I politely reply with a hint of stern. “I really can’t go.”

  “I know, but with Pris being gone,” she whispers, working those blue moons like a fucking crooner in a love swept serenade. “I think being with my family is really important and Mom and Kade will be there.”

  “Sounds fantastic!”

  “Besides, you can show me Juliet!”

  Oh. God. Just. Kill. Me. Now.

  Pussy. Fucking. Whipped.

  And I don’t even like her pussy.


  I am trained for this.

  But fuck if it ain’t hard some days.

  62

  Not in My House, Bitch

  With thoughts of how I deserve this for bloodletting—giving and giving with no care as to what it would do to me—so long, we arrive in Texas the weekend before Thanksgiving. We’re staying at Juliet—not my dungeon and damn sure not my room at Scarlet House—but in a dorm room.

  I bring a giant messenger bag with all my devices to the outside world as I plan on going into some sort of comatose state soon. I will simply ignore everything going on and focus on work except for: grocery shopping with Trudy and pie making with Anna and football and food.

  I want everyone to just ignore the fact that Master Nero is on campus because he isn’t functioning in that regard. I can’t.

  Sitting in Anna’s formal living room, I pretend to pay no attention to the gossip convention going on in the kitchen with Anna, Serene, Trudy, Mierne, and Emily.

  I don’t want to know anything. I put my AirPods in and crank up the T-Swizzle, 2NE1, Alaska Thunderfuck, and Lil Dicky. I’m just getting into a rhythm, checking email and the logs to see if anything is new on the Jaid case when Dev and Kate walk in. I pause the music, pull the plugs out of my ears, and make niceties.

  “Hey!” Devereux “Evere” Kone waves and strides over as I stand up to shake his hand.

  I set my comp down and move around the overcrowded living room to give Kate a hug and kiss her cheek. “You are looking fabulous!”

  “Thanks!” I say. And if I’m being honest, she looks good, too. Happy. Whole. Married. Maybe I, too, can go from being a grumpy bastard to a complete, content person.

  “I don’t want to interrupt your work, so we’re going to go talk to the girls.”

  “Alright.”

  With a sigh, I sit down and repeat the process.

  Five minutes later, Nico, Dom, and Abel walk in. I toss my head back and cross my eyes. I’m not expecting answers on the ceiling.