…and dangerous.
After packing my things at RE, I need to get away from everything for a few days. I kiss my fiancée goodbye, tell Cat to keep an eye on things, and take an early commercial flight in first class. This isn’t the first time I’ve run away from Boston in the last three years. In fact, I’ve done this flight so many times, the flight attendants know me by name. It’s relatively empty when Myra stops and asks, “Your usual, Luke?”
“Please, ma’am,” I say, glancing up from beneath the oversized hoodie. “Double.”
“You got it.”
I glance out the darkened window and watch the ominous gray clouds as people continue to board the plane. I’ve got my fingers crossed that no one will be sitting beside me. She returns with my drink and notices my displeasure. Easing into the chair, she says, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
With a maternal nurturing, she consoles, “I know it’s something bad.”
“It is, but I’ll be fine,” I concede. “How is Kayla doing?”
Kayla is her seventeen-year-old daughter. She has cystic fibrosis and battles against the odds every day by running long distance in high school. “She is hoping to do her first marathon when we go home to Houston next week.”
“I wish I could be there.”
“You should come,” she offers, smiling. “She’d love it.”
“Maybe I will,” I say, returning the grin. “Can I stay for Christmas?”
She laughs. “You have a wedding to get to…besides, she is doing another one in February.”
“Meh,” I acquiesce with a shrug. “The wedding could wait.”
A herd of passengers’ trample through first class. “I need to go,” she says, squeezing my hand. “We’ll talk later. There’s only one other passenger up here.”
I slam back the whiskey as the pink sky paints the way for the yellow in amongst the heavy grayish purple clouds. It’s not a pretty day. I pop my earbuds in and crank up the Post Malone.
Too many sleepless nights force my dozing during take-off and I don’t wake up until someone sits in the chair and bumps my arm. I jostle awake with the realization the best deals in our business never arrive at a board meetings but in remote back alley locations, ostentatious dinners, or strip clubs with hundred-dollar lap dances. “What the fuck are you doing here Pico?”
“Helping a brother out.”
“By following me to Colorado?”
“No,” he snickers, stretching out. “I’m not leaving the airport and you’re not going to Colorado, we both know that. I’m catching a plane to Texas.”
I aim to correct him, but I’m too stumped by his plans in returning to the Lone Star State. “Why the hell are you going back there?”
“I have a meeting with Cassidy Hope on Monday in El Paso.”
Unfastening my seat belt, I lean forward and rub my eyes. “Jesus Fuck… it’s happening.”
“Yeah, it is,” he acknowledges, crossing his arms. “Are you ready for it?”
I glance back over my shoulder. “Do I look ready?”
“You look like you’re running away.”
“I’m just going home for a few days,” I mutter, rolling my neck and cracking my knuckles. I grimace. “I need to get out of the pressure cooker.”
“By putting others in it?”
I slump back into the seat. “What happened to Zoe wasn’t my fault.”
“It wasn’t not your fault either.” He nods with a scolding glare. “You had to know there would be consequences to your actions.”
I sigh. “Are you here to list off everything I’ve done wrong?”
“No, I’m here to tell you the heat coming off Javi’s death is going to get even hotter until you back off and solidify the merger with Miss Granger. People are running scared that you are going to hook up with Iris.”
I shake my head and rebuke, “You really think that is going to make a difference? I mean come on. First, Jaid…now Zoe…”
“You got too many pots on your stove and one of them is bound to boil over.”
“What are you suggesting?”
His head tilts as he strokes the overgrown beard on his chin. “I’m suggesting you make a decision and soon. You cannot keep doing what you are. You’re denying the fighter in you. Either fight for Iris or let her go.”
“Girls are getting hurt left and right because of the shit I’ve done. It doesn’t make me want to bring Iris home.”
He latches his fingers to my forearms. “No, girls are getting hurt because there are bad men in the world. You’re bringing home the kids. You need to call Iris home, too. There was a time it was safer for her away from you, but not now…too much has changed.”
“I cannot bring her home unless Lotus agrees to hire The Unholy for her safekeeping. I don’t like it, but it is what it is. She has too many targets aiming for her back. And if she does come home, I must be present. No random acts of madness slipping into my mind.”
“I guess you figure out how to cancel a wedding,” he says, releasing my arm and clasping his ringed fingers together. He wears gold and diamonds, not my personal taste, but it’s fitting for him. “Iris is safest under your watch now and The Chairman knows that. It’s easy to guard an old man, not so easy to guard a rare flower.”
“That rare flower is the only thing that counts.”
“Other people may not know what you have done, but I do. You’re going to eliminate or absorb The Brethren and Cinco will follow. Hopefully, Lotus gets the hell out of the way. Don’t leave her out there alone. Iris needs protection. Get your shit together and get her ass home. I know your boys and their loyalty to you which is why after I meet Cas and tell her she can suck my left nut, I’m going to meet with Cruz.”
I blink, knowing exactly what he is saying and what it means. He is offering to bring the cavalry. “… You’re joining Reckless Rebellion?”
“We’ve been talking, and Cruz is offering a VP spot if I want it.”
“Pico…”
He grins like the dirty devil he is. “What? You think my ass won’t take a bullet for you? Think again, friend. The things you did for Kaci were nothing less than heroic in my book. And I do not forget.”
“How many will you bring?”
“I’ve got enough to quad RR in the Southwest alone.”
“Jesus Christ…” I mutter, stunned. “How long have you been planning this one?”
“A while,” he laughs, showing off his pearly white veneers. He lost a lot of his teeth fighting during his twenties. “If you want to start a war, I’ve got the men and resources to do it. Don’t ever underestimate the little Mexican kid from the biker gang down south. I may be short and scarred up, but I got a few friends.”
“I never doubted you,” I add, knowing Santino Neves is a man worth having on my team. We weren’t always friends. At times in the past, we were closer to enemies, but I never imagined my daedal work over the past couple years would earn his professional attention. He was knocking on my door, and I was damn sure going to answer. “Do you want in The Unholy?”
“Maybe,” he says, snarling. “We’ll keep working together and see how it goes.”
With a calculating gaze, I ask, “What do you want?”
“To get the club back, so I can get back home where we belong.”
“You want Cinco.”
“I want Cinco without Immortal involved,” he informs with a serious stare. “All Cas wants to do is lay back and get absorbed by the fucking cartel. Cinco is better than that. Our members believe in family, loyalty, and respect—much like Luca built his organization on. If you can get me Cinco, I’ll hold back Immortal for you.”
“Then I have to eliminate Cas from the picture, too…”
“Yes,” he says in agreement. “She cannot continue to be the loose cannon. Her loyalty isn’t with Cinco though, her loyalty is with Cas. She’ll go wherever the money and drugs are plentiful. And my prediction right now is she’s going to take over Les Péta
les.”
“Can we silence her without putting her in the dirt?”
“We can try,” he agrees with a nod. “But there are no guarantees here, brother.”
Kindred spirits are the most protective and dangerous.
78
The Infinite Mean
RANIERO.
Trust the power of a good bitch
because
a bad girl is the only girl.
After the plane lands, I step out into the parking lot to see my Raptor waiting in the lot. I had Georgia bring it when she took off for Washington. The older model holds so many memories of Iris and who we used to be that I drove it out to my place near The Badlands of Nebraska. I bought the dilapidated farm in the middle of a cornfield and started calling my house The Mean—because it was, mean—in many regards. But before I digress—more on how all this came to be shortly.
The Mean is about half an hour from my command center, which is near Crawford at an old restored farmhouse. Since Mock took on the full-time job of monitoring Iris, I bought half of his mercenary business with a promise to build it into a substantial network of agents, and I’ve named our command center, Je Suis.
Jas and Georgia live full time in the residence. Kevyn Abo also works for me now, but he lives closer to town where his wife and children have easier access to schools and shopping.
My spot in northwestern Nebraska is relatively remote, and few know about it but still, I implemented an enviable security system. I rigged both places with the latest high-tech gadgets, facial recognition scanners, full 360º high-def cameras, and enough systems infrastructure to make a hacker jealous.
Of course, Georgia was in heaven. Although she did occasionally complain about the remote locale and lack of available suitors, which she routinely informed me Jas was not. They were more like brother and sister and I was fine with that. She wanted me to expand or relocate Deacon Cruz, but there was no way in hell I was doing that.
I fly into Denver because it’s almost three hours closer to The Mean than Lincoln. Though the skies are sunny, the forecast is predicting snow and it’s not something I want to deal with. I hurry through my few errands—the hardware store, the craft store, my favorite dispo, and the liquor store. It’s all routine.
And it feels—so good.
I know you’re thinking, I’m going to get fucked up. Not quite, beautiful.
By the time I get back in the truck, it’s noon. I send a quick text message to the one person who needs to know I’m here. And I start the process of hydration and chain smoking. Georgia left the case of water and carton of smokes because she’s a good woman. Remind me to give her a Christmas bonus—something nice like a hunky gigolo and a new sports car.
The drive is fairly boring, but that is a good thing, too. Kind of like a reset for all the stress surrounding my life in Boston. I’ve not only been planning a wedding (ugh...) but I’m continuing to work a few select cases through Sibyl, mostly ones that had Kary Vega (or agents he associated with) stumped. I don’t need the money, but I love puzzles. If I’m lucky enough to save a girl or two or twenty, it is a bonus. But I never plan on positive outcomes because the files are the bleakest of the bunch. The files no one wants, fighting so hard for intel they were blue in the face and close to calling them cold cases.
That was why Agent Zoe Hess was in Washington.
I sent her to watch over the sex trafficking ring we busted over the summer. I knew they would rebuild, but I didn’t know how or when. Zoe’s job was essentially aftercare because I understood we didn’t get all of the UNSUBs. It was basic math 101 with an operation of that size. I thought the position would be fairly safe for our newest field agent. I fucked up.
I’m not perfect.
Pushing the button for the gate, I pull into my dusty driveway and scour my eyes over the mess I bought. Remember, The Mean. It’s 352 acres and one ramshackle, mean, old Italianate mansion with substantial outbuildings. I designed and helped construct the new barn, which is incredible. One day, I’ll find the time to fix the rest of it, but until then, I call this home.
Boston isn’t home.
I had to find my own place—my own space—with plenty of wide-open sky to breathe. There is only one girl who has ever seen it, and yes, it has been christened—several times over by different blessings. Smirk.
I park under the carport which I haven’t yet decided if its stable or not. I think it is, but the old construction is rickety. I shored the thing up as best as I could one afternoon, but it really needs a complete rebuild.
The Mean isn’t much better. It’s a far cry from the house I live in now with Emily—fully restored, top of the line appliances and fixtures meant for entertaining. I admit it is beautiful, so why the fuck did I buy this run down, piece of shit house in Nebraska?
Because I wanted it.
That’s why.
I shuffle inside and pop the beer and pot cream in the fridge. I desperately want to strip off my hoodie and shirt, but it’s fucking cold out, like the wind cuts right through to the bone miserable. I turn on some opera—a mixed collection of the best pieces. I may not have solid floors, but I have security and a sound system because this is how my brain works.
Dumping the hundred bottle caps out of the bag, I start the process of popping holes in each one. With the cigarette dangling from my lips, I grab the fat wooden dowel rod and take it out to my truck. Under the back seat, I pull out my drill still fit with the bit from the last time I did this. I make two dozen tiny holes in a crisscross pattern over the length of about eighteen inches. I’m practically skipping with glee as I meander to the abused little shed. I say abused because most of the tools are not mine but the previous owners. One day, I’ll clean it.
Or, I’ll put my handsaw in the fucking truck.
One or the other.
After cutting the foot-and-a-half long piece, I run a sheet of sandpaper over the whole thing. I lovingly take my time like I’m stroking...yeah, let’s not think about that just yet. I walk back across the property to my house when I get a text message. I don’t look to see who it is because this is my time.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
I’ve become rather selfish, almost possessive, with my time.
I snatch the scissors from the drawer and snip long cords of leather from the four spools I bought. I thread them through the holes and tie them off. And then the fun begins.
Taking the sharpening stone from the bag—cause I took mine to Boston to file Em’s gardening tools last time—I carefully hone each of the bottle caps. With meticulous concentration, I lace the caps to the leather cords. I cut myself pretty bad the first time I did this. Thank God, I had a suture kit in with the drill...we don’t talk about why I have these things... I have scars from the incident. I don’t sharpen the bottle caps to a razor’s edge anymore either.
Mistakes were made that day.
Whoops.
From the kitchen drawer, I grab the leftover (baseball) bat tape and wind it around my new toy as the sun begins to set. This is the ninth handmade flogger I’ve made, and this is the final one. I admire my handiwork, clean up my mess, and pop a frozen meal—chicken, vegetables, and rice—in the microwave.
I run upstairs to take a shower. Kicking off my shoes, I drop my jeans, tug off the hoodie, and yank my t-shirt over my head from the back. The hot water feels amazing. I put in a new water heater, but I have leaks all over the damn place. The electrical is all new for the security, computers, internet, television—gotta have my sports, y’all—but pieces of the walls have been removed and left open. When I say derelict, I mean it.
I’ve got forty-dollar shampoo in a crumbling shower. This is the juxtaposition of my life. I’ve got the criminal underworld in the palm of my hand and the Feds buttered up by Kary Vega’s blackmail. I’ve got a girl I like, but am not in love with that I’m marrying in…nineteen days. Let that sink fucking in...
In nineteen motherfucking days, I will make her Mrs. Emily Raniero because she wa
nted to get married on damn Christmas Day.
Owala, I know.
Fuck.
If my OCD flares, I’ll pull another row of tiles off the wall, so I quickly finish rinsing the soap bubbles from my body and exit the bathroom. The towels are rose colored, which I cannot stand, but they were bought by Em. I have to pretend to love them. I cannot fucking stand goddamned rose towels.
And in case you forgot why—my wife’s blood clashed horribly with the color.
Towels should be very dark or white and bleached regularly, one way or the other, but there is no room for pastels or grays—in anything. And yet I know, my life has turned a putrid shade of pastel gray for which I can do nothing about it. I don’t think. I’m still working on it.
I stare at my naked reflection in the mirror full of spots and cracks. I didn’t break the thing, it came that way. Maybe I came cracked, too. I’m starting to look old at twenty-eight. My hair is long enough on top for my mother to complain.
“Get your haircut soon! Before the ceremony! You don’t want all your pictures to look like you just had a haircut!”
Actually, Mom, I want it just like it is right now. It’s a good pulling length and if I’m fucking Em good, sometimes she twists it around her fingers and I come like a beast. It’s good. I mean, it’s not Iris, but sex with Em has gotten...complicated.
I pull on a pair of grease stained gray sweatpants that I worked on the Triumph with Jas during the fall. The old car was at the command center when I found it years ago. The farm belonged to Chris Smith’s family. He was married to Serene before his accidental death in a car wreck.
After his death, Serene gave up their Baby Emlee for adoption because of her inability to cope. The family moved away, left the property to Serene, and I bought it for chump change. She didn't want it, but I damn sure did. I like having places to run away to, much like my grandfather, Luca Raniero.
Jas is bound and determined to get the Triumph running. She’s been a pistol though and every time we think we’re getting somewhere, we gotta order parts that take forever to find and ship. We’re going at a turtle-like pace, working on her about once a month.
Every Minute I Love You (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 3) Page 64
