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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

Kapow!

  No. I’m making an effort, despite the emotional strings pulling my heart to Raine, to protect her from this. Call me a bastard. But some things, little people should not see. That shit scars. I know.

  Possibility equals fluidity and changing plans without warning.

  Having a team with the ability to move outside the box, think fast, and react accordingly are all paramount to the Salvatore Raniero shop running top notch. We dance with agility and grace, and if we stumble, we do not show it. We keep moving. We do not draw attention to ourselves. We just keep going.

  And we do not quit.

  I’m in the man cave, flipping channels, and sipping on a half full bottle of whiskey. It’s late Sunday, December 23. I’m supposed to get married on Christmas.

  By this time tomorrow, Cesario Raniero will be dead.

  With the minutes ticking down, I’m trying to figure out what to say to Emily. I’m sorry I’m too broken by his death to get married seems like a cop out. Hey, I’m not getting blackmailed into marrying you anymore is lame though true. After two hours and a substantial amount of amber tranquility, I narrow it down to, I love you but not like this.

  A lot of our close friends, family, and associates will be there tomorrow for the rehearsal dinner, and even more are coming in for the wedding. The Commission is sending a few Bianco and Rosso members to show their support and respect for Luca Raniero’s grandson.

  I don’t know when I will stop being Luca Raniero’s grandson.

  At first, the notion humored me, but I’d rather be known as Sal.

  Glancing into the darkness outside, I don’t debate when this will end or how. I accept the unknown. But there is a fleeting thought of death. I will die a made man, one way or another.

  To many, this is the crowning glory of achievement, but to me—in the drunken stupor I am currently in—it’s starting to feel like another shackle with a different name, only this one doesn’t say If found return to Cesario Raniero but Belongs to: The Commission.

  The choices were made.

  And as long as I remember this was all for a flower, I’m okay with it. I’ll feel better when she is here to reassure me. I’ll feel better when she is bouncing on my dick and making that smile with those coral lips.

  This was why I did everything I did—the love of a girl—a precious, fragile Lotus flower, wrapped in silk and splendor and all things good.

  My phone jostles to life against my thigh with no number. I consider not answering it, but then realize it could be Iris. She is supposed to make an appearance for the wedding. Weird, I know, but customs and honor.

  The world we live in doesn’t make sense.

  And the harder we try to make it fit, the less it does.

  Square peg and round hole sounds easy compared to our spinning, jagged multi-leveled shurikens aiming to eliminate our very existence.

  I answer, “Raniero.”

  “It’s Mass,” he mutters with little to no discernible accent. “Come outside.”

  He hangs up.

  I’ve been texting this guy for months and never met him. I have no idea what he wants or why he is here, so I grab my smokes, phone, and gun. I twist into my hoodie by the door, slip on my flip-flops, and go outside.

  This could be it.

  The End.

  And if it is, I hope like fuck it’s quick, not because I can’t handle the pain, but because I don’t want to know I’ll never see her smile or hear her laugh again.

  Time is all we have.

  And I have wasted so much trying to keep her safe… And I wonder if maybe, I should’ve chosen different… And I don’t know, but if this is it, tell Iris I loved her more than words. Watch after my Angel…

  The wind hits my cheeks as I step off the porch. My heart pounds in overtime as there may only be milliseconds between his success and my failure. In the driveway, near the garage, Mass waits.

  “Hey,” I say, reaching out to shake his hand. He grabs it as I imagine him pulling the gun from his jacket while holding my palm against his and firing one lethal bullet into my forehead. “How are you?”

  “I’m good,” he replies. He’s younger than I imagined with dark hair and icy hazel eyes. “How are you?”

  “You want the honest answer?”

  “Yeah,” he says, lighting a smoke and offering me one. I take it and he offers a light as he notes my shaking hand. “Calm down. We’re good.”

  “A little scared,” I admit, letting him in. “Sorry, I’m staring. I expected you to be older.”

  “I just turned thirty.”

  “Holy shit, you’re a baby…”

  His broad white smile flashes as he laughs. “That’s like the pot calling the kettle black.” I curiously tilt my head and take a drag. “I just wanted to meet you and let you know, if you change your mind, send me a message.”

  “I’m not changing my mind.”

  “This is a big move,” he alleges. His lean build seems less muscular than mine, probably smaller than Deacon. I have no doubt he could do some serious hand-to-hand damage. “And if you are in need of my services again, I’ll be happy to consider any offers.”

  Are you looking for a job?

  With the chill, I toss my hood up and cross my arms. “You know I’m the new kid…”

  “There is nothing new about you, Raniero.”

  “What about Gaspare?”

  “I’m a freelancer,” he replies with a smirk. “I go where the money is.”

  Does he know something I don’t?

  “There will be a woman present tomorrow. She’s half-Asian and you can’t miss…”

  “Iris,” he interrupts, patting my shoulder. “I know who she is and I plan on watching her. I do know what you’re doing.”

  I take a deep breath and a long inhale off the cigarette. “I have to get out from underneath him.”

  “I don’t need to know your motivations. Would you like me to keep an eye on Mr. Cruz as well?”

  “Please,” I whisper, trembling. “They’ll be sitting together.” I pause, assessing Mass, and the relationship we’ve formed. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Ultimately, it’s good business,” he says. “I have a service and my work is my reputation. If this doesn’t go down clean, that’s on me. I get in, I get out. Is there a particular time you want it done?”

  He sounds like me.

  “Before the dinner.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I don’t know, I’ve never done this before—myself or in practice.”

  He smiles. “You’ve never hit a wedding?”

  “No,” I reply, thanking the heavens. “Never.”

  “Some want it all dramatic during the rehearsal or the vows, some want it in the parking lot.”

  Leaving the smoke in my lips, I crack my knuckles. “Do what you do best. You’re the professional.”

  Coming from me—giving that kind of trust up—says a lot.

  He steps out his cigarette, picks up the butt, and nods. “Evidence.” He winks. “It’ll be clean.”

  “The cameras are off.”

  “I know,” he says. “They have been since the remodel.” He winks.

  “… You did it?”

  “Yeah, but not for the reasons you think. Garrett Wheelerson found out some things he never should’ve known.”

  I have no idea what he found. “Who hired you?”

  “My target tomorrow.”

  With my head held high, I shift my stance and glance up to the moon. “What would it take to put a retainer on you? If anyone is aiming for my team, you tell me first…”

  “A million.”

  “… A year?”

  “Yeah,” he answers. “But I like you. I’d be willing to throw in some perks—weekly reports on people running background checks, traces, investigations into your background, the financials, constant communication, etc for your whole outfit.”

  “What would it take to be exclusive to bring you on?”

  “That is e
xclusive,” he says, eyeing me. “Unless Gaspare wants something, but he doesn’t want for much anymore. He’s set in his ways and relatively quiet. They tend to come into the famiglia hot, drop a lot of cash, and calm down over time.”

  “Am I wasting money?”

  “You just took a contract to watch the future of Lotus,” he replies, smirking. “You’re going to be hot for the rest of your life. The real question is how much is she worth to you?”

  “Is this you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll do the mil with bonuses,” I counter. “And two if you can tell me why my father wanted Wheelerson dead.”

  “The truth is I don’t know,” he replies, looking me in the eye. I believe him. “Like I said, Gaspare doesn’t need much anymore and I’m expensive.”

  “How do you know Dominic Gennaro?”

  “I did business with him,” he says, holding back. “Made a lot of money and earned a reputation.”

  He killed Chance Ballister.

  Venturing a guess, I mutter, “You killed a lot of people that day.”

  “I did,” he replies, nodding. “I have no remorse. Dom paid me to do a job and I flawlessly executed.”

  “Why did Dom do it?” I ask, wondering how much he’ll reveal.

  Tucking his hands into his jacket pockets, he says, “Because the flower had a hit on her head.”

  “… By who?”

  “My target tomorrow.”

  “There were eight on the plane,” I mention, having believed for so long there were better ways to have taken out one man. I have no reason to believe they weren’t all part of Ballister’s team. “A lot of hearts were broken.”

  “Nothing was left after the explosion,” he informs. “Lot of lives saved.”

  I casually mention, “When you’re done tomorrow, I’ve got something else for you to blow up.”

  He glances around for a minute, scoping over the surroundings. He is a killer; I recognize it. The looks. The words. The game. Mass is damn good. “Do you ever feel guilty about Amber Rosen killing Nick Veramonte?”

  “Never.”

  “You’re very good at denying any involvement.” He shuffles his feet and mutters, “You were twenty and treating her like a princess after his unfortunate demise.”

  “So…unfortunate.”

  “You realize, it looks like the only Raniero boy didn’t want to share in the family business, and there are a whole string of mysterious deaths surrounding you—Diaz, Neves, Iris’ mother, hell maybe even you had something to do with Victor “Saint” Cruz’s death. The list is long.”

  You have no idea.

  I snicker. “Very astute, Mass.”

  “You are certainly capable of erasing people; such a tragic car accident Jack Kerris and Ashley Randall were involved in on that desolate road in the middle of a night with a buck. His little car was destroyed and went boom.”

  Worst part of it all.

  “I am not a good guy.” With a deviant smirk, I snarl, “Two million and bonuses, Mass.”

  “Nero is impressed.” He laughs under his breath. “And so am I.”

  “I’m sure,” I cockily remark with a deviant smirk as I turn and walk towards the house. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Always a pleasure, Nero.”

  I glance over my shoulder. “Same.” I spin, backpedaling towards the house. “And welcome to The Unholy.”

  He bows slightly. “Thank you.”

  I step closer. “Tell my beloved future wife not to coach someone next time.”

  “Will do, Sir.”

  81

  Nine Sense a Day

  “Why in the hell are you in the bathtub?” Deacon asks, staring at the ice pack on my head. “Where is Em?”

  “Bridal luncheon thing,” I inform, lifting my hands from the water and rolling my fingers. “Nails. We’re supposed to meet up at the church at 6.”

  He plops on the toilet and lights a cigarette as I wave for him to give it to me. “You look like shit…”

  “I broke down bad last night and did way too much.” Sucking on the God-this-is-good stick, I want to inhale the entire thing. “… After I gave two mil to Mass.”

  “… What the hell?” Deacon slowly says and bends forward, dropping his elbows to his knees and lowering his head. His long hair flies forward, eclipsing his eyes, until he tosses it back with a heavy sigh. “What were you thinking?”

  “He knows I killed Jack…suspects I was involved in Nick Veramonte…Lydia…Diaz…Neves…your dad…the list is long.”

  “You didn’t kill Saint,” he hastily argues.

  “I know that and you know that,” I reply, leaning back and looking up at the ceiling. I flick the ashes in my bath water. “But it doesn’t deny my involvement.”

  With his hands pressed to the back of his head, he questions, “Level with me. Did you kill Lydia?”

  “No.”

  He lights another smoke and exhales, “Did you even know there was a hit on her?”

  I dramatically roll my eyes. “Oh. Motherfucking. Shit. … Amber?” I snicker once. “Iris could’ve hired her…”

  “Oh, Jesus!” The panic flares in his blue eyes. “Is Mass going to use it against us?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Sometimes you just know who has your back,” I assure, tossing the ice pack and dunking my head under the water. I could just drown here. I open my eyes to the blur and all I see is Iris, twirling round and round with her hair floating behind her until she submerges into the water. Soaring from the waves, she dips her hands around one singular lotus flower as I spring up out of the water. “You need to get eyes on his daughter!”

  “Whose daughter?”

  “Jack Kerris’ daughter!”

  He practically falls off the toilet. “… He has a daughter?”

  I close my eyes, hearing his words, and rewinding to 2010.

  “Let me explain it. My mother was French, and we had family outside of Paris. During my teenage years, I was a bit of a player. I met her mother at a club one night, and the rest is history. She was a spy and quite a bit older than me. She knew I couldn’t raise a child, but she wanted nothing more than to be a mother. She raised Petra and kept in contact with me. We decided between the two of us to put her in the organization at fifteen. Better to have her safe and smart than used as a pawn. Hilde was the reason I joined Sibyl. She introduced me to Pappy.”

  The snapshots flip forward to stop months later when I was in Norway, training with Kaci and Lars and his German wife, Hilda.

  “Slow. Steady. Calm. Breathe. Don’t panic. You can do this.”

  “Soryn,” I babble out as the throbbing in my mind freezes everything with a clear high-definition picture. The bright lasers zip and cross the grid, making the connection. “Hilde…Hilda…German agent…Berlin…Norway…Shit…”

  “Okay, how much can I trust Soryn?”

  “As much as you would me or Mierne.”

  I should never have trusted either one, which means I shouldn’t trust Soryn.

  “But not Serene?” I asked.

  “In the field, Serene is as she is in the dungeon—volatile and hotheaded.”

  “Shit!”

  “You’re babbling bad,” Deacon points out. “How many drugs did you do?”

  “Holy fuck… Jack was trying to convince me not to trust Serene since the beginning. Petra Soryn is Jack Kerris and Hilda Hanson’s daughter. And it was right there…”

  Deacon stares with a blank expression. “… What does this matter?”

  “She’s coming…”

  He looks at me like I’m insane. “How do you know that?”

  “Because I fucking met her and she was in the addresses I gave to Emily.”

  “Tell me you looked over who you sent an invite to.” His fearful look says it all as my head buckles down to my chest. “Oh, Goddammit! Really, Sal? You have no idea who all is coming?” He gets up off of the t
oilet and does his swaggering ape dance at me, which is not quite the same as me talking with my hands, but damn close. “It’s your fucking wedding!”

  “Why would I care?” I ask, dropping the burned down cigarette in my tea cup. “It’s not like I helped plan any of this godforsaken day! I didn’t even help pick the date! None of this is my doing except for one minuscule piece!”

  “Killing your father is a pretty big piece!” I get up out of the water, not bothering with a towel, and walk away. “Where are you going?” Deacon yells, chasing after me. By the time I hit the stairs, I am running. I slam open the French door and skid on my knees in front of the safe set into the bookcase. “Sal…”

  “Hold on!” I wave him off as I push in the code. The mechanics click over, and I grab the phone as Deacon crouches with an exasperated sigh and holds a towel. “Close the door.”

  “Hey,” Cat says, barging in, as he stands up. Her eyes widen as she glances at my naked body, kneeling on the floor with Deacon’s denim covered crotch right in my face. “Whoa! I clearly have very bad timing! Sorry boys!”

  He passes off the towel as I hand him the phone. He slips it in his back pocket. “Hey…”

  “Hi,” she says, holding back the tears. “I didn’t know you would be here.” With an utterly devastated look on her face, she holds up the bag. “I just brought some food by. I thought you might be hungry. I’ll just leave it on the counter and go.”

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “So fucking sorry. I made a mistake in not calling you.”

  “Don’t,” she rebukes as Deacon tries to grab her hand. “We weren’t…meant…to be.”

  She spins to leave, but Deacon grabs her arm. “You don’t mean that.”

  The. Hell.

  “It doesn’t matter what I mean, Deacon,” she whispers, wavering closer to him. “You’re here with Allie and you’re clearly involved.”

  He glances down but doesn’t let go. “We’re fucking, Cat.”

  Ouch.

  “O—kay, I’m leaving.”

  “It’s bullshit, Cat,” he confesses, making his case. Go, boy. Go. “All of it. I don’t fucking care about her. She is a lay, nothing more or less. She isn’t you.”