by Ashley Jade
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Blame It on the Shame- Part 3
Dedication
Chapter 1 (Ricardo)
Chapter 2 (Lou-Lou)
Chapter 3 (Ricardo)
Chapter 4 (Lou-Lou)
Chapter 5 (Ricardo)
Chapter 6 (Ricardo)
Chapter 7 (Lou-Lou)
Chapter 8 (Ricardo)
Chapter 9 (Lou-Lou)
Chapter 10 (Ricardo)
Chapter 11 (Ricardo)
Chapter 12 (Lou-Lou)
Chapter 13 (Ricardo)
Chapter 14 (Ricardo)
Chapter 15 (Lou-Lou)
Chapter 16 (Ricardo)
Chapter 17 (Lou-Lou)
Chapter 18 (Ricardo)
Chapter 19 (Lou-Lou)
Chapter 20 (Ricardo)
Chapter 21 (Lou-Lou)
Chapter 22 (Ricardo)
Chapter 23 (Lou-Lou)
Chapter 24 (Ricardo)
Chapter 25 (Lou-Lou)
Chapter 26 (Ricardo)
Chapter 27 (Lou-Lou)
Chapter 28 (Ricardo)
Chapter 29 (Lou-Lou)
Chapter 30 (Ricardo)
Chapter 31 (Lou-Lou)
Chapter 32 (Ricardo)
Chapter 33 (Ricardo)
Chapter 34 (Lou-Lou)
Chapter 35 (Ricardo)
Chapter 36 (Lou-Lou)
Chapter 37 (Ricardo)
Chapter 38 (Lou-Lou)
Three weeks later...
Chapter 39 (Ricardo)
Epilogue (Ricardo)
About the Author
Acknowledgements
The National Domestic Violence Hotline
BLAME IT ON THE SHAME-Part 3
Ashley Jade
Blame it on the Shame
Ashley Jade
COPYRIGHT
First published in USA, March 2017
Copyright © Ashley Jade
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be circulated in writing of any publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, or events is purely coincidence.
.
Attribution
A special thank you to the photographers and sites listed here as we greatly appreciate their work, contributions and artistry.
Picture Acknowledgments
Some photos use are used via creative commons and built upon the originals.
https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/
Pixabay (CC0)
http://pixabay.com
**Trigger Warning**
This series is not suitable for readers under 18. Any readers with sensitivity to dark reads should proceed with caution and at their own risk.
You've been warned.
Blame It on the Shame- Part 3
“Sometimes there is absolutely no difference at all between salvation and damnation."
―Stephen King
Dedication
This is for the broken people…because you love the hardest.
May you all find your Ricky and Lou-Lou.
May you all find someone to follow you into the dark.
And for my Bat Cave/ Bubble Girls: Thank you for believing in me and this series when no one else did.
Chapter 1 (Ricardo)
There's something lurking in all of us.
Something we hide and shelter from those we love in order to protect them.
A darkness we try to suppress because we're ashamed of who that makes us.
Because that's the thing about Shame.
It wounds us. It damages us.
Or, for the few poor souls out there like me...it defines us.
It's there—in the shadows, beneath the surface...just waiting.
Until you let it break free...
And the darkness consumes you.
My name is Ricardo DeLuca.
There are two things you need to know about me. The first—is that my heart will always bleed for her...
Only her.
The second—is that I'm the son of the devil himself—the most feared mob boss who ever lived.
That is...until me.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
The sound reverberates throughout the nearly empty warehouse and my ears begin ringing.
I take a step back and pull the trigger again.
There's no reason for it, seeing as I just blew his brains out and all...but I've had a hell of a day and I'm feeling a little trigger happy at the moment.
“You want him dumped in the same place as the last guy, boss?” A voice behind me questions.
I don't answer him, I pin him with a stare instead—reveling when the perspiration on his forehead increases and he starts breathing heavy.
I don't know which is worse...the fact that he asked me such a stupid fucking question.
Or that in the same breath, he answered his own question with the wrong fucking answer.
Of course, the dearly departed don't get dumped in the same place as their brethren.
Not only is that shit sloppy, it's just asking for trouble.
I pay a shit-load of money to keep the police off my back and I pretty much own their asses, but even they wouldn't be able to ignore if some civilian were to one day stumble upon a shitload of body parts while walking their dog.
There's no story that could be spun that wouldn't have the tin-foil hat wearing conspiracy theorists thinking the city was in grave danger and there was a serial killer roaming the streets.
People are easy to manipulate when they have a false sense of security.
DeLuca said great power and control came in the form of being able to provide security and protection for others—while simultaneously being the very same person to rip it all out from under them.
It's how you made people fear you.
Well, that and the most important fear inspiring tool of all.
You needed to be willing to talk the talk and walk the fucking walk.
Which is exactly what brings me to my next course of action.
I take a step closer to him. “How long have you been working for me?”
He swallows thickly. “Uh—um. I worked for your father—”
He doesn't have a chance to finish whatever dumb statement he was about to make because I cock the gun and hold it up to his head. “Well there's a new DeLuca in charge.”
I look at the other men that are gathered around the warehouse. “Pop quiz, gentlemen. Do we dump in the same place twice?”
“No, boss,” they say in unison.
“That's right. Therefore, someone notify this guy's family.” I dig the gun into his temple and he starts shaking worse than a tree branch in a hurricane. “Please,” he squeaks, sounding like an adolescent boy. “Don't kill me.”
That's when I smile from ear to ear. “Tell his family I send my condolences because their kin was such a dip-shit.”
He screams and the smile wipes clean off my face as I pull the trigger.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter as his piss starts leaking all over my shoes and the smell of his shit permeates the air.
“Get the fuck out of my warehouse, you pussy.” I grab him by his collar and get close to his face. “And don't you come back un
til you locate your goddamn brains and balls. Understood?”
“Yes, Mr. DeLuca,” he says before he sprints for the exit.
Clearly, the dumbass doesn't know how many bullets are in my magazine. Because if he did, he would've known I used them all on the last guy.
Fucking rapist scumbag that he was.
I kick his body out of my way and fish a lighter and a pack of smokes out of my suit pocket.
l light my cigarette and start walking toward the door. “Clean this shit up,” I instruct the rest of them.
The moment I walk through the door of my house Marlene bombards me. “Tyrone called. He says he needs you to call him back.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and dig my cell out of my pocket. Sure enough, there are four missed calls and three texts from him.
I tap the icon for my messages and let out a sigh as I read them.
Tyrone: Jackson's court date is in 3 weeks.
Tyrone: You're gonna be there, right?
Tyrone: I know you're busy playing 'wise-guy' and all but this shit is important.
I tap the 'reply' button but pause briefly. On some level, it stings that he doesn't think I'll be there for Jackson's court date. Hell, I'm the one who hired the best lawyer on the East Coast for him.
Granted, Jackson chose to go with said lawyers daughter, instead...but I did what I could. Besides, if the jury finds him guilty I'll handle it.
I know Tyrone's only freaking out lately because I moved out of the apartment complex last week. He hasn't been taking it well. However, I needed to distance myself...for a multitude of reasons.
I finish typing my message out.
Ricardo: I'll be there.
As soon as I hit the 'send' button guilt snags me. Or rather, that tiny part of myself that hardly ever comes out anymore.
I tap the 'reply' button again.
Ricardo: And it's 'Mr. Wise-Guy' to you, asshole.
I almost smile when his reply is an emoji of a middle finger and a kissy face.
But then my almost smile soon fades as her face flashes before my eyes.
I roll my shoulders back and blow out a breath, forcing myself to get my shit together.
I don't smile anymore. There's no point. I have nothing to smile about these days.
She's gone.
They're gone.
That hollow feeling burrowing smack-dab in the middle of my chest is back with a vengeance.
I never knew it was possible to miss something so much. But then again, I've never had anyone or anything to really miss in the first place.
She's free, I remind myself.
But is she happy? That's the question that plagues me.
Especially now...given that she hasn't touched any of the money in my bank account and I know there's no way she has any cash left.
It's been almost four months since she's been gone. How the hell is she getting by?
I planned it all out to the last dollar when I set everything up for her. The amount of cash in that locker would have lasted her two months...maybe three if she was being frugal for some reason.
After three months she should have found someplace to put down roots—put a down-payment on a house or leased an apartment somewhere.
Somewhere I'd know if she would just use the goddamn card I gave her.
A few weeks ago, I became so desperate I finally caved and had Marlene call the burner phone I gave her in an attempt to find out where she was.
Turns out...It's not even on.
And the car I bought her? The one with the gps system in it?
Sold and traded in for a black Nissan at some shady dealership somewhere between New York and Virginia.
And I can only assume she traded in her car from that dealership at some point, because I've tracked down every black Nissan in the U.S. and none of them are registered to her.
She obviously doesn't want to be found.
Doesn't mean I'll stop trying, though.
Not until I know where she is and that she's safe.
I glance at Marlene and she shakes her head. “They called me with an update earlier. There's no news...they still can't find her.”
Dammit. I should have known better than to hire a private investigator and his shit for brains team.
I should go looking for her myself...but I can't.
My anger bubbles and I walk over to the small table in the foyer, my eyes focusing like lasers on them.
Less than a second later Marlene yelps as I send the vase full of dandelions crashing to the floor. “Tell them they better find her soon...or they're all dead. Every last one of them.”
She pales and her eyes drop to my hand. “You're bleeding.”
I look down and sure enough, there's blood dripping all over the dandelions.
I grunt and walk away...not giving a shit that I'm leaving a long trail of blood behind.
Chapter 2 (Lou-Lou)
I stretch my legs out across the park bench I'm currently sitting on and stifle a yawn.
Another twenty agonizing minutes later and my history assignment from hell is finally finished.
Deciding to get my high school diploma is probably one of the scariest decisions I've ever made. But I figured if I had any kind of shot of making it on my own, it was a step in the right direction.
With a sigh, I stuff my notebook in my backpack and make my way over to my car.
I try not to grimace as I slide in the seat and turn the key in the ignition.
It's not that I hate the vehicle. It's fine. I just hate that it was technically purchased with his money—but seeing as this town is rural as shit and both my job and the school I attend my night classes at are across the other side of town, it comes in handy.
Besides, as soon as I get my diploma and I'm able to pick up more hours at my job I'll sell it and give the money to charity.
Because I sure as hell don't need his money.
I don't need him. Period.
My chest squeezes because that's the biggest lie I've ever told myself.
But still—I have hope that one day when I wake up—I'll finally start to believe it.
Because he clearly feels that way about me.
Until then, I'll continue to be hopeful that maybe one fine day my stupid heart will get the memo and I'll be over him for good.
Muttering a curse, I shift the car into drive and peel out of the dirt parking lot.
The first two months I spent on my own were the hardest. Not only because of the obvious—I've never been on my own before—but for the simple fact that I've wanted to be dead for so long I didn't know what to do once I actually started living.
The truth is...freedom's not all it's cracked up to be.
My demon is dead...but the nightmares are still very much alive.
There are even moments when I can feel him. Looming over me, watching...just waiting for the right moment to strike.
Bruno DeLuca might be dead.
But he's still haunting me.
Just like his son.
She raises an eyebrow and appraises me. “I take it you're going there tonight?”
I look down at my outfit—a pair of black shorts which could probably pass for underwear—and a tiny white tank top with the words 'Show 'n Tail—A Gentlemen's Club' written in red.
And of course...a pair of cowboy boots.
“Nope,” I reply in a sugary sweet tone that I know annoys the heck out of her. “I just like to wear this get-up for the fun of it.”
No matter how many times I try to explain to this woman that I'm not stripping and I'm only waitressing there on the weekends because I need the money, she still gives me shit.
And the way her ebony eyes are narrowing and her lips are drawing into a tight line tells me today won't be any different, either.
“I don't understand why you insist on spending your time at that godforsaken place, sugar,” she chides, the disgust beyond apparent in her southern twang.
I roll my eyes and grab a granol
a bar from the cabinet. “Because they pay me to, Momma. You know...because it's my job and all.”
She throws her hands up. “But you don't need to work there.” She starts ticking things off with her fingers. “You have access to money, even though you refuse to use a dime of it. You're smart. You're going to school—“
“Momma,” I bite out, cutting her off. “First of all—you know why I won't use that money. And secondly—you know as well as I do that no one is going to hire a girl who only has a 10th grade education.”
She opens her mouth but I continue, “Yes, I'm working on getting my high school diploma...but I don't have it yet. No one is going to hire me until I do.” I cross my arms over my chest and shrug. “This is the only thing I'm qualified for. Well, this or stripping.”
Momma's eyes go wide but I hold up a hand. “Which I already promised you I would never do.”
She looks like she wants to argue some more but to my surprise her expression softens. “Okay, sugar. But only until you get your diploma.”
I'm about to give her a smile but then she gives her head a shake and says, “I still think you should be using the money he gave you though.”
I roll my eyes as she continues. “Or just let me pay for your things. It's really no bother.”
That's when I do cut her off. “You do more than enough, Momma.” I have to control the emotion lodging itself in my throat. “I don't—I don't know if I would have been able to stand on my own without you these last two months.”
Her eyes fill with tears and she walks over to me. “You would have been just fine, sugar.” She gives my hand a squeeze. “But I'm happy you ended up here.”
I lift my chin and look her right in the eyes. “Me too, Momma.”
And I mean it, I know logically I would have found a way to keep trucking through life, but I don't think it would have been without making some dangerous choices along the way.
Me ending up in Alabama one day and running into Momma of all people at a small town grocery store was a godsend.
