A Dark Place (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 5)

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  Several years later, Sebastian, a second child, came along, and Kate begged the Maestro’s wife, Dominique, to take the baby. She agreed, but refused to allow it to be a Marceaux, and instead, insisted the baby be named after the father’s middle name, Sebastian Dubois.

  At one point, Sebastian was to be the sole heir of the L’Académie because neither of Desirée’s sons—Jack or Tristan—wanted the old rundown thing. Desirée decided out of respect to give it to Sebastian Dubois because he was the Maestro’s son, not knowing her husband had an illegitimate daughter, Cas, living in Texas as well.

  However, Sebastian didn’t want it either.

  The only one who did seem to want L’Académie was Cas, and she had no claim, so Desirée retained ownership.

  Feeling the renowned BDSM school in the French countryside caused her so much strife throughout her life, Desirée refused to appoint anyone to inherit the estate. She hated the mafia connections that the Maestro and Phillipe had made and specifically blamed the Maestro’s BDSM fetish for his death, which left her alone to make all of these decisions.

  In what presumably was an intended hit, Nick Cristos killed The Maestro, but no one quite knows for sure. Some believe that The Maestro, in his sprawling ways, tried to cross the line with Nick, and Nick killed him out of a spite-filled hatred towards homosexuals.

  Nick vowed to try and purchase the estate for his wife, Serene, but with Desirée’s suspicions concerning the murder of the Maestro by Nick, she refused time and again.

  Desirée’s firstborn son, Dr. Jack Kerris, was murdered by my dear husband. He can say whatever he wants, but the truth I adhere to is that he killed him in a murderous rampage for shooting his beloved Master Dom.

  Dr. Tristan Kerris remains alive and well in Sugargrove with a thriving orthopedic practice.

  Sebastian Dubois is a student at Juliet and Mack Larrabee’s on-again-off-again lover.

  And Cas Hope is revitalizing Cinco and their relations with Immortal with her adopted father, Juan Neves.

  Regina Neves passed years ago, as did two of her three biological sons. Camilo Neves was killed in a drive-by shooting during the internal struggles of Cinco. Pico and Camilo were strongly opposed to Cas and her eldest brother, Javi Neves, who wanted to take the club in a different direction, outlaw and married to Immortal.

  Javi ended up dead at the old fairgrounds in Godland between Little Bee and La Chiesa at the hands of Deacon Cruz. He did it to try and stop Cinco from reuniting with Immortal.

  His efforts were in vain.

  He never expected the plays of a white trash girl—Cas—to lead the Mexican MC gang to a victory.

  But damn, did she ever.

  Cinco shot up The Dollhouse to prove they were still a powerhouse in the South.

  With the movements of Morpheus’ forty-thousand member underground militia, the Irish Kill Rat gang, and Deacon’s former Reckless Rebellion all vying for the Houston port, an accident was bound to happen sooner or later.

  Immortal was intrigued by Cas’ efforts with the new Cinco, and according to my internal sources, a deal is on the table to bring the two back together.

  I never doubted Cas Hope.

  She is an aggressive piranha, playing hardball and craving the crown. I know this because, at various times, I’ve seen her attempt to win over Sal and me through salacious acts. They all failed.

  And I am indebted to my husband’s Mistress Serene, for her valiant and engaging efforts. She can outplay the best. Thank heavens, she has no familial ties to elevate her standing. While some would argue that I am the most dangerous woman on the game board, I believe it is his mistress, Amber Rosen.

  An unusual choice, I know.

  But I stand by it.

  There was a reason Kaci Hope hired the former stripper, Mae East, to be his lover. Kaci wasn’t dumb in her selection of me. Or Amber.

  So, knowing that Desirée is aging, I put on my best Armani suit and flew across the pond to meet with the cantankerous old bag refusing to sell the highly coveted mafia hub in France that was a thorn in her side. I turned on the charm and reminded her of being young and beautiful. I promised that I would only be using the place as a homestead.

  I lied.

  And she sold the past to me.

  I chased the win with a marriage to the most eligible, up-and-coming mafioso. We were the hottest ticket in town, and everyone wanted to catch a ride (or latch onto an udder), but if they weren’t there when we were down—when Sal lived through ninety days of prison or I struggled through the cold chambers—they weren’t getting fed.

  We were going high and playing hard, just like our dead relatives wanted from our arranged marriage, binding the grace of a Lotus flower with the bloody hands of an old-school Italian gangster.

  It was easy.

  Too easy.

  And now that I’ve recounted the textbook version of why I bought it, I will admit the truth.

  I bought Les Pétales because six years ago, I watched Cas practically rape my husband, and not long after, I endured her fondling assault on the grass beneath a tree in a park.

  Cas is a predator.

  And I will stop her.

  When she stole his truck to take me dancing at Juliet, and I face-planted into his rock hard chest, he publicly threatened her for the first time, and I started plotting my revenge. I would steal her inheritance, sticking a knife deep into her black heart.

  And if the truth were known, Cinco’s attack on The Dollhouse served one real purpose—retribution for buying the familial estate that she somehow believed she had a claim to.

  Snag that piece of the pie, girl.

  Unless some deviant doll beats your ass to it.

  I was to blame for the loss.

  And she, in turn, would strike the property I loved most—Sal’s beloved New Orleans Dollhouse where he loved two Masters—Dom and Deacon.

  When she knew she couldn’t win me over with romance or steal Sal away in the night, her jealousy ignited into a wildfire.

  Desperation evolved to envy.

  Cas wanted my position between the Sinner and the Saint, but there was nothing anyone could do to stop our fate. And there was nothing I could do to stop her greed.

  Desolate roads lead to nowhere and yet…everywhere.

  Through the old rusted gate, we bump over the rough gravel driveway to the estate tucked away amongst the evergreens. We are miles away from anyone. I’m excited and nervous. I cannot believe she is mine. I have bought my first home. It is monumental as Lotus—a Japanese mafia family—reigns over Les Pétales in France.

  The plan is to have our baby here. We’ll return to the States in the spring, but I will always have a vacation home to escape the chaos of our world. I don’t know if I will allow the school to reopen in the spring or not.

  For now, Les Pétales is closed for the summer and fall terms. Submissive studying were cordially invited by the other three top-tiered schools to relocate. I will not forget the generous offer by headmistresses and master, Anna Ford, Manon Dupre, and Sterling Ho.

  I am the Headmistress of L’Académie.

  How the fuck did that happen?

  They did it out of respect to Sal. Not because I was the Lotus, but because I was Sal Raniero’s wife.

  There is a significant difference.

  “Do you have the keys?”

  I innocently blink at Sal with a snap of my teeth to my lip.

  “The Queen forgot the keys?” Deacon snorts with a shake of his head. “You need me.”

  “Now more than ever,” I admit, confessing, “they’re at home.”

  Deacon licks his lips as a smile shoots over his face. “… In Texas?”

  “We’re not going back,” Sal gravely informs as the SUV stops near the door. He darts out of the vehicle as Deacon sprints around to assist me out.

  “Security will be here within fifteen Raniero,” Marshall says, exiting the driver seat. “We’ll need to discuss positioning and where you want the cameras
located.”

  With his ball cap on backward, Sal fusses with the door as he glances over his shoulder. “Everywhere, Hope.”

  “Got it!” Marshall responds. “Tai and I are on it.”

  I’m standing next to Deacon, near the entrance, when Sal mutters, “Fuck!”

  Deacon curiously studies his lover’s moves. “Is it just me, or is the guy who can sell shiploads of weapons to cartels, cracking a lock on a castle really fucking sexy?”

  “It is beyond hot,” I muse as Sal lowers down, slowly moving his fingers to manipulate the lock. “Like dangerously so…”

  Sal grins as the door opens. “Hey, Hope?”

  “Yes, Sir?”

  “Get all the locks changed today.”

  Marshall snickers under his breath, and Tai shoots a grin at me. For the first time, I feel confident about the security team, but I don’t like it. I will never like it, but it is a necessary element in our lives. “Holy crap, we need a cleaning crew.”

  “Are there bodies?” I ask cringing.

  “No,” he giggles, whisking me up in his arms. I delightfully squeal as he carries me over the threshold. “Just a little dust, Darlin’, you bought an old relic.”

  “Apparently, I married one too.”

  He grins, and I steal his hat as he carefully sets me down. “What the hell did I buy?”

  “I dunno, but I’m pretty sure Marquis de Sade would approve.”

  Sal and I laugh at Deacon’s assessment. He’s not wrong. The old concrete and wood structure lends itself to our fetish. They’re chatting about the grand staircase as I close my eyes. “Hush.”

  “What is she doing?” Deacon whispers.

  I open my eyes to spot Sal, standing several steps up, and I whisper, “You can hear it.”

  “… What?” The boys look at me like I’ve gone mad in the mansion.

  “The cracks of rulers and whips.”

  From the door, Tai hands Sal two bottles of chilled champagne, and I mumble, “I hate you so much right now. Where did you get bubbles?”

  “You cannot buy a house without celebrating,” Deacon says, owning up to the preparation as Sal opens one bottle. “We have a cooler in the back with four bottles.”

  “I really hate you.”

  The cork shoots with a pop, and Sal brings the bottle to my lips. “One tiny sip for you.” The effervescence is so fucking good. “And the rest of the bottle for your spirit.”

  With a proud grin, he pours the cold champagne over my belly and lifts to douse my hair and face. Deacon’s lips hit mine in a ravenous kiss as Sal picks me up in his arms. Taking the final sip of champagne, Sal serves it to me in a kiss.

  I am baptized in their bubbles.

  I am baptized in their love.

  I am home.

  12

  dominate my love with your strict rule

  His Butterfly

  In the early dawn, my feet hit the cold, hard floor as I quietly remove myself from their brawny limbs. Grabbing my phone, I glance back to find Deacon spooning his body around Sal. I softly smile and flee the bedroom. I have to get to know someone—my house.

  A strange concept, but the home is a shelter, harboring hopes and wishes and dreams, all the good and evil. Les Pétales—Petal, for short—is mine. We’re meeting for tea before the birds’ a-cappella is hindered by the fifteen-person cleaning crew with mops, buckets, rags, and noise.

  With gold fixtures and French molding, the high ceilings pose like statues, devastatingly grand and crafted by someone’s hands. This means more to me now than it ever did before.

  From the sidelines, I watch as my husband reconstructs the business his great grandfather, Luca Raniero, loved. I have nothing to build. Walking through her hallways, I laugh under my breath at the audacious thought, and my hand presses to my belly.

  Or I am creating a masterpiece of blood and bone stashed safely within my womb, forming from our love.

  I want to explore the two floors above the second I am on, but the stairs are quite steep. I don’t want to spend my first morning in my new home being reprimanded and sent to detention by two gorgeous dominators.

  I want to explore, silent and alone, this place I will call my home. I rapidly move down the grand staircase to find more rooms covered in dust and debris until I arrive at one with an etched glass door.

  “You look mighty official,” I observe, peeking inside. The antique mahogany desk is phenomenal. I consider poaching it for our future home in Sugargrove. I can see Sal at the helm, holding one of our children. “I can do that, you know. Take you home with me.”

  Scribbling our names in the layer of dust, I spot the old high-back wooden desk chair. I cautiously sit and spin with glee, giggling and happy. A couple of whirls and I stop at the chalkboard. I rise to run my fingers over the roughened texture, undoubtedly from years of use.

  I dial the number I have avoided like the plague. I left Sugargrove in such a rush. I should feel terrible, but I have so many questions.

  And there is only one person with the answers.

  Because almost everyone else is dead, buried, and gone.

  “Why are you calling me in the middle of the night, Iris?”

  “Because I knew you would be awake. You’re probably watching cooking shows or reading.” Anna laughs, and I know I am in the clear. “Tell me about Les Pétales.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything,” I chirp, leaning against the desk as my foot hits a box. “I want to know everything.”

  “I’ll be talking until tomorrow’s dawn, love.”

  “I don’t care.”

  I kneel beside it. “Who was Wilma Manley?”

  “You should sit down,” she warns with a snicker. “And go steal your husband’s dang-fangled earbuds out of his hoodie pocket. This is going to take a while.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” I reply, smiling. “But how do you know where his earbuds are?”

  “I know, Sal.”

  “You’re such a bad girl, Anna.”

  She laughs. “You have no idea, child.”

  His Ride

  “Where the fuck is my wife, Cruz?”

  “I don’t fucking know,” I yell in the kitchen as he storms through the chateau. We’ve been looking for a good hour for Iris. There are no signs of her disappearance or struggle. “We checked the tapes. She did not leave the property.”

  Marshall has the cleaning crew waiting in the yard until we locate her, just in case this becomes a crime scene.

  I sprint after Sal, who is stopped dead still and blankly staring at Iris in a red and black plaid schoolgirl uniform, complete with white collar. It’s rather amusing with her pregnant belly because the fabric hitches up higher in the front than in the back. Her hair is up in a sexy librarian’s bun. Her lips are his favorite coral.

  He doesn’t say a word.

  But Iris, she lifts a wicked-looking old ruler and loudly declares, “There will be no running in the manor!”

  I blink at Sal smirking.

  And the bastard takes off in a bolt.

  “What about you?” She warns, pointing the ruler at me and playing Headmistress to the hilt. “Are you going to run in my manor, Mr. Cruz?”

  “Fuck! Yes!”

  The scene would only be better if Sal and I had a football or basketball to toss back and forth. Her arms cross, but she never cracks a smile.

  “You must be practicing your maternal scowl,” Sal baits, jetting back and forth across the wide hallway. “Mommy.”

  His grin is unapologetically captivating.

  He flips his ball cap, and if the sexhat is going on, shit is about to get real. He tosses his shirt at her, and it bounces off her belly. I snicker as she pivots towards me. “Don’t look at me! I didn’t do it! Blame student S, not student D!”

  She purses her lips together. “There will be no running in the manor!”

  With Headmistress Lotus and I waiting in the spacious, empty foyer, Sal swaggers to the far end�
�a good hundred and fifty feet away—shaking his ass, and dropping his gray sweats to moon us.

  “Nice ass!” I bellow as she rapidly aims the ruler at me.

  “Don’t encourage him!”

  I try to stifle my laugh, but I feel the heat rushing to my cheeks. I may like to take control, but this is fucking hot. And sometimes, you gotta play.

  And this is how mafia kids play.

  This is how we break the monotony of a gangster’s litany.

  We have to laugh. And love. And have fun.

  Or what is the point?

  I yank off my shirt and prepare to wrestle with my favorite sparring partner. I box-step around, trying to knock her off her game.

  “There will be no sexually gratuitous bouncing in the manor!”

  I snort and bite my lip as I spread my arms and wiggle my fingers at Sal. He barrels toward me at full speed. He’s fucking fast as hell.

  “There will be no running in the manor!” she yells as he tackles me. We’re swapping light jabs in our flat floor tango when Sal decides that dropping the front of his pants and tea bagging my face is acceptable. I’ve got his nuts on my chin when I hear, “There will be no overt foreplay in the manor!”

  And she falls into a fit of laughter right when Tai and Marshall open the door to a half-dressed Sal on top of me, and Iris pointing a ruler.

  Tai doesn’t fucking miss a beat. “Are you alright, Ma’am?”

  “Never better. Give us an hour, please. Tell the cleaning crew I’ll pay double.”

  “Triple!” Sal yells as he fights to open my mouth for his sack. “And make it two hours!”

  “Yes, Sir,” she says with a nod. “Enjoy yourselves.”

  “To my office now, boys!”

  “Shit!” Sal laughs, getting up and offering me a hand. “We’re in trouble.”

  “Yeah,” I snicker as we walk to the office. “I’m scared of how much we’ve taught her.”

  “Je ne vais pas courir dans Les Pétales.”

  Sal spins and waves his arms about in his classic daego-thug bravado. “What the fuck? Are you Franch now?”