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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “Sal moved Oki because she may as well be blood.”

  “Yes, he did,” Amber says, squeezing my hand. “Out of respect to Masa and Morpheus.”

  Deep in thinking of my next move, I mutter, “Oki’s brother, Fumio Hada, is in tight with Mr. Jones.” She furrows her brow with confusion. “Stephen Jones is Morpheus, and his kids are Durante and Yara Costa.”

  “And Stella is fucking Durante,” she reminds, sitting beside me. “You want me to sever those apron strings?”

  “Not yet,” I whisper, glaring at the fire of the candle’s wick. “Durante is split between his loyalty as Carlo Torrente’s right-hand man, Morpheus’ rule in the South, and his mother’s rule even further south.”

  She tilts her head. “His mother is Ximena, daughter of Muerte, and married to Zavolo Costa.”

  “We need her,” I implore, swiping open my phone for a quick search. “Ximena Herrera Costa.”

  “She ran away from Mexico at sixteen, ended up winding around a pole as a stripper at Foxxy’s, where she entertained…”

  “Stephen Jones—Morpheus,” I whisper. “How do you know this?”

  “I am more than a whore.” She winks, crossing her legs. “They had two children, Durante and Yara, within a year of one another, but he refused to marry Ximena.”

  “Only because she never told him who she truly was…”

  “You got it,” Amber proudly snaps. “She knew if she told Morpheus that she was Muerte’s daughter, he would marry her to merge with Immortal. So she stayed silent until meeting a suave Puerto Rican investor named Zavolo Costa. He was attempting to persuade Morpheus to move his business into the Caribbean, but of course…”

  “Morpheus only likes the South.”

  “Precisely,” she marvels. “But his baby mama ended up loving Zavolo and what he had to offer. She saw enough potential in it to pack her things and the kids within twenty-four hours and vanish. To Morpheus, she was just another stripper. But to Zavolo Costa, she was his everything, and in return, she gave him everything, including a seat at Muerte’s Immortal table.”

  “Morpheus was had.”

  “Pretty much by his own ignorance,” she replies with a smile as I take the champagne flute from her fingers. “Boys need to be more careful where they plant their seeds.”

  I rub my belly and lean back into the giant u-shaped leather sofa. “Durante is a loose fucking cannon. He’s smart and has his hand in many pots.”

  “Torrente, Costa, Morpheus, Muerte,” I list off. “Hell, even Raniero, with his relationship with Stella.”

  “Remind you of anyone?”

  “Yeah,” I mumble, slamming back the glass of champagne. “My fucking husband. Does Sal know all of this?”

  “I don’t know how much he has found out or if he has made contact, but he already has an in with Muerte.”

  “Gabe.”

  “Yep, another one named mafioso to provoke fear,” she says. “So what can I do for you?”

  “Go to Atlanta and fish out Fumio Hada.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he should be in tight with me, not Morpheus.” I flick my eyes to Amber. “He is also fucking my husband’s bodyguard, Swain Mo.”

  “And what should I do with Durante?”

  “Nothing,” I reply, grabbing the bottle of bubbles. “I will take care of Durante Costa.”

  “You had one glass,” she warns, protecting my investment. “No more. You are carrying Raniero’s spawn.”

  She takes the bottle from my grasp. “Anything else?”

  “Not a word to my husband.”

  “You have my promise.”

  After Amber leaves for the airport, I meet with the three hostesses—Ichika, Aoi, and Sakura—who cater to the Goro gang. They’re beautiful and witty, using their charm and laughter to make a better life. They’re not much different from me.

  I hire all three on the spot.

  They’re serving the hottest ticket in the boy’s club with a full body massage in the hotel room while feeding me everything I ever dreamed about the Goro. Men are not always the brightest bulbs, especially if their cock is involved.

  Open pussy lips render loose lips.

  Not every male falls for the tactic, but those who do end up paying for far more than the night.

  Of course, I give them nothing of my business intel, understanding they are pawns. And just as quickly as I put the offer on the table, a Goro brother or someone else could bring a more substantial sum. They have a value, and I paid them fairly, but in the mindset of a call girl, upping the game is a smart strategy. I wouldn’t blame them. I’d upgrade too.

  What am I going to do with them if they prove loyal?

  I don’t know, but every decent outfit has its tension relief specialists. The Unholy keeps Sparkle and Shine on a retainer in New Orleans. It seems only fitting that if I wear the pants, I should possess a choir of dick suckers.

  Mine happens to be six hot Asian girls.

  Sal would be in heaven.

  He was when I sent Holly and Kim, the two I hired stateside to swallow for me. I have been continually underestimated by my ability to assimilate into their scene, but no one is working harder than I am.

  Mafia is a man’s game.

  Any attempt to play like a woman will quickly get me removed from the table. While this little detail of employing talented young women may seem insignificant, it isn’t. Without them, I am only playing with half of a deck. With six pushing my angle, I can run the table.

  Distract the boys, girls.

  Mama wants to win.

  Holly and Kim are on stand-by in California, ready to move wherever I need them. Ichika and Aoi will hopefully earn their place by providing me Goro intel as soon as it arrives. As for the prettiest one, Sakura, I am sending her to Gifu as a present for my uncles. I don’t trust the Lotus table, and I will do anything to protect it. Nothing is beyond me, including hiring the most crucial whore in Texas.

  Sal moved Oki to Dom for safekeeping.

  And I paid her to infiltrate him and them—by whatever means necessary.

  “Baba isn’t doing well,” Masa says as we leave the private airport in Gifu. “The surgery was complicated and long for a woman of her age. She is lucky to be alive, but the doctors have warned that it is only a matter of time.”

  “I don’t understand,” I yell with raging hormones in the car. “She was shot. They repaired the damage. She should heal.”

  “Iris… Baba is sick.”

  “How sick?”

  “Over the last year, she’s fought through numerous kidney and bladder infections. Her body is wearing out. She wasn’t well when she got shot, and she isn’t going to make it.”

  “She puts on a good face,” I mumble, feeling the steady stream of tears lining my cheeks. “I got here as fast as I could.”

  I lie.

  I lie because I already knew she was going to die.

  In an odd move, my father—Raiko Nakamura—called me. I was in my first class seat, waiting for the plane to take off in France. We had never been particularly close, but when I heard the crack in his voice, I understood—he was broken too.

  Sympathy didn’t exist in our world, but commiseration in our torment did. I heard the pain of a son losing his mother. I heard the sounds of a father needing his daughter. In his words, I listened to my voice resonating with my unborn child, the legacy of Lotus.

  I lie.

  I lie because Sofu called and told me to make preparations. I love and trust Masa—do not mistake me—but his mother’s husband, Matsu Goro, is aiming for Lotus.

  The crosshairs are on me, but the one to suffer will be the death of my child.

  Fuck. That.

  I lie.

  My extended familial relationships are 365-days of a Thanksgiving dinner that no one wants to attend.

  “Have you spoken to your mother?”

  “She’s at the hospital.”

  What?

  In the upper wing of the h
ospital, I walk past the casually dressed army of Lotus protecting the reigning Queen of The Chairman. Her power is vast within the Lotus kingdom, serving his needs and rearing up the future with a strict, unrelenting hand.

  “May I go in?” I ask the guard posted outside of the door. He looks all of sixteen but towers over me. I imagine he is strapped and ready to rock and roll at the slightest provocation.

  “Yes, Mrs. Raniero.”

  “You can call me Ms. Nakamura…what is your name, age, birthplace?”

  “Reo Sato, twenty-six, from Colorado Springs,” he says in perfect English with an unmistakably daring grin. “Pleasure to meet you. Should I ask your ASL? Or would you like my collegiate credentials and resume?”

  “You’re English,” I wrongly stutter, spellbound by his intense gaze. “My age is none of your business. My state is pissed off. And my location is wherever I lay my head.”

  “American.” He flirtatiously winks with radiant obsidian eyes. “Not nearly as English as you.”

  “Thank you,” I respond, passing through the door. I gasp at the sight of Baba holding an older woman’s hand.

  She greets me with a smile before stepping closer and taking my hand. “You’re as beautiful as she said.”

  “Murasaki Hada.”

  “Yes, Iris.” Tears flutter in my lashes at the woman who could’ve…who perhaps should’ve …been my mother. “I am going to check on your father.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In the chapel.”

  She barely pulls at the heavy door when Reo helps her. He doesn’t step over the threshold into the room but catches my eye with his spying observations as Murasaki departs. I tilt my head with a scolding stare, and he playfully smirks before letting the door close.

  “Oh, Baba…”

  “My little flower,” she says with a weary, sedated voice. “You made it.”

  “Yes, I did.” I set my purse down and take my coat off. “I came as fast as I could.”

  “Your baby is growing,” she comments as I stand by the bed. She is too weak even to lift her hand, so I do it for her and place it upon my belly. “You need to be smart, Iris.”

  “I always try, Baba,” I whisper, wishing to be anywhere else but here. “What do you mean?”

  “You need to watch after your husband.”

  My lips fall apart, stunned by her final lesson. “Is Sal okay? Baba, tell me.”

  “Murasaki says the bald man in the white suit has been visiting with Matsu, calling at all hours, and working with Goro. He has a funny Spanish name.”

  There is only one man I know who can wear a white suit and pull it off. “His name is Delarte Cristos, and he is Colombian.”

  “He is Demetrios Cristos’ son.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “Demetrios Cristos’ mistress was Viola Bianchi.”

  I blink. “Viola Raniero?”

  She approvingly blinks. “Viola ended up marrying Luca Raniero, breaking Demetrios’ heart, but the son carries the vendetta.”

  Oh. Shit.

  “Did Murasaki tell you all of this?”

  “I have known for years, flower. Keishi and I used to vacation with them in Las Vegas. Demetrios stole that boy he called his son, and the only reason he did it was to send a message to Luca for being scorned over losing his flower. Because of his broken heart, Demetrios fought with Luca for years over the drug trade in Colombia. Demetrios raided their home one night, killed the father and one son before taking the mother and baby back to Spain.”

  “The baby was Delarte.”

  “Yes, he blames the Raniero’s for everything. Viola went crazy. Luca went on having an affair with that floozy. His daughter…”

  That floozy is my former mother-in-law, Anna.

  “… Kaci?”

  She licks her lips, and I offer her a sip of water. “She knew all about it. Everything from his hatred to your arranged marriage. She put Sal in the position he is in and poisoned his life.”

  “Delarte is going to kill him.”

  “No,” she mutters, grasping my hand as tight as she can. “He is going to destroy all of the Raniero’s, including you and your baby.”

  I blink up as a wave of nausea hits. I am lightheaded, lost, and scared as hell. “I need some tea.”

  “I am not going anywhere just yet…” I kiss her forehead. “I love you, Iris. Take your time. Be mindful of things in the past.”

  “A woman must be clean for service,” I remind. “Remember?”

  “And sometimes, you must lie to keep the men in your life safe.”

  I grab my purse and rush for the door. Reo blinks, startled by my sudden appearance. His eyes drift to the noticeable protrusion of my belly. “Do you need something?”

  “Tea.”

  “I can get it,” he politely offers. “Please allow me.”

  “I need to walk.”

  He enters the room, retrieving my coat, and bringing it back to me. “Then you must not go out without this.”

  “You’re coming with me,” I demand as he nods to one of his cronies. My cronies, I do not know. “Put one of the other two dozen men to guard the gate.”

  “I don’t drink tea.”

  “I don’t care what you like. You will drink the fucking tea,” I sass as we speed down the hallway. “How the fuck can you be Asian and not drink tea?”

  “I’m not full Asian.”

  “What is your heritage?”

  “I am half-Japanese, half Italian.”

  Oh. God.

  He’s as much mutt as me.

  Hitting the elevator button, I remark, “That explains it.”

  “What?”

  That intense, captivating stare.

  “Why the fuck you are so tall?”

  “I’m only 6’4”.”

  “Only.”

  20

  Spill My Guts

  The Master

  “Are you okay?” Mass asks two days later as we sit alone on a terrace above a café. The warm weather proves perfect as the streets below crowd with people “You haven’t eaten a bite.”

  Beneath the sunglasses, I stare at the plate of shrimp, scallops, and clam on a capellini bed. Angel hair. My Angel has beautiful hair. “You should’ve warned me.”

  “You know, by reading the good book, that I cannot do that. We cannot discuss cases unless a call to arms is made.”

  “That was Kane Parker.”

  He shrugs, not understanding my connection. I cared for Abel’s emotional well-being after Sibyl and the Feds case was long finished. I am responsible for his father’s death.

  “They all have a name,” he says, chowing through his Cioppino. “You get over it. I warned you to find an outlet.”

  My only outlet at the end of it was a bottle of Jim Beam and stroking one-off in my second shower when I finally returned to the rectory.

  “He needed to die,” I admit, picking up my fork and stabbing it into a scallop. “But who tells the family?”

  “We send someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Usually the local priest, regardless of Sanctum affiliation. We regret to inform you that we have received word your loved one passed.”

  “… Regret?” I shake my head and snicker, tossing the fork into my plate and lighting a smoke. “You want to know about regret? Let me tell you, regret is knowing that this death is going to affect a young man on the other side of the world, and I cannot help him. I cannot be there for him.”

  “Whose side are you on?”

  “Mine,” I hiss, balling my fist. “Always. But it doesn’t nullify the pain. I picked a scab off of an old wound on someone else, letting it bleed out, and crossing my fingers that someone else cleans it up.”

  “That’s not on you,” he callously says. “It’s not your job to pick up his pieces.”

  “It is absolutely 110% on me. I caused the wound. I picked the scab.”

  He stops eating to lean forward and look me right in the eye. “You
did not beat Abel when he was a child. You did not inflict those wounds. Those are his wounds to heal. Not yours.”

  “But…”

  “Your heart is too big and warm,” he assesses. “You are going to have to shrink it down and turn cold.”

  “I can,” I mention, slumping back in the chair. “If I don’t have a personal connection to the case.”

  “That is why it is called a rite of passage,” he says, resuming his lunch. “It was never supposed to be easy.”

  “Who did you kill?”

  “My father.”

  Fuck.

  Any ground I had to stand on was just washed away into the sea. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I whisper, sitting up and stubbing out the smoke. I take the fork in my hand, and I taste the food. It is incredible, and I almost let it go to waste. “I’m sorry for being a little bitch about it…”

  “Don’t let it go to your head,” he stresses, tapping on my forehead. “And as for my father, he deserved it.”

  “Do I want to know?”

  He sets his fork down and wipes his mouth with the napkin before scooting back into his chair. I keep eating and offering a priceless gift—listening. “We had a small generational outfit outside of Brindisi,” he says, grabbing a smoke. I flick the lighter for him, believing that this moment of confession for a man like Massimiliano Vidal is rare. “It was my grandfather, my father, and three brothers.”

  “Sisters?”

  “Nah, well…that’s not exactly true. There was one, but she died the day she was born. Our outfit was about a quarter of the size of Cesario’s now, so we were small.”

  “Less than fifty…”

  Taking a sip of wine, he nods. “My father did almost the exact same thing yours—well, Cesario—has done. He wanted to live up to the legacy and sought outside investors, including another small family in Albania, who ran guns into the Middle East. My father got all involved with them, ignoring everyone’s warnings. On my mother’s birthday, they showed up at our house, killed my mom, one brother, and my grandparents. They let my father live to teach him a lesson.”

  “Where were you?”

  “I was on vacation with my brothers in Key West.”