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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  He stops in front of me. “Berk Polat, bounty hunter for hire.”

  His enigmatic voice ceases any other cognition as my engine seizes. “Where are you from?”

  “I’m Turkish.” Memories sideswipe me in his intonation as one brief night comes into play like a bouncing red ball in a boxing match. How the fuck did this get here? Which one of these objects does not belong? “My cousin tried to make contact in 2010.”

  “Sasha.”

  “Yes.”

  From the grave, my ghostly corpse of a wife just pegged my ass hard.

  And a giving Ghost is sending messages from the mountains to her wandering Phoenix.

  She isn’t in the arena; she is the arena.

  Jaid’s game is mean.

  23

  Daughters of the Waters

  The Master

  With Dom headed home, I didn’t know what to do with my living target of Cris Crow, so I called for help. Mass and I are meeting with Berk Polat and Cris Crow at his villa. I have a new appreciation for the challenges Iris must have dealt with trying to keep me alive.

  I was her target; she should have killed me.

  A living target, evolving into an asset, brings a host of complications.

  The quandary of what to do when in disagreement with the order has never presented itself on my plate. This—living target of Cris Crow—is a new one for me. A decade worth of work and hundreds of cases logged in my brain, but I never felt the need to keep anyone alive until these two strangers suddenly showed up in the catacombs.

  I want to call Serene, demanding answers, and honesty, but I accept that as an impossibility. I am reconciling that Serene wouldn’t know the truth if it bit her on the leg. I have loved her for years, and still do, but her emotional unavailability and inept communication grates on me. She should have, at the very least, trusted the man who cared for her dying daughter.

  She didn’t do that.

  Yet I’ve proven myself time and again.

  And then I am reminded of one peculiar thing that resonated with what Mass had told me a few days or weeks ago as everything has turned into a massive blur.

  “Women are far more dangerous than men ninety-nine percent of the time. It’s no wonder Benedetto and Ettore are pissing their pants. The last butterfly of her distinction was Queen Estrel of Immortal.”

  Stop getting distracted by the worrisome Benedetto and Ettore, or the lush sound of Queen Estrel’s name, and break down the meaning of the message.

  “Women are far more dangerous than men ninety-nine percent of the time.”

  For every mafia or cartel leader in play, there is a woman—a wife, a girlfriend, a partner, a mother, a sister, or a grandmother—a significant other, which arguably can move equally as well. Usually better. Not to be a bastard, but women can be heartless, especially if their spawn linger anywhere near the stadium.

  Jack Kerris had remarkable rounds, but they are nothing compared to the deviance of Serene.

  While Iris is busy preaching about how she must excel on a world stage—which is true, there has only been one Queen Estrel until the anticipated Lotus Queen—and barking about how she needs to play as hard as the boys, the rule isn’t about her.

  She is subliminally drilling into my head that I must concern myself with the female gender, the pink posse. I play the boy’s game. It’s easy. But I have been fucking up understanding women and their motivations for years.

  “I am taking Cris to Morocco and our safehouse there,” Berk informs, sipping his espresso. “I worry about leaving her here.”

  “How much have you told Rowan?” I ask, lighting a smoke. “Was she my warning? How dangerous is she?”

  “I won’t say Rowan is harmless,” Cris says as I detect bits of the Archer genetics in her facial expressions. “But she damn sure isn’t after you. She wants the Irish to stop funneling resources to anyone willing to do business with them. Father McPhail was good at networking, but he protected the interests of Kill Rat. Stroker is determined to do anything necessary to elevate, including selling themselves short.”

  “Iris got their investment cheap…” I mutter. “She didn’t do it for herself.”

  “Yes and no,” Cris replies with a consoling smile. “They’re looking to expand, and Rowan wanted to know if they’d take an offer from Lotus. They did. There is no loyalty within Kill Rat anymore. Iris doesn’t want shit to do with them. Iris only did it to protect Rowan.”

  “Kill Rat is a practice dummy.”

  “Pretty much,” she agrees.

  I run my hands through my hair. “Why is Dale Archer investing in Allegiance?”

  “That, I don’t know yet,” she mutters. “I was working with a man named Dmitry when I was captured.”

  “Dmitry is in communite?”

  “Yes,” she answers as I scribble shapes on the paper. No notes. Just random doodles. “And they’re being funded almost entirely by Lotus shells.”

  “Aki.”

  “Most likely,” Berk adds, clasping his hands. “Keishi is a big player. If he went into the Soviet lands, it wouldn’t be for a mug of kvass.”

  I desperately want to sit and swap stories with Berk Polat, but I fear he might opt to put a bullet in my brain. I don’t know him, but damn I want to.

  “Who are you working for now?”

  “Me?” Berk snickers. “I work for one.”

  “Is there any conflict?”

  “There is no conflict. My loyalty can be purchased for a fee. However, no one seems willing to put what I want on the table.”

  I am a curious devil. “What do you want?”

  “Sixteen years ago, I was working for the Montesino cartel in Brazil when my wife and four-year-old twins were captured. Two days after the abduction, we found the remains of my children.” His voice cracks. “We never found my wife.”

  “Who did it?”

  The turmoil in his expression shifts to a deadly sneer. “Montesino. An internal hit. I left South America that day and never went back.”

  “So, what do you want?”

  “For my unyielding loyalty, I want two of the Montesino children to die.”

  “An eye for an eye.” I sprawl back in my chair and stare at him. “That’s a tough request.”

  “And that is why,” he challenges, lifting his cup. “I work for one.”

  I repeatedly flip the pencil from tip to eraser against the grain of the table.

  “I’ll do it,” Cris eagerly volunteers. She’s young, but I gotta give her props for her spunky attitude. It’s not uncommon with spies—quiet and contained on the job, but in private, they’re full of zestful energy. “If I have the backing because I don’t have the necessary funding for that kind of operation, not personally anyway.” I quickly glance at Mass. He doesn’t blink. “But I’ll need an access point to get inside.”

  “I don’t know anyone in Montesino,” I regretfully inform. It’s a little too far south of the equator for my blood or perhaps too dangerous. Odd for a guy like me to admit, but the SoAm cartels aren’t known for their willingness to negotiate. Deals in the southern hemisphere are hard to come by and even harder to maintain. There is a definite breakdown in communication. “But, I am good friends with Gabe Herrera.”

  “Ugh…” she moans, stretching her hands across the table and plopping her head down. A Jaid move. A Kaci move. An Archer move. “Getting into Immortal is as much of a challenge as getting into Montesino. Give me another angle.”

  I write two words down and shove the paper in her direction. Knowing full well I don’t give a rat’s ass if the man dies, I gloat like the monster I am.

  “... Who the hell is Durante Costa?”

  “Your way in.” I wink, understanding certain men should not take limo rides with my wife. “Two birds one stone.”

  I don’t mention Condémariella.

  That is between Berk and me.

  And the plane I’m getting on at 6 AM.

&nbs
p; My little shadow, Rowan, follows me through the deteriorating building full of records in Texas. The unmistakable smell of old paper wafts through the shelves holding massive binders and books for preserving history. We’ve been scouring the basement for hours when Rowan finally announces, “They have this thing called the internet, Sal. It’s amazing.”

  In my dark blue t-shirt (I dressed up), I give her a side-eyed glance from beneath my black plastic-framed glasses—I’m getting so fucking old—and cock a brow at her sass. “It will do no good…what I am looking for is fossilized.”

  “And what are you looking for again?” I give her a scathing gaze, but the truth is, I don’t have a fucking clue what I am looking for—something, anything, to lead to the confirmation of Condémariella. I need more proof than a box of lies. “Microfiche?”

  I close my eyes and shrug. “I doubt it.”

  “How do you know it’s pre-dating your grandparents?”

  It’s a good, valid question, but again I don’t know. “Because the only mention of it that Georgia could find was here.”

  “Here?” she quizzes. “In this vault of yesteryear? Whatever it is that you are looking for, the real meaning of it isn’t here. You may luck out and find a lead, but someone knows the answer.”

  I sigh. “My grandparents are dead.”

  “Stop thinking in a damn narrowing hallway before you get crushed,” she coaches from the sidelines, but unwilling to filthy up her hands. “Get bigger. Expand the thought.”

  “What do you know?”

  “I don’t know anything, but this is a waste of time.”

  I know what you’re thinking, why did I bring Rowan?

  Because I wanted to hear her side of the Cruz story, I wanted to know if there was any validity to Quinn’s theory about my wife being the cause of the split. Her answer was succinct. ‘We were just a fling.’

  “Where else am I going to find it?”

  “Maybe you were never meant to.” She crosses her arms, turning to lean against a cobweb-laden case. “You’re not trying to find a needle in a haystack. You’re trying to find a relic buried in century-old wreckage, even if it was here at one point, it’s so rusted you won’t recognize it…”

  “Mr. Raniero! Mr. Raniero!” the little older lady babysitting the tomes interrupts with a holler as her tight green dress on her abundant pear frame bounces at the end of the aisle. Her name is Wanda Dudley, and she is built like my mother. Waving her hand in the air, she yells, “I found something!”

  I shelve the book I am thumbing through and rush to her side. We’re little ducklings following the Mama duck to the other side of the road.

  I hope we don’t get hit; I just pray it isn’t me.

  Did I admit that Rowan is expendable?

  Everyone is but one.

  We gather in her office, cluttered with remnants of the past, to a box she has sitting in the middle of her desk. Nothing like Wilma Manley’s piece of art, but worthy of being an antique nonetheless.

  “Here!” Wanda points at the old ledger. “A joint venture was formed in 1907 with one of the names you provided.”

  “Holy shit! She found it!” Rowan announces as Mother Researcher gasps in horror. “Sorry.”

  After Rowan’s rude interruption, Wanda starts again. “As a joint venture between Jeremiah Holt Archer and On…onor…”

  Poor thing in her Texas twang is trying so hard to pronounce the name. I offer the services of my fine-tuned Italian accent, “Onorato Severino Campanelli.” Her eyes open wide as I smirk. But my contentment rapidly fades as I comprehend the weight of words—Archer, Campanelli, joint venture.

  “That was beautiful,” she compliments, segueing with nary a breath. “But! What I did find on Joseph Holland Archer and Henry McElvaney was a note from a meeting dated in 1969, which was odd because the Archers and McElvaneys have been at odds since the beginning of time.”

  Furrowing a brow, I ask, “How do you know that?”

  “It’s a well-known family feud out in West Texas. They battled over the oil for years, land rights disputes, and claims of stealing barrels and rigs.”

  Hmm. I am not gullible enough to think Italians are the only ones to do battle, but pointing out the significance spotlights my belief that it doesn’t matter what culture we are. We’re humans; we wage war. “Anything concerning the meeting?”

  “Only that they agreed to rent a safety deposit box for Stephanie Archer.”

  I blink at the document, understanding every line. “Did you make copies?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  I pull the bank envelope with five grand in cash from my back pocket. “Thank you, Wanda.”

  I speed through the timeworn building with Rowan hot on my tail. I cannot get outside fast enough. The overwhelming need to inhale toxins is something I can control. I flick the lighter in the desolate parking lot as Rowan tugs my elbow, and I fire with a roar, “Let it go.”

  She screams, “What is it?”

  “Pieces of my past, that are dead and gone.”

  “You’re evading,” she counters with a tenacious drive rivaling Cruz. “Tell me what you know.”

  I reverse the dialogue, putting her under the interrogative magnifying glass. “What do you know, Maeve?”

  “I know about the lockbox Kaci left you when she died,” she says as her Irish accent slams my head against the pavement. Her hair is now a soft blonde with extensions. She changes her hair color more than the dead girl causing my reckoning that I am fretting over. “And the shit storm you see coming but can do nothing about.”

  “And the contents, do you know about them too?”

  Her eyes beam up to mine. “No.”

  “How did you find out?” I ask the question I already know the answer for as a test for Rowan.

  She glances at a passing car. “Jaid.”

  “This is my Rapture, where I fall apart. Only Jesus isn’t coming to save me.” My muscles tense. “The Devil is coming after me.”

  “Only if you do not seek assistance. You hired people to watch over Iris, but you seemed to fail at getting anyone to watch over you. And here’s a newsflash for you, your team works for you. That does not necessarily make them your confidantes. Who do you believe in? Figure that out and listen to them. Because everyone has an opinion and an asshole, but neither of those things makes accomplices.”

  “You don’t trust Cruz,” I remark.

  “Cruz’s interests and yours are on opposite sides of the globe. He loves you—deeply. But I wasn’t referring to Cruz’s opinion or asshole.”

  “Do you love him?”

  Her tongue flicks over her lips as she lies, “I don’t love anyone but me.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “No,” she mutters as a single tear falls on her cheek. “The truth doesn’t always set you free. Sometimes it confines you to a cage to cry as the butterflies escape.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Gifu,” she readily volunteers, taking my fingers and stealing a drag from my cigarette. “Her grandmother is dying. Cruz told me.”

  “Oh, Jesus…Iris…” I run my hands through my hair and squat low. She follows me. “Cruz told you.”

  “He did…because we are aligned with the same goals.” She winks, and I snicker.

  “You’re still together…”

  “Not like you think.”

  “Because the climate is prohibitive of such inclinations,” I assess. “You’re abandoning something good for the sake of me.”

  “I have not abandoned anything, but a Tully-Cruz merger doesn’t alleviate anyone’s suffering. We are working together.” With a commanding tone, she warns, “Do not react concerning Iris, Lucas.”

  I batten down the hatches in her hurricane. I may not survive in the flood of this one. She is fierce, beckoning my name, and my instinct is to flee the fallout before the aftermath takes hold. Before corpses are floating down a river I don’t want to own.

  But I do.

  And th
e gritty earth, humbly paving the way for her magnificence, I own that too.

  “Queen Estrel of Immortal played the motherfucking game like a Master. Fucking the gender politics, she was a woman before her time—like no other time. Back in the fifties and sixties, she led the cartel. No man or woman has ever ruled as she did. She lined her shores with shells, and when she had a daughter, Mariella, she gifted those lucrative ventures to her. Right after her Quinceañera in 1963, cartel princess Mariella spread the joy like Christmas in July because she wanted the underworld to achieve fluidity. She knew the strife the bloodshed brought to families, and she wanted it to cease.”

  “Holy fuck…”

  “Mariella handed over the lockbox with the three spinning dials to Holland Archer because he was a gentleman. No other reason was expressed or implied, and she told him as much.”

  “Why?”

  I pace in the gravel parking lot, kicking up clouds, and begging for the stargazing wishes of Mariella would come true. “To give to his baby girl, Stephanie, with the promise that she would hand over the box to her firstborn daughter.”

  “Kacilyn,” she whispers. “How many boxes were there?”

  “Supposedly, a dozen.”

  “And what did they contain?”

  “Some had nothing but a note. Some had a few thousand dollars. Some had land deeds with oil wells. Some had points in other family’s tills, which would be enforced by Immortal.”

  “What did yours have?”

  I shake my head. “It isn’t mine.”

  “Kaci was your wife,” she reminds. “And she was the first daughter. She is dead, but the contents of the box belong to you, whether you want them or not. How do you know all of this?”

  “I cracked the box open before we left New Orleans. I read the long letter Kaci included as well as the original letter from Mariella.”

  “Was it destroyed in the shootout?”

  Shaking my head, I regretfully say, “I don’t know.”

  “It’s such a strange mash-up of words,” she mutters. “I don’t get it.”

  “Condé, from the Celtic, condate, meaning confluence and Mariella, for star of the sea. Condémariella was rivers running deep beneath the surface and binding rivaling families in ways unimaginable to most. We honor the code of the past to forgive the transgressions in the future.”