“… Sever the ties with Lotus?”
“If the water is polluted, you either have to put your waders on and clean up the muck, or abandon the area and search for a pure source.”
“There is no other option.”
He shakes his head. “Not really. You know Lotus is involved with Kill Rat, so you need to decide, in light of recent events, if you want to continue to pursue the same investments, dipping your toes in the contamination.”
“I planned to pull out.”
“Maybe you should reconsider,” he says with a smirk. “Make her swim.”
“She won’t survive.”
“And you care, why?” He asks the thought-provoking question, but I don’t respond. “She used Kill Rat, Sal. Make a better offer or abandon the post, but don’t sit and wallow.”
“You are suggesting I start a war with Lotus.”
“The war started when Durante Costa crossed the finish line.”
The way he says it—hits hard and hurts even more—but I need the honesty to sober me up. I crave painful truths, sequestering my innate masochist, and feeding my Dominant demon.
We run back at a steady pace in silence. I don’t know where things stand in any regard. It’s as if my entire life and every facet in it are simultaneously erupting with earthquakes. I hear the cracking sounds as the ground on which I stand gives way, fissures, and forms fault lines between my feet.
“I’m going to shower,” Mass mutters, staring a little too long. The suggestive hint rises like molten lava from deep in the core, ready to claim and take me home. All I have to do is allow myself to submerge. And it would be easy…so fucking easy…to disappear into the fire.
But in distant foreign lands, there is a guy who loves me more than life itself. That matters. That counts.
More than the devil ripping the shirt from his heavenly sculpted body as he strides away. I close my eyes, unable to deny the magnetic chemistry, but I’ll paint the shower wall before I make that deal.
I am infuriatingly addicted to self-discipline when focused.
Mass left early this morning, looking sizzling hot in a fucking suit. I may have painted those walls four times since our run, but I am ignoring acting on those lust-filled yearnings and focusing on work.
Neat!
Something other than my butcher shop gig.
Pacing the terrazzo tile, I listen to Nicky whining about Merritt since Jaid has flown the coop for another flock—one of her own. “Do I have your permission to send this little fuck to boarding school?”
“I don’t give a crap what you do with him…” I stop, realizing what I just said and to whom. “Do not kill the kid, Nicky.”
“I’m not into kids or guys, thanks.”
“But seriously, do whatever you need to do. If you want to stick him in boarding school or military school, I don’t fucking care because he’s not my kid.”
“He’s Diablo’s, but he is too unstable to raise him. So that leaves Deacon or Trudy. My step-brother is in Japan, and my new Mommy is on an African safari.”
I’m not too fond of the way he called Trudy—Mommy.
“Are you kidding?”
“I wish I were,” he says. “Mama Cristos is getting banged in the jungle by my Daddy.”
Lord, help me.
“How long have they been gone?”
“A week with three more to go, but she doesn’t want Merritt anymore than she wants Diablo. Trudy checked out with everyone but her “two” sons—her precious Deacon and you.”
I wonder if that includes her daughter, who is sitting in very short shorts at my desk and smiling at me. Mass’ graciousness extends far beyond his rippling eye candy, and he offered to let me use his office for work because he never does. Most of what he does is on the terrace outside with a laptop.
“Where is your head at with your Dad?”
“Why are you asking me this, Raniero?” Nicky scoffs as I hear the washer starting. A Domesticated Sociopath. “I don’t care what you do with him,” he says as I move around the desk, and Skeeter spreads her thighs to reach the filing cabinet behind her. Her blue eyes captivate with an invitation as I study her subtle moves. God, I want this bitch riding my cock. The rattling of pots and pans breaks the moment as Nicky says, “We are in the same mindset.”
I guarantee we are not.
“Send him away, and I’ll work on doing the same with Cristos. I gotta go.”
I toss the phone on the desk and pull off my shirt as I knee slide from ten feet away to her thighs.
“Jesus Christ! Scare me!” Her hand grabs her heart.
“I need…” I hitch on the words.
“You need me to take off my pants, and let you lick on my clit until you cannot take anymore?”
“Pretty much.”
“When is Mass coming back?”
I drift my eyes from side-to-side. “Does this matter?”
“Yeah,” she says in her Southern drawl. “I ain’t sharing you with anyone.”
Damn, this girl has dedication.
“I can’t make promises.”
“Then my downtown shop is closed, but you can put your head in my lap, and I’ll pet your hair. I’ll even pretend not to know you are snorting up the smell like a long, fat line.”
God, that is just what I need. Amber! She comes fully equipped with drugs and sex.
“You are such a naughty girl.”
“You hired me,” she says, running her finger along my jaw. “And eventually, you are going to stick your dick in me. You know it. I know it. Just make sure when you do it that you’re prepared to pay the price.”
What is the deal with everyone having a price?
“And what is yours?”
“I want a Raniero collar.”
That will never happen.
I’m horny as a motherfucker, but I’m not that insane.
The doorbell rings as I remark, “It’s good to have goals, just make sure they’re obtainable.”
Hopping up, I answer the door to find a cute, young Italian man—he is a boy, probably not more than twenty—smiling at me.
Damn good looking.
He hands a bunch of sunflowers and lavender spikes with a note about Oscurità seeking my presence this evening.
Wonderful!
But it won’t be my lover.
At Oscurità, I received the text from Cruz that he safely touched down in Tokyo despite several delayed flights. He flew from Rome to New York and spent a night at a hotel before flying to San Francisco, where he stayed another night.
I should’ve just stuck his ass on a private plane. I have no idea when I will see him again.
As per routine, I change into the robe and head into the crypt. I am going to dismember someone tonight, Nicky-style. Between the shit with Iris, Mass, Skeeter, and Deacon being gone, I may explode soon. Better to let it out on someone who most likely deserves punishment.
In my chamber, I spot a man in a deep maroon Friar robe. This is a new one. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…”
The older, middle-aged man in thick glasses smiles from the corner of his mouth. “Kneel, Salvatore.”
“Who are you?”
“Some things have come to our attention, which we feel we need to address.”
Oh. God. Cris Crow.
“I have served Sanctum to the best of my ability, Father.”
“We have forgiven the trespasses against Father Altromessa.”
You mean—you pardoned Altromessa’s actions for raping Aki Nakamura and forgave your devoted Saint for blowing his brains onto the pew?
“Thank you, Sir,” I praise because that is my boy Deacon Cruz we are talking about. “I appreciate Sanctum’s consideration.”
“But we cannot forgive the death of Father McPhail.”
Quickly, I excuse, “But we had nothing to do with that. That was Sanctum’s doing.”
He lays his finger on my lips. “Perhaps, but you will be the one to issue the retributive hit again
st Father Byrne. Sanctum did not condone the execution-style killing, and we consider it an affront to our creed.”
In eighteen years of studying the catechism, I do not recall The Ten Commandments, including your deadly selective doctrine.
Just sayin’. For clarity.
Ya, know.
Because we’ve thrown the baby out with the bathwater.
The mud is thick.
I pretend that this is easy, and I am made for this, but no absolution waits for these crimes held in my hands. I am neither the shepherd nor the crook, but the slave beaten into submission by their primordial ways. I am their machine, their killer, their unholy son committing the acts of violence they denounce. I find repentance in sin, find heaven residing in the capital vices, and vow to champion for one.
Myself.
“You will be killing Father Byrne.”
I do not react to the order from the priest. His will be done. Not God’s or mine. I am the servant to their false God, worshipping, and praising his name to keep guarding a Saint. I will not rock the boat. I will not decry their misdeeds and condemn their misuse of a gospel I know by heart.
“Of course,” I reply as he offers his hand to me. I note the presence of a ruby ring with an inlaid golden crab, precisely like the one Delarte Cristos gave to me. “I am your humble vessel.”
“You are nothing more than a houseboy,” he replies as I press my lips to his knuckles. I pray he does not ask for more. Or he will end up with a sanguine soaked robe. “But, I have every intention of making you the major-domo.”
“That would imply that I am domesticated.”
“Are you not?”
I glance up and hiss, “Father, I am feral.”
30
passing the night
His Butterfly
In the massive foyer of the Lotus Palace, I pass by the house shrine covered in a white paper. I float with light steps to Baba’s bedroom, where one large pillar candle has continuously burned since her death. Flowers, incense, and gifts litter around the area as I kneel in my casual cotton black kimono and say a prayer.
My hands shake as I hold the japamala beads Murasaki provided for the wake. She isn’t welcome at the palace under Sofu’s rule but will meet me at the Buddhist temple. Baba was devout in her Shintoist beliefs. Sofu is a Buddhist. While similar, they are not the same.
The wake will be held at a Buddhist Temple for Sofu. The funeral will take place at a Shinto Shrine because Baba’s eldest son—my father, Raiko—made the funeral arrangements in accordance with her wishes.
It’s very confusing for a five-month pregnant woman, rapidly ascending to take the crown. There is some concern that Sofu will not return to his dutiful place as the head of Lotus. He hasn’t been right in his mind since the shooting. Masa believes he is in shock. My Uncle Nori and his son, Yoshi, think he is finished. His work with Lotus complete.
Technically, my father should have taken over Lotus, but his disgrace of the family name meant falling back onto the tomes of old where the wife of The Chairman could appoint any member of the family she chose. As the uppermost ranked matriarch, her decision would be honored by the family.
Aki chose me.
A woman.
According to the tales from Murasaki, Raiko agreed to further shame the family name by endowing and subsequently providing Aki with her selection. In essence, she used her favorite son, and they rigged the system to win. She was angry with Sofu for his oftentimes belligerent, know-it-all attitude.
Lotus were peaceful in public, but behind closed doors, inner turmoil plagued the family. I was his dose of comeuppance delivered by his wife. Murasaki maintains the arrangement was made after they returned to Japan, directly after Baba’s attack.
Baba was angry with the violence in mafia life, her husband’s stronghold, and her eldest son’s philandering ways. I was already promised to the young Raniero son, but Baba elevated me a princess in her court.
I would be the future Lotus Queen.
And there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. If I declined the position, essentially spitting on the family name, I would likely be killed as well as any offspring I bore. The Nakamura’s would go after the Raniero’s in an almost feudal-like war.
Welcome to my life.
This is my mafia.
While a husband was to control his wife in our world, Aki pushed those limits, drilling her beloved motto into my brain—“A woman must be pure and clean for service.”
I wasn’t sure if I could ever live up to her standard, but I had to try. With my hands on her linens, I close my eyes and pray I am good enough. I pray for strength. I pray to love hard in the bloodshed of our war.
Pressing my lips to the sheets on where she laid, I whisper, “I have to go and make you proud now, you wretched fucking bitch.”
Exiting the room, I stroll through the palace to two rows of my family on either side of the door. The lines are formal, showing respect to the future matriarch of their court. I slide into the limousine and ride to the temple.
Never have I been quite so alone.
The wake is uneventful with only family and close friends in attendance. We fill the casket with her favorite things, light incense, and say prayers. We say goodbye to her peaceful passing. I am the last person to see her lying in the coffin. I drape my beads around her neck, praying they choke her in the next life, but in front of the family and friends, I cry with tears of grief and despair.
“I love her so much.” Clinging to Masa, I beg, “How will I ever do this without her guidance?”
Easy.
One foot in front of the other with my middle fingers high in the air.
But I never let them see my vindictive side. I never let them know me. I never once crack into a hysterical fit of laughter—not because she is dead, but because she hated me. She gave the kingdom to a woman she despised, all because I was born with a vagina. My grandmother was many horrific things, but she was a feminist well before her time. And despite her doubt of my ability to continue Lotus properly, I had something her house full of sons did not.
I was the only granddaughter.
Out of respect, the four families called a moratorium on any skirmishes or trading for the twenty-four-hour procession. The act was reserved for an upper ranked member of the family, and because of the profound honor and respect bestowed on The Chairman’s wife, Murasaki prepared me for the funeral.
“It will be much different,” she said at the hospital as we counted down the hours until Baba passed. “More like a royal gathering or a summit. Security will be high, and you will need to be aware of your surroundings at all times, though it is highly unlikely a strike would occur.”
On the ride back to the palace, I peer at Reo Sato, staring out the window. The onslaught of strange faces will make me nervous, and I ask, “Will you be near me tomorrow?”
“I will be with the security detail.”
I reach for his hand, laying on the console, and grasp his fingers. “I don’t want you on detail. I want you with me.”
He rapidly blinks like the idea of a Lotus mingling with her chief security officer is unheard of. “Are you certain, that is the image you wish to project, Ms. Raniero?”
“I have already broken my husband. I like my hearts smashed to smithereens with a generous helping of salt in the wound.”
“Are you mad?”
“I am not,” I calmly reply, controlling the situation. “I am the Queen, and you will be by my side.”
He gazes down at my hand and the diamond wedding band. “Do you plan on removing your rock?”
My eyes dampen at the sight of the sparkling ring symbolizing Sal’s love for me. He would do anything to keep me safe. I love the ring. I love the meaning. I love the man more than words. I blink up and scathingly reply, “Not until I am dead.”
In a regal black kimono with golden embroidery and red silk underneath, I walk through the crowd to the Shinto shrine’s gates in full regalia. My hair is p
ulled up in a bun with a braided halo secured by red butterflies, reflecting the culture. My eyes are framed by the pristine black arches and heavy red lipstick done by my attendants. Typically, the Japanese downplay the funeral attire, but I chose to go balls to the wall.
I’ll take her Japan; she’ll receive my kinky courtesan.
On my feet, I opt to wear the most comfortable pair of sneakers I own. They were a gift from my favorite unholy stylist, and I have been wearing them nonstop during my pregnancy. No one will see them due to the kimono’s length, but I wouldn’t care if they did.
The decision of what to wear was mine. Out of all of the haute couture outfits brought to the palace, I chose the traditional style out of respect for my grandmother. I portrayed the perfect Japanese geisha doll, but with violet-blue eyes and a rounding belly, I felt more ghastly than glamorous. I understood the principle of keeping things up for appearance’s sake, but there was a time to shine.
And my time was now.
The four families, including members of Lotus, needed to believe the beautiful Lotus heir had her shit together.
I am not sure I do.
I shake hands and bow, which is more like a curtsey with Goblin, as the condolences pour in from attendees from all over the world. Even Morpheus and Reza are present, though I am not surprised. Those troubling themselves before Lotus will indicate a significant interest, surging a deliberate bond. Even at a funeral, the game was played.
My time for real mourning was before the hoopla of today. But what was I mourning? Not the dead woman in the casket whose attack of violence sent her spiraling to deliver her own. I was mourning myself, the girl I used to be, and could no longer spot in a crowd. I wave at Murasaki Hada, aware of my family issues, but her husband, Matsu Goro, is nowhere to be found.
A Dark Place (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 5) Page 24