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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “Decide what someone is worth in your life and act accordingly.”

  In the ryokan, I relax in the hot water of the tiled tub. Steam lifts as the candles flicker, and the half-empty beer bottle sits with condensation along the edge. I’ve spent the last hour in the water, contemplating my next move, which will ultimately affect Sal and Iris. There are no easy answers or cheat sheets.

  “Do you need anything?” Sato asks, interrupting my thoughts. He raises his full bottle to me. “Another beer?”

  “Get in the water,” I mutter, accepting there is no coming back from this. Maybe there never was. We’re lost in the shadows, trapped in the shade, and hidden from the reaches. “Stay with me.”

  “I am not going to ask if you’re certain,” he whispers, pulling off his shirt. “Because I know if we’re here, you already decided what you were doing long ago.”

  “The funeral…”

  He drops his pants, but I don’t look.

  There is only one man I want to see naked.

  “I have to get Iris out of here.”

  He steps his lanky frame into the water. “Are we plotting?”

  “We’re mapping the future.”

  “You and me?” he asks. “In a bathtub? In Japan?”

  “Yes,” I reply, polishing off my beer. “Where do I start?”

  He settles back into the water, kicking his one foot out, as we sit on opposite sides. “If I were you,” he says, gently waving his bottle to make a point. God, I miss those waving arms. “I would start with the known source.”

  “… The Goro gang?”

  “Yeah,” he replies, taking a swig. “But they’re not going to meet with you. You’re going to have to take Iris.”

  “Use her as bait?”

  “I would,” he replies. “They’re not going to kill her, not with the status of Lotus being in limbo. I am not even sure they fired the shot at Aki. Someone was aiming for The Chairman and missed.”

  “Okay,” I say, revitalized by the healing waters and him. “Pretend The Chairman had died, what would’ve happened then?”

  “Iris would have immediately taken the lead.”

  “I don’t think she hired the hit,” I defend.

  “Nah,” he says, stealing the last cigarette in my pack. “So who would benefit from her lead?”

  “I know she is in tight with Torrente.”

  “Narrow it down some,” he proposes, handing the smoke to me. “Carlo is dying. His kids aren’t thinking about mergers right now.”

  “Oh, God…”

  “What?”

  I grab my phone and hit his button, but all I get is a full voicemail box. “Sal did it.”

  “No chance,” he says, shaking his head. “Maybe Cesario Raniero or Vinny Veramonte, but Sal hiring a hit? Think about what you’re saying.”

  “How do you know he’s been reluctant to hire a hitman?”

  “Because he sent me here, Deacon.”

  Oh. Jesus.

  His gameplay is fierce.

  “Is he in with your brother?”

  “You should ask him that yourself,” he replies. “I can’t…”

  “Answer the fucking question, Reo!” I interrupt, fearing the worst. “Please.”

  “Yes.”

  “Dear God, they’re both using Durante Costa,” I mumble. “What the hell is he doing?”

  “What he was born to do…”

  I rub my wet hands over my face and hair. “Do you think they’re in it together?”

  “Sal and Iris?” he asks as I nod. Setting the half-full bottle on the edge by mine, he whispers, “The two of them together are a deadly combination, and they will allocate resources as they see fit. Did they conspire with this much of a lie? That’s borderline psychopathic, but if they did, you should prepare for the aftermath.”

  “Fuck,” I grumble, sinking in the water as the flames burn my eyes. “I don’t know who to trust anymore.”

  “So, trust yourself.”

  I glance up to the wooden beamed ceiling with tears in my eyes. “If I do that…”

  “They’re both playing. You need to either make a move or get off the board because they will take you out.”

  “I already did,” I confess as the tears quietly stream over my cheeks. “I had a little incident about nine months ago.”

  “Then you’re due for another,” he quips with a sly grin. I smile through the tears as he rises onto his knees and lingers over my body. He’s careful not to touch me. And he should be—I am the Saint of a Dark Prince. “No one has to know.”

  He dips down, breathing against my lip, as I hang on every word he says. “How do I know you won’t sell me out?”

  His dripping fingers run over my cheek and whispers, “Because there is so much left unsaid here.”

  “I can’t say any of it,” I regretfully admit. “I am not a sinner.”

  His mouth hits mine with the lightest brush. “When you are ready to cross the line, call me. Because I am more than interested in what you have to offer, Deacon Cruz.”

  “I belong to Sal.”

  “Just don’t let belonging to Sal be the thing that kills you.”

  He lifts, sitting back on his heels as I course my fingers over his flat stomach. I peer up. “You will be the only choice if it falls apart.”

  He dares to say, “I could love you better.”

  “I don’t need to be loved better,” I hastily reply, smoothing my fingers along the top of the water. “I just need to survive the storm.”

  On the tub’s edge, my phone lights up with the one word I know is right—Lover.

  “You should get that,” he mutters, standing up. “And don’t forget my offer.”

  “I won’t,” I whisper as he grabs a towel, and I answer the phone. “Cruz.”

  “Raniero.”

  “Where the fuck have you been?” I question, holding back the torrent of heartache. “Goddamn, I miss you.”

  From the door, Sato turns around, kisses his fingers, and blows. I lift my hand to catch his affection. He’s a great guy, but this guy...this guy on the phone has got my fucking heart wrapped in a silken noose. And I can’t change it, even if I tried.

  “More than the bayou, Swamp.”

  Damn straight, boy.

  His voice sends a freezing burn through my spine as I sob. I need to not have another mistake. Caught up in a moment, people want to believe the grass is greener on the other side. They want to believe in blue skies, roses, and romance. The darkness where I reside remains eclipsed by the light.

  We’re humans, bound to one another, and bound to hurt one another.

  44

  A Mad Q U E E N

  His Ride

  From behind the curtain, Iris appears and twirls before me. “What do you think of this?”

  I scratch my head and smirk, not knowing what to say. The dress is deep royal purple—a color which she typically can wear without even thinking about it. However, she is almost six months pregnant. “You look like a grape.”

  Her eyes widen. “Deacon!” she gasps in horror at the piece. “No!”

  “Yeah, babe, you do.”

  “I hate you!” She stomps off behind the curtain as a couple of cute sales associates offer high pitched giggles.

  I shrug and grin as I get up to check out the clothes in the sprawling boutique. One of the girls grabs my arms, leading me to the much smaller men’s section. She’s spamming my ears with Japanese as she tugs a few pieces from the rack, and I follow her to the dressing room. “You try on!”

  I eye the clothes on the hooks, thinking there is no way these things will fit. I am not huge, but I am bigger than the average Japanese fellow out on the street. I put on a pair of snug jeans that Sal would love and a black long sleeve that a sixteen-year-old skater boy would wear.

  Twisting my ball cap on backward, I step outside the curtain to spot Iris in jeans and a white, billowing shirt. Not quite poet, but definitely maternity garb. I smile.

  “Yo
u look incredible,” I mutter as she blushes. I glance down at the red heels—which I’ll admit, are fucking fabulous showstoppers—and encourage, “Maybe you need to be thinking more about casual attire and comfortable footwear.”

  Immediately, she rebukes, “I am not a lesbian, and I am not dead. The heels stay.”

  “I’ll buy the fucking heels, but you must pick some flats too.”

  She ups the ante. “And I’m buying that outfit on you.”

  “Done,” I say, offering to shake her hand. She takes my fingers, rapidly bends forward, and bites the crap out of me. God, I love this girl. The girls at the counter laugh. “Next outfit?”

  We give one another a high-five as we sashay back to the dressing rooms. I try on the loose-fitting, admiral blue, summer suit with a white shirt. It’s classic Sal-style, something I would choose for him in a heartbeat.

  I reemerge to find Iris in a stunning, crisp white, almost negligee-style dress. There is no concealing every curve from her lush bosom to her gorgeous, full midriff with the thin spaghetti straps and clinging silk fabric. I glance down at the enormous sneakers in turquoise and orange she has on her feet and cannot help but laugh.

  She gives a wide, mischievous grin and giggles, “You cannot wear a ball cap with a suit.”

  “And you cannot wear those shoes with that knockout dress.”

  “Do you like it?” she asks, glancing in the mirror. I ease in behind her and stare at our reflection. She eagerly conforms to my frame as I hold out hope for a brief split second that she can save me.

  We are nothing but a mirage.

  Iris is a nostalgic, long-forgotten dream of a boy who longed to be accepted, and therein is my attachment to her splendor. She doesn’t feel the need to forgive my choices. With her reign over my dominion, I fall into a wanton state of lust and love, where the fuel of my wind isn’t dependent on some boy’s rocket launcher. I don’t need a man to skyrocket into the stratosphere; I covet her swan.

  But it isn’t mine…not anymore.

  She belongs to my he.

  And I am only a spectator and soldier in the sport of their racket.

  “I like you,” I whisper, drawn to her. She spins, and my hands automatically drop to her waist. I pull her close and kiss her as if she belongs to me. As if the baby in her belly…belongs to me.

  Against my lip, she breathes, “What are you doing?”

  “My time away for a few days did me well.”

  “You didn’t do anything,” she hastens a guess. “And now, you’re mine.”

  “Until the end of time.”

  We finish shopping our way through the outdoor marketplace. We eat skewered teriyaki chicken on the go, share a matcha ice cream cone, and dream of a time when we can all be together again. The time spent with Iris is remarkably healing, and I reaffirm my belief that sleeping with another man would have been the absolute worst mistake of my life.

  After taking a shower, she crashes on the sofa in our hotel suite when we get back. Her head is in my lap, and I am petting her hair. “How tempted were you?”

  “Don’t ask,” I reply, flipping channels. “It’s not worth the pain.”

  “You would be breaking up with both of us,” she mentions as I stop on a fishing show. “And I would never forgive you.”

  “I know, but sometimes, I feel like there is only one reason to stay.”

  She rolls over onto her back and lifts to face me. “And what reason is that?”

  Her lips crash into mine with enthusiasm as the desire builds. We aren’t worlds apart but present and on the same page. Everything aligns as her fingers undo my jeans, and her mouth caresses over the head. She swallows my cock, and I gasp, “Holy fuck! Iris!”

  Gripping around my shaft, she sucks her way back to the tip. “Call it a cleansing blow job.”

  “Let me make love to you,” I hungrily beg, needing to be inside of her wetness. She straddles over my lap and eases down, welcoming the fullness of my dick with her slickness. “Shit…”

  “We aren’t over,” she whispers, rolling her hips against my upward thrusts. “God forbid, if something happens to him, I am going to need you, Deacon. You cannot have an affair because I am next in line.”

  And that settles that.

  Wait…she feels like second place too?

  We damn sure didn’t come this far to take home silver.

  While sitting in a hostess bar in Tokyo, I’m finding it hard to believe that the high-powered she-devil of a businesswoman sitting next to me is the same girl that was begging for my dick until the light crested over the horizon.

  No one knows Iris as I do, and a new theory comes to mind—maybe I am as much her right-hand man as his. And I understand I have questioned this before, but the more time we spend in close quarters, the more I realize—she truly needs me.

  Someone to watch over her.

  I serve a multi-purpose role, capable of offering defense in her precarious state, or offense if I need to intercede. My goal is always to let them run their businesses while I take care of my own in New Orleans separately. I offer an outpost for both Lotus and Sal Raniero.

  “I want complete consolidation of all Goro resources to fall under the Lotus umbrella,” she demands, speaking to Daisuke. “You cannot fund a war against me, so allow the buyout.”

  “If you can promise to keep Masa by your side and protected,” he slowly says, clearly understanding that the game has changed. “I will accept your offer. But if you plan on eliminating his presence, then we will take issue. Masa has a birthright to Lotus, which must never be forgotten.”

  Not really.

  This guy is a fucking lunatic.

  I get the honor and privilege of watching the evolution of a Lotus—like the metamorphosis of a butterfly freshly emerged from her cocoon. She isn’t ready to fly until her wings dry, but she’s hatched and full of energy.

  With Aki’s passing, the underworld is aware of the threat Iris poses, and no one wants to start as her enemy—even the Goro gang. She doesn’t want them, but they need her association.

  “Who ordered the hit?” she asks, rubbing the base of her glass. “You owe me that much.”

  “Marcello Campanelli.”

  I sense her feeling ballsy, so she pushes and asks, “And who fired the gun?”

  He snickers, showing off his stained yellow teeth. “Enzo Gennaro.”

  Iris sits back, holding her champagne stem with sparkling peach water. “Do you know where he is now?”

  “Not a clue,” Daisuke gruffs, tiring of her inquisition. His new boss isn’t asking for much; the least he could do is be respectfully cordial. “But the objective wasn’t met. Aki Nakamura was never the intended target. Masa was. Raniero and Campanelli want to hoist you to the throne.”

  Masa? Really?

  News to us. Now we’re getting somewhere.

  Iris doesn’t buy into the charming notions. “They want Masa to perish, so The Chairman doesn’t have a choice but to hand over the reins to me. They want me to fail. Tell me, do you think I will fall on my blade, Daisuke?”

  He doesn’t answer, which says plenty. “Goro will need protection from Sword if we go against them.”

  I am going to introduce my crowbar to this fuckface one day.

  I glance at Iris, deep in thought. She is deciding if a war on her home turf is worth the carnage. “I will allow one shipment to anywhere in the world. Where is it going?”

  “New York,” he quickly responds. “As a gift from afar during their time of mourning.”

  She nods, acutely aware that clan Torrente has zero allies. They buy cheap and sell high with little regard to anyone else. Most people steer clear of Torrente, which is why Campanelli and Raniero were working together to put a pinch on the New York market.

  Sal informed me the other night—before our four-hour sexting session—that Stella is venturing into Zacarro turf. New Jersey is a bad idea. Stella isn’t diving onto a scimitar, but attempting to saw her head off with a butter k
nife. Raniero Enterprises will experience a long, slow, painful death, and there is only one person who can stop it.

  And his pierced beast looked incredible on camera.

  “And if they decide not to buy?” Daisuke asks. “We will be the enemy.”

  For the first time since the meeting started, I speak up, “I will buy from you if the deal falls through.”

  Iris turns fast to look at me. If her rapid blinks are any indication, she is freaking out by my offer.

  “Done,” Daisuke responds, standing up. I do the same, and we shake hands. “Good doing business with you, Saint.”

  They depart, and Iris fumes, “You completely undermined my ability to close a deal. Thanks for your support.”

  “Baby girl…”

  “No,” she snaps, grabbing her purse and darting for the car. I follow her outside, where we’re met with pouring rain. My fucking Queen is standing in the goddamned deluge while waiting on the limo to take us back to the hotel.

  I reach for her hand. “No, don’t,” she warns. “I thought you were on my team.”

  I state, with an angry tone, “I am on the team where you live long enough to deliver this baby. You have been on a crash course for months, determined to sabotage everything, including your life and the baby.”

  “Did you tell him?”

  “No!” I oppose, not believing that she and I are fighting. Sal and her—sure. But she and I never fight like this. “Did you plan out the harebrained betrayal with him?”

  Her blue eyes stare into mine. “… Are you insane?”

  “It’s worthy of asking, considering what you two are doing to one another.”

  “Pull every penny out of Kill Rat,” she mutters. “Let him fucking have it while he’s screwing Rowan.”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “Rowan called me,” she informs as I grip the bridge of my nose and lick my lips. I shake my head, lost in turmoil. “I don’t want it to be like this.”

  The car arrives, and we ride back to the hotel in silence. We walk to the room. With one of my hands on her lower back, I keep one on the piece I’ve strapped to me.