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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “You do whatever it fucking takes.”

  I blink down and release a heavy sigh. “I can do that.”

  “But,” he adds with a mischievous grin. “Before you do, I’d like to feed you breakfast, take a shower with you, and feel you come again on my dick. Can that be arranged?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “No problem.”

  “And before we do all that, I’d enjoy you crawling in those shoes.”

  “Oh, God!” I look down at my feet. “I slept in my shoes!”

  “Sign of a damn good night!” he happily gloats. “Morning services?”

  My lips curl as I blush, trying to hold back how much the offer from his Master means to my submissive. “Sir Deacon?”

  “Yeah?”

  Grabbing the clip from the nightstand, I toss my hair up. I untangle my body from the sheets and fall to my knees. “It would be my absolute pleasure.”

  On all fours, I crawl, working every curve for his amusement. I aim to entertain. His hand strokes his dick, and he’s fully erect when I drop to my knees before him. “Suck my dick, slut.”

  My lips ease over his hefty shaft, sliding my mouth around him, and taking the whole thing. He’s such a naughty bastard with a fucking halo and wings, and he plays that card better than anyone I’ve ever met. He knows who he is and what he is doing in every choreographed step.

  His fingers undo the clip, tossing it, and he tugs at my hair. I deep throat his dick like everything we’ve said or done rides on this very second.

  I must perform.

  There are no more second chances. This is it—my final audition to surrender for his Dominance. I cannot fuck this one up.

  In the act of our raunchy revival, I fail to hear the door unlock, but his firm grasp in my hair seizes my attention.

  “What the hell is going on?” Iris angrily asks. “You better have a damn good reason why Diablo Cruz called Reo Sato in a panic that Amber and Deacon were missing.”

  “Is Sato here?” Deacon asks as I stay kneeling with my head down. I am ashamed. We should’ve told someone.

  “No, Masa brought me over. He’s downstairs in the lobby because I had an idea of what was going on.”

  “You covered for me,” he praises as she moves closer. I give a discreet side-eyed glance at how pregnant she is.

  Holy hell, she is huge.

  She lays her hand on his cheek and kisses his lips. “I will always cover for you.” Peering down, she says, “And you, you tawdry little slut!”

  “… Yes, Ma’am?”

  She bends and lays a kiss on me for the record books—lips and tongue and sweetness abound. “Next time, call me.”

  “It was all an accident.”

  “Accidents happen,” she acknowledges, smirking at Deacon. “Just know who your friends are so they can hide the bodies and tell the lies.”

  “I love you,” he admits.

  I grin. “I love you too. You look radiant, Iris.”

  “Oh, God, no, I don’t,” she says, walking towards the door. “I’m fucking fat as a tick. You two have fun. And Deacon?”

  “Yes, Ma’am?” he says as I smirk, understanding the order of our hierarchy.

  “Put all of this on the Lotus card.” She winks and waves. “And have fun!”

  Still, on my knees, I ask, “Did she just give us her blessing?”

  “She fucking did.”

  “Holy fucking shit…this is happening…”

  His hand skims over my cheek as he grins down at me. “No longer an accident.”

  54

  One Waitress Strategist, Please

  The Master

  In the hotel suite alone, I throw my phone on the sofa, bend forward with my elbows to my knees, and cover my face with my hands.

  The sobering call was from Jas.

  Carlo Torrente died earlier today with his family and friends surrounding him.

  I shouldn’t be this affected, but he was a legend in the bigger picture. He was the new kid on the block, rising up the ladder when Old Poppa excelled at a rapid rate.

  His death matters.

  His legacy matters even more.

  I remember being about five or six when I first met Carlo out on a boat. I was sitting on Old Poppa’s lap as the men played cribbage, drank fancy liquors, and smoked cigars. I was never around the men in our home unless Old Poppa was involved. If he was there, so was I.

  Carlo called me Old Poppa’s shadow.

  And I was.

  If he went fishing, I wanted to go. If he went hunting, I wanted to go. If he went out to dinner with the big wigs and I was at his house, I wanted to go. I had a suit from the day I was born, and knowing my mother—Lucilla—she probably has them all stashed in boxes in the attic.

  The thing I never realized at five or fifteen, or hell twenty-five, is the curse of life afflicts everyone. No one is immune. No one gets a reprieve.

  If things transpire in the order that they should, I will watch everyone I know and love pass on. Not those close to my age. We aren’t talking about Deacon dying.

  God, no.

  That would fucking kill me.

  We all get the honor of attending funerals. I will bury Cesario, Lucilla, Vinny, and Stella. My uncles. My aunts. Maybe my sisters. My friends. My family.

  Anna. Serene. Dominic.

  They’re all going to go. It’s a cruel fucking joke is what it is. And it sucks.

  My hands are wet with tears when I wipe them on my sweatpants and dry my nose on the hem of my shirt. A few spots of blood surface. I expect that much.

  I can’t even think about Iris passing or my future children. The reality is already there, and it stings.

  Like a motherfucking swarm of mosquitoes, clouding in the swamp of my head junk.

  Jaid is staying in a separate room on the fourth floor. I am on the top floor. Lucky number seven. I stare out at the lights and think about calling Rowan.

  She’s suitable for a blow job and drugs and not much more.

  Despite buying her dinner and allowing her to swallow my cum, I am not reinvesting in Kill Rat. Fucking thing is a massacre waiting to happen. Stroker Mullins better watch his damn ass.

  I will have to attend the funeral of Carlo, not Stroker. Well, probably him too.

  There isn’t a choice.

  I will use the opportunity to safely relocate Hannah to Boston with Vinny. I should stop by the house and say hi to my parents—grandparents…whatever the fuck they are. The damn people who kept my ass in school and Nike’s on my feet.

  Their mess.

  Not mine.

  Their fault on the language.

  Not mine.

  I stopped calling Cesario dad a long fucking time ago, but I can’t just stop calling Lucilla, mom. I firmly believe that she cared and tried and did the best she could. She was trapped in the war of his fists as much as I was.

  I am trying a new thing called passivity. I am evoking the role of Switzerland, a neutral territory, but the truth is it’s hard. People make jokes about it all the time, but it’s not easy being that guy. It’s not easy listening to forty opposing viewpoints, trying to make sense of it all, and still doing what’s best for myself and my tribe.

  I have people on payroll and mouths to feed. The choices I make could bring consequences to their table. That is the harsh reality.

  Leaning back into the sofa, I stare at the ceiling. There is nothing special about it—ordinary, dull hotel ceiling. There is a water stain in the corner by the windows.

  A tiny hole…a crack…a leak…leading to permanent damage.

  Poor hotel ceiling broke from water.

  Water is life; water is deadly.

  I’m hysterically crying over a brown spot on a white ceiling.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  I do know. It’s called three days with no snow. The Alps have dried. There is no skiing in this resort. No rails to ride up and overlook snowy mountain tops. No tracks to hold my brain in place. I’m freewheeling into a san
ctimonious pit of malabsorption. Self-effacing. Holding back. Staying low and reserved.

  This is not narcissism.

  This is detox.

  Rehab on the Emerald Isle.

  I’ve done this too many times. I left all the addies and xannies and numbing stuff in Italy. I could score a hit off Stroker, I am sure. I damn sure could swing something to hold me over from Rowan.

  But I am three days in.

  Laying down flat, I pick up the phone, crying and sweating. I can’t do this alone. I need someone to hold my hand and tell me there is a light somewhere in this darkened hell.

  As a last resort, I call Amber. I have no idea where the fuck she is. She’ll have adequate drugs and plenty of sex. She doesn’t answer. I call Deacon. He doesn’t answer. My finger hovers over my wife’s number, but hitting it will only lead to—the number I’ve dialed is fucking another gent.

  Take that back. Erase that. Cancel that.

  Durante is no gent. He’s a swine. Wait, no…that’s my wife. Oinker. He’s a pit. And I don’t mean bull. He doesn’t get to be a pit bull on crack.

  Durante Costa is a pit to an eternal hell.

  My wife fell in the hell well.

  I snort and laugh before more tears crash from my eyes. I’m releasing too many bodily fluids at once—tears, snot, spit, blood.

  “Where the fuck is Amber?” I yell through gritted teeth as I sob. “Where the fuck is Cruz?”

  I could call Daddy Dom.

  He’d tell me to come home, but I can’t do that yet. I can’t go to Sugargrove and have everything reminding me of her. I wonder how fat she’s gotten with his kid. She’s probably huge with massive tits he enjoys latching on to. They’re probably happy and planning a wedding as soon as divorce papers are signed.

  I burst into more tears.

  Fuck this shit.

  Drugs are better.

  The knock on the door jogs my onslaught of spiteful remorse and self-inflicted woe. Stomping in a tantrum to the door, I swing it open and gripe, “It’s two in the fucking morning, whoever the hell it is, this better be good!”

  “Hi,” Jaid whispers in an outfit that Deacon would call drab—a light lilac jogging suit that washes out her complexion and is made even worse by the high ponytail at the top of her head. She resembles the chick from I Dream of Jeannie crossed with an 80s soccer mom trying to be cool. It would only be better…or worse…if it were velveteen. “Can I come in?”

  Next time, remind me to have drugs delivered.

  “You look like shit with freezer burn on a dish of entrails swirled together.”

  “Thank you,” I reply with a curious brow as she marches inside and heads for the bar. “What are we drinking? I’m serving up the cocktails tonight.”

  “It’s two in the morning,” I complain as she blinks like I am speaking Swahili. “What’s going on?”

  “Please put your order in to the waitress,” she says, setting a napkin on the counter. “Now, Raniero. Do it now!”

  “Whiskey.”

  “Neat?”

  “You know it.”

  She grabs the most expensive bottle and cracks it open. “We’re going hard tonight, boy.”

  “What happened?”

  “Abel called from rehab.”

  The irony in that statement at this exact moment is profound.

  I swig back the contents in the glass, understanding how one thing leads to another. Addiction is a funny thing like that. Whiskey leads to pills, and the next depot comes fully equipped with a razor blade.

  Yeehaw!

  Now, that is what I am talking about.

  “And?”

  Taking a long drink from the bottle, she says, “He signed the divorce papers.”

  “So stay married to him,” I suggest, playing the best friend role. “If you love him, there isn’t a debate…”

  “But he wants money.”

  I raise a brow. “Why the fuck does Abel want money?”

  “Who the fuck knows!”

  “Did you have a prenup?”

  “Yep,” she says, kicking off her shoes and splatting on the sofa. “But his lawyers are contesting the validity of said document from Joe Kaiser.”

  “They can’t do that,” I argue, stealing the bottle from her fingers as she eyes the vape. She takes the mod and presses the button as she puts her feet on the table with mine. “Try it.”

  “Are you quitting?”

  Such a loaded question that is.

  “I’m trying because of Mass, but it fucking blows.”

  That is precisely what I need.

  A few minutes in silence, and she asks, “Did you hear Torrente passed?”

  “Ya, I talked to Jas.”

  “How is he?” she quizzes, rubbing her socked foot against my barefoot. “I cannot imagine it is easy to lose a parent you care about.”

  “He will survive. Their relationship hasn’t been stable in the past. What about you? Are you going to be okay when I kill your father?”

  “I’ll survive,” she replies, laying her head on the sofa. “Turn off the lights, Sal.”

  I hop up fast and hit the switch as the lights of the Belfast buildings take on an eerie, sudden glow. Summer is fading into fall with cooler temperatures, and the mist from the water leads into a hazy fog around everything.

  It’d look amazing if I were cranked up a few notches.

  As it stands, the night is forecasting a creeping blanket of darkness, permeating everything in my existence. I have to kill an innocent man. In my heart, I know Carrick Byrne does not deserve to die. But is his life worth mine?

  Because when I get down to it—that is the essence of what this is—an exchange of my life for his. I do not doubt Father Thomas will destroy those I love and kill me in the end.

  One way or another, I am going to murder a priest.

  The only question is—which one?

  “Did you know about Ella Hemsworth?” I ask, knowing Jaid read through my notes. She is a good girl; she does her homework. I’m starting to see a trend in the women I enjoy—demure and intelligent. She shakes her head and swings her legs to my lap. “Did you know about Serene?”

  The intensity of her sigh speaks of the dilemma. “Did you know that, according to Niamh, Stroker has a hit list of targets and The Commission, Sanctum, and Oscurità are all on it?”

  “Can she carefully acquire a copy of the list?”

  “She’s working on it,” she mutters as I rub her feet. Her high arches are sensual. “When she gets it to me, you will have it.” Brushing her toes against my dick, she offers, “You can have whatever you want.”

  “A weekend of sex.”

  “Shall we warm-up with a foot job?”

  I smirk. “You want to wrap those beauties around my beast; I won’t tell you no. I can’t.” Tugging off her socks, I pull down the front of the gray sweatpants, and her toes rub against my shaft. I stiffen quickly from the sight of her painted toes, caressing my piercing. “What the fuck are we doing?”

  “The only thing we can—trying to forget,” she says, bending her legs, so her arches wrap around my dick. With the balls and heels of her feet together, she precisely moves, and I moan. “I’ve never done this.”

  “I’m not going to come.”

  She snickers, “Not good enough?”

  “I want to come inside of you.”

  55

  A Haunting Coda

  The Master

  The following hours of my detoxification deliver the secretions of sweat from absence. I crave the high like no other. The thrill of the escalation and the fear of the drop pose like stations in a wild sea.

  I swim to an island, ride the roller coaster, and abandon it for another island. I wash up on her shores unexpectedly as the night plays out like a porn reel on repeat.

  She is the one drug I should never touch because I will use this intoxicant until it kills me. Every addict has one they know to stay away from.

  Jaid is mine.

 
Straddling my cock, she rolls her body with grace, fluttering whispers of a haunting past and a forbidden future. Her present is tranquil, hypnotic in our chaos and despair, as our flesh intertwines in a tantric ensemble. We understand one another. We speak the same language. We bond over the familiar.

  The bad boy of the mafia and the girl waiting to become a Queen.

  Iris is closer to taking her crown.

  I can alter the outcome, but the question is—should I?

  The undisputed fact is the first woman to hold her court will be the darling of the dance, revered and rivaled by many. Is there any longterm benefit to Jaid upsetting the natural progression of things?

  In one corner, I have Iris Nakamura, my wife—in namesake only—who has fought against the idea of her throne since childhood, much like I have. We have a lot more in common than most realize.

  In the other corner, I present Priscilla “Jaid” Grace Cristos, who has far and beyond exceeded anyone’s expectations in a short amount of time.

  I accept that Nakamura and Cristos will both be part of the underworld topography.

  They’re set to be monarchs, but their reign and rule are contingent upon strategy. If I knock the head off King Cristos, thereby elevating Jaid faster, what do I get out of it?

  That’s thug talk, not personal.

  Ego and soul are null and void; eradicate them for this equation.

  Pareto optimality—the inability to make one better without making the other worse—sits center stage under the spotlight. Leveraging the outcome is a difficult task, especially when I am limited in my focus. No matter the amount of mental resources I spend on the problem, the final solution remains infinite.

  Because I don’t know their variables.

  Her tongue darts out, licking her lips as I grab hold of her and walk to the bedroom. Setting her on the bed, I growl, “Get on all fours.”

  “Yes, Sir,” she whispers, peering at me over her shoulder as I thrust inside. Her eyes shutter closed, and her mouth gapes open, damp with want—just like her sweet pussy.