“Maybe not,” he says. “But they’re scared of you, rising from the ash, and unleashing your flames.”
“I love you, Dad.”
He smiles. “I love you, my firebird. If you need me, pick up the damn phone. I’ll get my hands dirty for you any day of the week and never question your choices.”
On the way into Boston, I mentally compile the list of kills Dom hired Vinny for—Ginger Langdon, Chance Ballister, Gregory Mullins, Lydia Kettles—and those are just the ones I know about.
I pull into the parking lot of the old Raniero Fisheries warehouse. The place is in shambles from neglect since Cesario decided to relocate to the downtown offices of Raniero Enterprises.
I hate it.
Every bit of it.
Tossing my sunglasses into my hair, I walk up the loading dock steps and press my hand against the old wood. Lotus owns the building now. Technically, I own it with I.S. Ventures.
I sit down and light a smoke as I stare at my phone. I punch in the number and listen to the ring. “Answer the damn phone.”
“You have to give me a minute,” Dom says with a stern tone. “A lot is going on.”
“Where is she?”
“Where is who?”
“My wife, Gennaro.”
“Take your tone down,” he scolds. “I do not know where your wife is, but I am working on it with Mass.”
I lick my lips and confront him with the facts, “I’m sorry, but I know how she turns to you, and you placate that in coddling her whims.”
“We have had an ongoing relationship since the day she was born, Boston.”
I am not sure I approve of it anymore.
I take a drag off the smoke. “I just need to know this whole thing isn’t your grand execution.”
He doesn’t respond. “What do you mean?”
“You are outstanding at triggering dominoes to fall exactly where you want. Did you have anything to do with Iris disappearing or Nicky attacking Hannah, Madeline, or Wendy?”
“No!” he emphatically says. “Nicky has been a fucking time bomb for years. And I was under the assumption that Iris was with Deacon when she called yesterday.”
“Wait,” I respond, losing my days. “Yesterday was the funeral.”
“Yeah,” he confirms. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t be there. Things are a mess here.”
“Iris was already gone,” I reply, bordering on a freak-out-epic-meltdown-with-Daddy-Dom. “She called you?”
“Yeah, she called, and we talked for about an hour.”
Immediately, I ask, “What area code?”
“Hold on, let me look,” he says as I drop my shades over my eyes and the breeze blows through my freshly washed hair. It’s light and soft without any product and perfect for Iris to pull on. The smell of the water reminds me of home as tears form in my eyes.
Damn, she’s good.
And this is a prime example of why she—more than any other girl—snagged Sal Raniero’s heart. We may have been ancestrally arranged, but I am in love with everything about Iris Nakamura—her good kindness and her manipulative evil.
I praised Hannah at the funeral, but what I didn’t say is how Iris could do the same and have an awareness of the impact of her conversations. She would search for loopholes, flaws, and fundamental inconsistencies to wedge into people’s lives.
Where I shine in flying by the seat of my pants, Iris diligently almost effortlessly provides. Schematics, strategy, and mass networking are not her strong suit, but she makes up for it in real, deep, meaningful relationships—Carlo Torrente, Amber Rosen, Morpheus, Raze Kola, hell - my fucking cousin, Donatien Ravenna. She is closer to all of them than I am.
Iris should have been at Carlo’s funeral. Maybe she was. A bulky jacket on a chilly, fall day. A wig and heels. Eclipsed in the crowd of hundreds. She could have pulled it off. At the very least, she would have tried to see if she could.
Iris loves a challenge.
And there is no way in hell she would have missed the funeral.
“915. El Paso area? What in the hell is she doing there?” He unhappily mutters, “Is she going south of the border alone?”
“Goddammit! No! She isn’t! It’s nothing but a fucking decoy!” I yell, reaching to cover my mouth with my hand and bumping the bruises. I stand up in a tirade. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
“What are you doing?”
Currently, repeating the same curse word because I am so goddamned angry at Iris.
“Coming home.” I bite my lip. Cesario isn’t going to show. It won’t be the first time he’s let me down; it won’t be the last. “We’re never going to find her.”
“Yeah, we are going to find her,” he rebukes. “What I don’t know is if that will be before or after she crosses the Rio Grande.”
“I need surveillance from the funeral if we can get it.”
“I will talk to Jas,” he offers as we chart our course together. “I’m sure the Torrente security team had feeds running.”
“Call Gabe,” I request, glancing at the time. It’s flying faster than I can keep track. “I’m going to be late for dinner with Cat.”
“Oh, you don’t want to miss that,” he boasts. “She’s quite a fascinating woman.”
“She’s still my sister, Gennaro.”
“Aunt,” he corrects as I snarl.
I am not amused.
“You’re a manwhore, and I suggest you be careful what hole you stick your peg in.”
Pot call Kettle black black, I know.
“Deacon banged her,” he reminds, much to my chagrin.
“Different,” I remark. “And we both know it.”
“You should know, Dale Archer is dropping his stock like a hot potato.”
“Which ones?”
“All of it,” he informs. “Archer Agency and Cyclone Indies. From the looks of it, he is selling out. Brody Brinks mentioned his ranch and Virginia Archer’s old place is on the market, too.”
I light another smoke. “When were you with Brody?”
“I had a bid on an addition for the house. I need to separate Oki and Megan.”
“You do realize no amount of square footage is going to make that work. Megan wants a ring; Oki wants a Sugar Daddy.”
“And I want both,” he vaunts with a shrewd cackle. “Besides the whole SDI formation has given me hope that a threesome can work.”
“Where is Mae?”
“She is with the enchanting Lula Gregory at Juliet, dear one.”
“Thank fucking God.”
“And where is Serene?”
“In Ella Hemsworth’s Austin hotel suite.”
“You realize that relationship doesn’t make sense to me anymore. With everything I have been told, Ella and Serene should be bitter enemies.”
“Ella hasn’t had anything to do with her family in years. Who you need to be worried about is Charlotte. She took her new baby, Zasha “Lelyah” Hemsworth Lebedev, to Saint Petersburg over two weeks ago.”
Shit.
All these girls are coveting their damn ball gowns. Their need to prove themselves in the underworld is going to drive me to drink.
Wait…
I roll my eyes. “What about Derek?”
“They broke up with fireworks,” he says. “Police had to get involved.”
“I’m missing so much,” I complain. “I need this stint with Nero to be over with.”
“Small town drama, baby boy. Ain’t nothing better. How are they handling your absence?”
“I don’t give a shit what Father Thomas thinks. I have business and now two funerals to attend. Do I need to ask where Cas is?”
“Quiet as a mouse since The Dollhouse shooting. I assume she is at the Cinco compound.”
“Don’t poke the fucking bear.”
“I have no plans of it,” he snickers. “Let sleeping bitches lie, that’s what I always say.” I laugh at his bravado because it’s so unlike Dom to showoff. “And if they won’t lie, make them kneel.”
“I’m working on that right now,” he says, pecking away. “I’ve got Georgia set up in my office.”
“Tell her I said, hello.”
“I will when she’s off her knees,” he teases.
“You fucker!”
He boisterously chuckles. “Nah, she went to go fetch lunch. The blowjob is dessert.”
“Leave G alone,” I beg as his antics lighten my mood. Dom is amazingly good at that—like a good Daddy should be. Just like Vinny. Very different from my absent father—grandfather. “She’s hitting it with Brody’s brother, Buck.”
“Yeah, she likes fucking Buck, too. It’s all I’ve heard about for two days. She’s going to get knocked up with his collar on her neck.”
Go, G.
“Thank God she’s not a royal.”
“Nope,” he agrees. “She’s far more important. She’s a princess of analysis, a damn mathematical genius—absurdly bright—and I would hate to have her leet (elite…ya, I’m a gamer…) hacking skills targeting me.”
No ball gown needed.
Georgia would probably love one anyway.
Over calzones and red wine at Mario’s Deli, I debate my sister’s love life. It’s a pleasant distraction until she diverges to my own. “No one thinks you are divorcing the geisha doll.” She winks, raising her hands, and I laugh. “Dad’s words, not mine.”
“Why doesn’t anyone think I will?”
“They’re all convinced that this is a ploy to get into Immortal,” she confides, stealing the olives off of my plate. She pops one in her mouth and mumbles, “And I don’t think you have it in you. You love Iris.”
I slump back in the booth and consider what she is saying. Perception is everything. “What if I did?”
“File for divorce?” she garbles with another olive and takes a sip of water. “Then, you best be prepared for her to have a golden ticket into SoAm.”
“Not just Mexico?”
“Nah,” she replies, crunching on ice. “Extraordinary things will happen if Iris Nakamura is released of Sal Raniero.”
I lift my arms and rest my hands on the top of the booth. “Because she is better off without me?”
“Not at all, but they all know what kind of player you are, Sal. You could lay down a deal with Cristos one minute, and the next, be playing with his biggest opponent.”
Her example leads my mind to wonder—who is Cristos’ opponent?
“Who could stop him?”
“Cristos?” she blinks with wide eyes and sighs heavily. Shaking her red plastic cup of ice, she says, “Lotus could probably hurt him. I don’t think she is skilled enough to incapacitate his funds.”
“I am.”
Slugging more water and ice, she replies, “Yeah, but again—you are Sal Raniero.”
“When are you driving back to Texas?”
“I will be there by the end of the weekend. At the latest Monday because I need to be in New Orleans for the funeral on Tuesday,” she says. “Or that’s my hope.”
“If you don’t make it, I won’t be mad,” I interject. “Can I crash in your loft for a few days?”
“It’s your loft,” she giggles, tossing back another ice cube. “And anytime, bro. When do you get in?”
“I am on a midday flight tomorrow.” Playing with my fork, I ask, “If you were me, what would you do?”
“If I had a big dick?” she questions with a grin. Her arms widen as far as they will go. “A fucking schlong!”
“Appreciate the compliment,” I muse, lifting my brows and blushing. She laughs, getting the best of me that few can.
She pushes her plate off to the side and leans forward to rest her arms at the table. “I would do the exact opposite thing that everyone believes you will. I would shake the fucking shit out of the underworld snow globe.”
“And if it breaks?”
“You won’t break it,” she contends with absolute faith. “But I’d keep crowbar away from it.”
I snicker, “Why is that?”
“Because Deacon Cruz’s presence is significant. You have to be willing to break away from both Lotus and Saint if you want to drive home the fact that you’re running the show.”
“… They diminish me?”
“Not diminish but influence. You’re much more rambunctious, resistant, and ruthless than either of them.”
“The R’s have it,” I mumble, remembering my conversation with Deacon and Mass in Italy when I was trying to remember the girl’s name. “Always the R’s.”
“Raniero,” she quips, catching my attention. “Cut and dry. Let your dick swing proud, my Raniero boy. Without either of them pushing you or being there to catch your fall, you’ll get somewhere and earn the title of Capo.”
62
Fuck With My Fists
The Master
“Did you win the fight?” Tristan asks in his new office on the outskirts of Sugargrove, examining my hands after hours. It’s only five o’clock, but the office is closed on Friday. “With contusions like this, I would hope you did.”
“I definitely put some hurt on him,” I say with a proud snarl. “How bad are they?”
“X-rays look awesome, no fractures. Grafts are holding, no structural problems,” he says. “Though I wish you would’ve called Sunday.”
I grin like a kid on Christmas morning. “Are you saying I made it through my first fist fight without causing major damage?”
“I am,” he says. “You did.”
“No surgery?”
“No reason,” he answers with a slight smile. “You’re good. Keep icing the hands. I can shoot you with some steroids or give you some to do on your own, but I don’t even know if you’ll need that in a few more days. We fixed you good.”
“You,” I point out. “Did this.”
“It takes two—a good surgeon and a good patient. I did not do this alone. I will give you some topical cream too for any residual soreness,” he says, jotting notes on his tablet. “I wouldn’t test them too often, Sal.”
“Let’s pretend I do…”
“The biggest risk is another boxer’s fracture, which in your case could cause substantial damage. I wouldn’t worry about it. You’re three years out of surgery, and they healed beautifully. I’m not advocating a brawl, but if you need to use them, then go for it. I wouldn’t recommend hitting any brick walls.”
“So, don’t hit anything that can’t hit back?” I laugh.
“The brick wall will hit back, and you won’t win the fight. With any trauma, ice and immobilize. You did everything right, short of informing me sooner. Kudos on adulting,” he teases with a grin. “You need new splints while I am ordering?”
“Sure.”
“For now, these will help with the swelling,” he informs, pulling up the black compression gloves. “How is Iris?”
“Gorgeous,” I smirk.
“She always was. The baby growing?”
“She’s huge,” I excitedly say, segueing the actual question because I don’t know how the baby is. I can assume the baby is fine, but I don’t know.
“Is she having it here?” he asks, and I realize he doesn’t know about her lie, furthering my belief that we exist in a bubble.
“That’s what we’re hoping.”
“I’ve been working the ER after hours. Don’t hesitate to message me if she goes into labor early.”
With curiosity, I ask, “How many babies have you delivered?”
“Throughout my career, probably a couple hundred.”
I mutter, “You’re a hand guy…”
“And sometimes, it’s all hands on deck, particularly in small towns. It’s why I have a double certification in orthopedics and trauma. No pun intended, but they tend to go hand-in-hand.” I snicker as he taps on the table and says, “Follow me. I’ll grab your meds.”
“No pharmacy?”
“Not for you,” he brags, smiling as we enter his office. He snaps open a white paper
bag and tosses a bunch of boxes, syringes, and two ointment tubes inside. “Do you need some extra rigs?”
“Nah, I’m not into that, but I have plenty,” I reply, spotting the Reckless Rebellion cut hanging on the coat rack. I nod at the leather. “When did you patch?”
“About a year ago, a few months before Allie was killed.”
I have gotta get home.
He hands the bag to me, and I say, “Thank you.”
“If you need anything, please let me know.”
“I will,” I assure pausing. “If I can’t stay sober, can you help me find a rehab?”
“Absolutely,” he says, laying a hand on my arm. “But there are some outstanding support groups around these parts. You’d probably be surprised. If you get in trouble, call me, not the office. I’d be happy to talk you down.” I give a questioning glance. “I am a recovering alcoholic.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I don’t advertise,” he quips smirking.
The tension in my shoulders ebbs. “You know, I am sorry about everything.”
“I know you are.” He smirks. “Try and make it better. I am not leaving Sugargrove, but the square isn’t as safe as it used to be, especially since the shooting. It’s why I had this old house restored and converted to my office.”
“They ran you out of town?”
“Pretty much,” he explains. “There is a lot of crime and vandalism up in town. It’s not worth the headache. Even Lani talked about moving her office to the hospital. If Neil ever gets a hold of Nicky Cristos, he’s a dead man.”
“They’re still together?”
He laughs. “They’re engaged.”
Wait. What? Whoa!
“When did Nico attack Lani?”
“A couple of weeks after you were married,” he volunteers, walking me to the door. “Long before the attack on Wendy Cruz.”
Fuck.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I lightly tap the door with the toe of my boot before ringing the bell with my elbow. I glance at the wispy clouds lazily strolling by on a golden to pink ombré backdrop.
I crave this climate.
A Dark Place (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 5) Page 48