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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “I am still waking up. You can’t ask me to make these choices at this hour.”

  “It’s one in the afternoon.”

  I squint in the brightness as I take a sip of the coffee. It’s hot, strong, and amazing. “Did Kim put all of that in the cooler?”

  “Yeah,” he says as I stretch and adjust my junk. It wasn’t easy sleeping with Cruz beside me. But reinvigorating our romance in this house—that’s a challenge with too many emotions and problems to solve. “You need something? She set us up good.”

  “What time is the funeral?”

  “Noon, tomorrow.” He cracks the eggs into the pan. “But I am not expecting a huge turnout. I know Dom is coming.”

  “So is Cat,” I inform, wishing she wouldn’t. It’s not because I don’t love Cat; I do. I just don’t want her messing with Dom, who already has two women demanding his attention. “I have to dig around for some clothes.”

  “Sure, I can’t wear the cut?” He smirks. “It would be poignant.”

  “No,” I reply, scanning over the living room. Broken glass and goose down feathers from the many pillows on the sofa scatter over the floor. “Gah…”

  “Don’t look in there. I haven’t cleaned up that room yet. I was only concerned with getting food in your belly.”

  I blink at the fridge door with one singular bullet hole in it. I pivot around and note the wall directly across from it. “They came inside.”

  “Yeah, I already figured that out,” he says, sliding the eggs out of the pan. “There is zero damage upstairs, though.”

  “Why come inside?” I ask, running my finger over the hole. “Why shoot the fucking fridge door?”

  I go to open it when he stops me by wedging his body between the door and me. “Don’t. It smells wretched. Eat.”

  I take the plate and sit down at the island. He’s cracking more eggs. “She loves eggs over easy.”

  “And she likes to run through here,” he mumbles, turning around and swinging the spatula. “Those fucking glass doors didn’t make it through my killing Tock, but somehow they made it through this. Go figure. I know where you are because I am there too. And if you close your eyes, you can hear her laughing.”

  “She is going to Mexico.”

  “Yes, she is,” he consoles. “And she will be fine.”

  “Anna told me we were risking too much,” I mutter, caught in the vortex. “And what if she is right?”

  “You’re not going to stop Iris. Don’t control the water. You will get hurt.”

  “I can fucking mitigate the damage,” I maintain. “I can make this a lot less messy.”

  “Listen to me. Less than eight months ago, we were convinced that Cristos had given up on Muerte because Cesario was down there. Now, we find out Cristos didn’t give up; he just went to talk to the fucking Pakhan. He will bring them together, and Iris is bound and determined to stop that from happening. She wants to silence Cristos permanently.”

  I rub my fingers together, considering his words, and trying to find a way back into our bubble. “How full are the warehouses?”

  “Not to capacity,” he remarks. “But we’ve got sixteen of them, which ones are you asking about?”

  “Matamoros, Rio, and Lima?”

  “About three-quarters on all of them,” he says. “Why are you asking?”

  “Send gifts to Herrera, Montesino, and Navarro.”

  His forehead lines in the center. “Why, Navarro?”

  “Out of respect for mi famiglia. There will be no shame amongst the famiglia.”

  His eggs pop and steam in the pan as he says, “Shit!”

  “Eat mine,” I offer my untouched plate to him as he tosses the pan off of the burner.

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Cayetana Navarro was a unique blend of Italian by her mother and Peruvian by her father, who ran the cartel back then,” I say, waving my hand. “Way back…like the thirties and forties. They still do, but Cayetana’s father ran it. He was a forward thinker and invested in oil wells all over the world.” I take a swig of the coffee and run my fingers along the rim. “And a young man working on one of the rigs in Texas was named Franklin Ford.”

  His eyes widen. “… Ford?”

  “And they had some kids. One of those kids is your precious Godmother.”

  “Anna is Peruvian?” he blurts out as I chuckle. His face contorts as he voices an afterthought, “And a quarter Italian?”

  I nod and laugh. “So please, send the crates to Herrera, Montesino, and Navarro.”

  “Is she related to Emiliano?”

  I shrug with a guilty smirk and pick up a piece of bacon. “Could be…”

  “You fucking bastard! How many people know this?”

  I bite and take my sweet time chewing as Cruz looks like he may burst if I don’t tell him. “Me. You.”

  “No one else?”

  “Nah, Anna doesn’t talk much about her mom. She died when she was like fourteen or fifteen,” I inform. “She told me about Cayetana a long time ago when I first met Navarro with your mother.”

  “Jesus, you’ve been holding out on me.”

  I shake my head. “It never really seemed important until now. I know Iris is safe with Navarro because they have a history, but Amber cannot stand him cause he swiped a million in cash.”

  “How do Iris and Navarro know one another?”

  “He did some of my training back in the day,” I reply, remembering his treks through the jungles. “And I sent him to keep an eye on her in Guam. He wasn’t there for long, but they connected.”

  “Like connected?”

  “No, they didn’t hook up. Navarro doesn’t have sex.”

  He cocks his head and scowls like I am feeding him a load of bullshit with a side of the joke is on you fucker. “What do you mean, he doesn’t have sex?”

  “Emiliano Navarro does not ever have sex. His mother was a mess, raped him for years, and got pregnant. He swiped the son and left town.”

  “Oh my fucking God! That’s terrible!” He steals a piece of bacon from my plate. “Where is the son now?”

  “I have no fucking clue,” I say. “Probably somewhere figuring out how to kill me.”

  He munches and asks, “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I’ve been distracting his Daddy for years.”

  “He’s your silent SoAm informant,” he accurately guesses. “And that is why you are in with Immortal.”

  Finishing my coffee, I nod. “And he’s a damn keeper. My relationship with Immortal is because of a woman.”

  “Is she hot?”

  “For a woman almost seventy, she is.”

  He laughs. “Don’t tell me. Muerte’s wife.”

  “Salomé Herrera,” I reply.

  “You fuck her too?”

  “I don’t kiss and tell, Cruz.”

  “You banged Muerte’s wife?”

  “Not exactly,” I tease, walking to the pool. “I am close with her son, Gabe, and Mama Muerte likes to flirt.”

  “So do you.”

  “That’s why Raniero and Immortal make more sense than Cristos and Immortal ever will.”

  We’re standing side by side at the edge of the pool. “Answer this question honestly. Did you ever meet Diablo?”

  “I have never met your brother.”

  “Yet, you moved him to Colorado to keep him safe from Muerte?”

  “Out of respect to Salomé,” I reply, staring at the blowing Spanish moss on the cypress. I sat in that chair and read a letter from my girl with Cruz, Dom, and Nico surrounding me. “Muerte wants Diablo dead for the shit he pulled before leaving Mexico. Much like he wants Durante Costa dead. You can be in Muerte’s house until you fuck him over one time, and then you are dead.”

  “And we’re letting our girl go there?”

  “She’s good, Cruz,” I admit. “If anyone can build a bridge, she can.”

  “I don’t know,” he professes, glancing up at the sky. “The asshole to my
left is pretty good at it.”

  I grin and set my fingers on his shoulder as I confide, “I didn’t give a shit about my sister, Val. Not really. And I am not going after your twin because he was pissed at Cesario. Diablo was only trying to defend you. He was never going to kill you. I don’t expect you to care about Wendy, but if you want to give Diablo a shot at redemption or, for that matter, Amber…”

  “There is just one thing about that. Amber sold out the information of Etienne to Allegiance.”

  “No, she didn’t,” I confess, crossing my arms over my chest. “I did, indirectly.”

  “… You?”

  “My wife doesn’t need to be involved in that war,” I remark with little emotion. “And I will stop her at every pass.”

  “Why are you undermining her doing it?”

  “Two words—Dale Archer.”

  70

  Let the Water Break

  His Ride

  We attend the funeral of Wendy Cruz and have a private gathering at Gina’s afterward for our immediate family and friends. Everything is in slow motion as I watch Dom and Cat dancing.

  Amber didn’t show.

  I’m not surprised.

  Sal is making the rounds like a proper gentleman in a Suit. He keeps glancing over to me. He’s worried and checking on my status.

  Numb—that’s my status.

  I kiss Gina on the cheek and thank her for everything. She banned my ass from her bar for brawling years ago. We’ve come full circle. We’ve made amends. We’ve changed.

  I amble to the exit and step out into the bright light of the day when the darkness follows me.

  With his hand on my arm, Sal asks, “Where are you running off to sexy?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “I need to go back home. There is no reason to stay here.”

  “Alright, let’s go,” he insists, not bothering to tell Dom goodbye. “I’m driving.”

  I nod, possessing an apathy I don’t like. I feel hollow, hurt, and off. And I know I just attended a funeral, and it’s probably par for the course, but things aren’t right between Sal and me.

  I don’t miss Reo Sato.

  I miss Sal.

  And he’s right here, a few inches from my fingers, but we’re struggling with things neither of us can say.

  I hate to say it, but I am ready to put him on the plane tomorrow for Italy. And I shouldn’t feel that way. He’s the love of my life.

  But we aren’t in sync.

  And that makes time with him closer to misery.

  We arrive at The Dollhouse, and I get out fast before we have any chance for interaction.

  “What is wrong?” he asks, shutting the door as I stop and stay silent with my back to him. “Talk to me, Deacon.”

  He rarely calls me by my name. With no reaction, I inform, “I’m going to take a nap.”

  “No,” he demands, grabbing my shoulder. “Talk to me.”

  I spin with a ferocious glare and a warning sign, “Leave me alone.”

  “Fucking talk to me!”

  “What do you want me to say? Nicky killed my fucking sister. Diablo killed yours.”

  “Don’t make that fucking comparison because it’s not the same!”

  “I don’t see how!”

  “Because my father wanted you dead!” He tosses his jacket and pulls off his tie before unbuttoning his shirt halfway down. My eyes scan over the man I long to love, but we’re so far apart from…fuck…life. We’re distanced by external forces and shit we don’t want to deal with. “He offered Diablo freedom in exchange for your death, all to hurt me. All because of who we are and what we do.”

  “Who are we?” I implore. “Because I don’t know anymore. And what do we do? Because we don’t do anything at all.”

  He lunges towards me and grabs my cheeks. Claiming my lips, he is violent and profound, resilient, and fierce. More than anything, his passion in the kiss shows a determination and willingness to fight for this love.

  We separate, and he glances at me with tears in his eyes. “… You want to see my heart?”

  “I want to see all of you,” I argue as we hold on by a fraying thread. “I want your best and your broken. I want all the pieces of you. I am trying hard to be stable so that you can do your Sal-thing, but you’re coming out so strong…you don’t need me.”

  “Ya,” he sardonically rejects. “That’s not true.”

  “Yeah, it is. We work because I am stable in your instability. This whole Sal being the big man isn’t jiving with me. I need you to need me. But you can’t fake that shit. It either is, or it isn’t, and I am afraid we are falling on the latter. I keep courting your ass, and you aren’t biting.”

  He snickers, uninvolved, and walks away. Opening the back doors, he kicks off his shoes, steps to the edge of the pool, and turns his back to the water. The symbolism is so prophetic it brings tears to my eyes. He lifts his arms as the wind blows through his raven hair.

  “Take me, bastard. Claim me and call me yours because I fucking love you, and I cannot believe after all this time you would doubt me.”

  “Lucas…”

  He falls straight back with a splash. And this is why I am so in love with him.

  Because he is one crazy-ass mofo.

  The Master

  Floating in my white dress shirt and slacks, I peer up at Cruz, trying not to smile and holding a towel.

  I stare at the blue sky, unfolding with no sense at all, and understanding that everything I do today will lay the groundwork for tomorrow. I hate pre-laying track in preparation for what may come because life is finicky. It gets in the way.

  Like the water…

  I cannot control it.

  I cannot control life.

  And no matter how much I guide the flow of the water, the Lotus grows wherever she wants.

  I step out of the pool and take the towel. “My wife is out there somewhere, and every fucking cell in my body wants to run and save her because that is who I am, but I can’t. I don’t get to be the hero this time. I have to trust that Navarro and Gabe are going to hold her up because I cannot. And I hate trusting anyone other than you.”

  “Why didn’t you just ask?”

  “Ask what?”

  I peel off my soaked white shirt, and he lays his hands on my chest. “Ask me to go to Mexico.”

  “How am I getting you into Immortal?”

  “You don’t have to get me into Immortal; I am Saint Cruz. I have an all-access pass to many places. I’ve been trying to tell you to use my resources and understand what I have in my toolbox. You may be a fucking Nero, but I have Sanctum’s balls on a string.”

  I sling the water from my hair and wipe my goatee. “I need a shower.”

  “Why don’t you trust me?”

  “Because I may lose one,” I whisper, licking my lips. “And I can’t lose two.”

  “I will not fuck this up.”

  “I can count on one hand how many times you have fucked up,” I mutter, making a zero with my thumb and forefinger. “But I should be there. Iris is my wife.”

  “I’ll go back to Italy for you,” he offers. “I’ll make up some excuse.”

  “God! No!” I harshly snip. “One way or another, I have to kill a priest when I return.”

  “You need your rite of priestly passage?” he teases as my fingers lock with his. “Or do you need me to do it? Because I can and will. And it won’t mean a goddamned thing to me. I meant every single word I said in the church after I shot Altromessa. There will be no dishonor to my family—ever.”

  “I need a shower, Saint.”

  “I do an amazing job at lathering blood, debris, and dirt off of those I love.”

  With a broad grin, I laugh. “Really? Are you the handmaiden?”

  “Yes, for your milkmaid, which explains why you are incredible at hand jobs with those smooth fingers.”

  “I am going to beat your ass, Cruz.”

  “We’ve got this,” he reassures, wrapping his arm arou
nd my shoulder. “Just don’t let go of me.”

  “Can I play in the snow?”

  “Watch it, Jezebel. I’ll beat your ass red for being a disobedient servant to the cow.”

  “Moo!” I howl as he grabs my drenched ass. “Does this mean I can carry a bucket on my head?”

  “As long as you don’t spill a single drop or your Master will have his way with your ass.”

  “I am hoping he will do that anyway.”

  “You’re so bad, Raniero.”

  “Just like you love me, Cruz.”

  With every pass of his calloused fingers, Cruz scrubs the shell of my false composure away. I am not the heartless bastard they planned on. I thrive and multiply in duress and strain sustained by my need to survive in a black soul’s wretched torment.

  I’m scared shitless of failing, and his voice is all I have been able to hear for days. Another bone would crack under his thumb, and he would yell, “Toughen up! Boys don’t cry!”

  Fuck you, Dad.

  Fuck you, Cesario.

  Fuck you, asshole.

  Under the hot stream of water, Cruz’s warm mouth hits my neck. I resist, struggling against the demons, but there is no use. He’s a God amongst them all—a reckless and rebellious Saint.

  A Saint to hoard my sins.

  “We’re not doing this in the water,” he mumbles, pressing his lips to my heart. I feel his hand skim over the tender flesh of my cock, and I softly moan. “What is going on in your pretty head, Nero?”

  “Bad things…really bad…”

  “I can tell,” he replies as his platinum and crimson scruff glisten in the water. “It’s dark wherever you are, but I am going to find you and bring you home to me. Don’t run. Don’t make me chase you. Don’t force me to choose between saving you from yourself and imposing myself on you to save you.”

  “If you have to…” I gulp back the tears of lament as Nicky’s mantra fills the void—“Have you ever raped someone, Sal?”—and my knees give out.