My fingers speed up, round and round, as I slip deeper into the water and spread my legs, propping them on the edges. Dipping my fingers inside, I writhe and moan as the water hits the marble floor. “God! Yes! Fuck me, Sal!” I beg, thrusting my fingers into the wetness and closing my eyes. “Cruz!”
I can’t stop the onslaught of desire, pouring from every nerve ending.
I need to come.
With a tilt of my head toward the window, I peek to the serene azure sky when I notice the quick shadowy movement hiding behind the tall hedge on the side of the glass.
At first, I believe it might be a landscaper, but then I catch a glimpse of a sport coat. That is no gardener. That is a suit.
Carefully, I remove myself from the water, standing naked in the narrow space between the tub and the window. I crane my neck, trying to see how ballsy this motherfucker is.
I prop my back against the pillar and place my foot in the window sill as I resume my efforts. I’m touching myself when he reveals himself with a cocky smirk.
Oh. Shit.
In dark sunglasses and the charcoal sport coat with taupe trousers, he flicks a brow as he chews his gum. His lips twitch with encouragement as I feel his eyes scanning over my full breasts and voluptuous belly. Resting his tongue against his top lip, he lays his hand against the glass and traces a single finger over my silhouette.
He is an intimidating sort with dark hair and full expressive brows that I hadn’t expected on a sabbatical to the sand. He’s damn divine.
I press my hand against the glass, and he does the same. Stepping closer, he grabs his cock as his succulent lips command, “Come.”
I do, thrashing and pounding my fist into the glass, as my body explodes in waves. He proudly snarls and walks away, but not before glancing back. He blows a kiss.
And my fingers uncurl as my heart unravels.
I spend a quiet evening with Salomé telling me the history of the Herrera and Valle families. Her stories offered a glimpse behind the scenes that were often overlooked in our bloodshed.
We’re real people.
Humans with hearts.
I teared up with her tales of Mariella’s suicide and gasped when she asked, “Do you know if Salvatore opened his box?”
I’d teetered with my emotions for the last two hours when we finally part ways. I depart the dining room and remove my sandals as I rush—because I can’t risk a fall from running on the marble—back to my room.
Tears stream down my cheeks as I close the door and lock it. My arms stretch out on the wood above my head, and I sob with a hysterical wail. I don’t understand why he doesn’t trust me. We stumble and falter, and eventually, if nothing changes, we will fail.
I spin away from the door and step into the entryway and gasp. The former colorful linens have been changed to solid black as hundreds of candles dance in the breeze, roses scatter the floor, and a bottle of bubbles waits in ice. The water brims to the top of the tub with the man surrounded by floating petals.
“Iris…”
“Who are you?” I ask, shaking my head as the sound of my name rolls sensually off his Latino tongue. “Because this is a helluva production for an introduction.”
“I like that,” he says, curling his finger at me. “Present for me.”
I stand my ground. “Not until you tell me who the fuck you are and why I shouldn’t call for security.”
Bastard stands up out of the water.
His glistening frame is sculpted by Gods—tanned skin, broad chest, muscular—but not too much, and a wolfish grin plastered on his face by the devil himself. Add in those penetrating light grayish, sea-green eyes, and his generously endowed present, and I sink like a brick to the bottom of the river.
Gone.
Oh. My. God.
I blink, and he laughs, stepping out of the water like he owns the ocean, the tides, and the golden treasures in the sea. I freeze, captured in his gaze, despite wanting to run.
Without caring, he drips onto the sleek marble, stalking closer to me. He suddenly stops and turns like he’s on the catwalk and I gasp at the giant Ø tattooed on his back. Vines, flowers, and barbed wire punctuate the circle as a double-edged sword provides the line. He reaches the tub, smirks from the corner of his mouth, and generously bows, pressing his hands together in a respectful Japanese-style.
“Your turn, Buttercup.”
“Why should I?”
“Because you want to,” he challenges. And he isn’t wrong. He is panty-melting, mouthwateringly delicious. “Bathe with me, Lotus.”
Four words that should never be repeated.
Especially by anyone looking that good.
“Are you going to rape me?”
He softly replies, “Do I act like I am going to rape you?”
No, I may want you to, though.
“Are you going to seduce me?”
“Nevah, Darlin’!” He winks.
I cover my mouth, fearing I might scream. “You know my husband!”
“I know you too,” he says. “Iris Kettles, from Chicago, groomed by Angelo Gennaro at an early age for his outfit. You eliminated him, tasted power, and claimed your birthright.”
“Those are things anyone could know,” I scoff, slightly unimpressed and testing him for more.
“You used to give blow jobs to a guy named Tock on the loading dock at the bookstore you owned. He later broke into The Dollhouse, and Deacon Cruz killed him.”
I shrug my shoulders, demanding more. “It doesn’t mean anything…”
“I know The Spider—Atticus Huit—and his Cognitive Architecture Experiment, and your husband quite well.”
“… You’re Gabe?”
“I am,” he says. “Now, come bathe with me, Iris.”
“Is Salomé your mother?”
“Yes,” he says. “I am the baby boy.” Dropping my sandals, I step closer. “Careful, the floor is damp.”
“Who’s fault is that?”
He grins. “I like the production of an introduction.”
I untie the loose white sundress and let it fall to the ground. I have no undergarments, and the surprised look on his face serves as payback for his fantastic set design and spectacular performance. “You’re the rebel.”
“I am,” he readily admits. “Much like you.” His words hit my soul, and I submit to a smile. “Oh, you’re stunning when you smile. You shine like a thousand twinkling stars.”
I cautiously walk on the wet floor, and when I get close enough to the tub, he extends his hand. I step into the water against the midnight sky, and we stand face to face. He is hypnotic and tranquil, but I find no comfort here. I understand how these men are, with their soothing tactics hiding a ruthless, savage ability. “And you are the renegade son of the Immortal cartel.”
“I am ZERØ.”
“I am aware,” I reply. “So, what do you plan to do with me, Mr. Herrera?”
“Until you are done south of the border, you are in my care.”
“Does that mean you will be watching every time I masturbate?”
He snickers, “I can only hope cause you were hot as sin.”
“My husband sent you,” I accuse as he lifts his hands and flips them over, so his palms, inked with skeletons, are open. “He’s mentioned you, and there is an evident fondness for you in the way he says your name.”
“Trust,” he urges.
“I have no reason to trust you, Gabriel.”
“But you want to,” he contends with a subtle smirk. “You want to believe there are good people in the world. I am not one of them, but I will be for you.”
I blink up to his haunting eyes. “… Why?”
“Because I am the danger you need.”
“Just like my husband,” I mutter, knowing I have avoided the truth of who and what Sal is for years. “There is no reason to believe I won’t run from you, too.”
“You didn’t run from Raze.”
I cry, comprehending the emotional felonies my hu
sband has committed against my heart. “Sal sent Raze, and he sent you too, but I won’t be your puppet.”
“We don’t want you to be our puppet,” he replies. “We want you to be our partner—Herrera, Kola, Raniero, and Nakamura.”
“Immortal, Servet…”
“No, stop,” he says, putting a finger to my lips. “ZERØ, Servet, Nero, and Lotus.”
“Sal doesn’t own Nero,” I argue.
“Saint Cruz holds Sanctum’s bank,” he says as I grasp what Deacon has done. “And Nero is controlled by Sanctum.”
With a tremulous voice, I say, “Deacon was never going to be Sal’s hitman.”
“No,” he gently whispers as everything I thought I knew is whisked away in the undertow. “Because Deacon already hired Sal to be his.”
“Does Sal know he is nothing more than Deacon Cruz’s hired gun?”
His jaw tightens as he snarls, “What scares you more—Deacon Cruz’s manipulations or Sal’s Raniero’s focus to win at any cost?”
Stomping my feet in the water, I throw a tantrum as he grabs onto my arms and the splash hits the floor. “Answer my question! He knew! And he sent you to break the fall!”
“Sal would never have gone to Nero if he wasn’t aiming for a victory,” he speaks the words I knew but feared. I saw Sal’s confident stride full of intimidation as he walked into the Lotus Palace. I saw the way the people looked at him. And I saw how I melted into the arms of the man that I couldn’t believe was my husband. “You can concede to a truce or battle it out.”
“He never left the game,” I whisper as my heart shatters. “He lied about everything he wanted.”
Rubbing my belly, he replies, “White lies are like ashes blowing in the wind.”
“Some of the ashes are still hot,” I whisper. “And cataclysmic.”
77
Who Will Save My Prayers?
The Master
With Amber and Cruz staying at my apartment and only having one bedroom, I have resigned to sleeping on the sofa. It’s not bad, but the smell of espresso from the café wakes me up very early. I should note, I don’t have the same problem when I curl up in my bed.
It’s like living with two horny teenagers, but I’m behaving, giving Amber and Deacon time to reconnect.
The problem is I need to get laid.
Badly.
It wouldn’t be an issue if I didn’t have to listen to the moaning and grunting at all hours. I jacked off once while they were banging, but it’s a far cry from Cruz calling me his slut and pounding my ass into the cosmos.
I miss my fucking lover.
I stare at my watch—5:03 AM when the text message pops up from seventeen minutes ago.
“Are you awake?”
Unfortunately, yes.
“What’s up, Hot Pants?”
“We need to talk, Sal,” Georgia seriously says. “I found it.” For a split second, I cross my fingers that she is her usual humorous self. “And you need to sit down.”
“I’m lying down.”
“Even better,” she replies with a deep breath. The background quiet is disturbing—no wind-up toys, music, or electronic wind chimes. “Come into my therapist’s office.”
I swig my water and light a smoke. “Give it to me, G.”
“God, how long have I waited for you to say that?” She sighs, momentarily lost in the language. “Okay, now that we’ve got that out of the way. Cristos is not trying to pull Immortal and Allegiance together.”
“Huh?” I frown, thinking all the kinky sex with Buck has made her loopy-loo. “What are you talking about?”
“Immortal and Allegiance are already partnered. They’re working on a deal with Servet. That is why everyone is going to Dubai.”
“Which is where I am going to assassinate Dale Archer.”
“Keep your big stallion in the barn while I butter your biscuit,” she rallies. “So I ask myself—Georgia, why in the hell is Cristos swinging like a trapeze artist between Immortal and Allegiance if they’re already in bed?”
“Good question, G.”
Lousy analogy for my hard-up, never going to get laid self again.
“Turns out Cristos mediated the deal with Immortal supplying merchandise to Campanelli.”
With a steady hand on the phone, I sit up and ask, “Stella didn’t agree to ally Raniero with Campanelli?”
I don’t know shit about Raniero Enterprises anymore;
I’m the alienated dark prince of clan Raniero.
“No.” She elaborates, “And that is why Raniero is in such bad shape right now. Between Zacarro being exclusively supplied by Montesino, and Cristos hooking up Immortal and Campanelli...”
“We’re about to have an Immortal-Montesino war on our home turf,” I hasten, gripping my hair as I hear the bed squeak. “Or Cristos is looking to take out Torrente, which we long suspected, and he is using Immortal’s resources to do it.”
“No, Sal,” she gently spells out. “Not just Torrente.”
I close my eyes, and my stomach drops.
“Lotus,” I mutter in fear, knowing I am right. “Cristos is going after Lotus. Motherfucker!”
“That’s less than what I expected, but I am not done,” she informs. “Iris managed to finagle a lucrative contract with Carlo Torrente before he died. The kids are throwing a fit, but they cannot fight Lotus on it with the threat of Immortal and Montesino looming, so they’ve agreed to work with her until after it’s done. He’s going to use this Immortal-Montesino war to push Lotus and Torrente out.”
“Go back…”
“Okay, where are we going, Sugar Lips?”
“The deal with Immortal and Allegiance,” I note. “How did Cristos get involved in that?”
“Years ago, Archer formed a relationship with a few influential types at the bottom level of the Cyclone Indies business. He was buying cheap videos to stream from porn mills in Russia. Several of those people knew the Pakhan. One thing led to another. Archer hooked up Cristos to them, not the other way around.”
“Cristos will poke his finger in any pie that he believes will make money,” I mumble, agonizing over the intricacies of their dealings. I’ll need a surgeon’s skills to disassemble the missile Dale Archer has built. “Archer is far more discerning. He only does things he knows, like security and sex.”
“Right!” she says. “And he helped build the pipeline—maple xxii—across Canada for mass funneling of human trafficking, weapons, porn, and any general scumbaggery, all of which are in his wheelhouse.”
“Amber was right,” I muse as I hear her mewling from the other room. I imagine her riding my boy, and the pleasure erupting on his face. This is what I crave the most—studying his face. “I should’ve never trusted Archer.”
“She was a stripper, Sal.”
“Who knew what the fuck she was talking about!” I enrage. “I fucked that one up!”
“And Archer was the one who proposed building another pipeline from Canada to Mexico. His earnest money to get into Mexico came from none other than Priscilla Grace, agreeing to hand over her body so that Cristos could make bank on it. And in return, he signed off his entire fortune to her for her valiant efforts in forming gulf xxii.”
“And that is why he doesn’t want Etienne in the way because they want to build another one from Allegiance to Servet. All the fucking way across Europe.”
“You got it,” she replies, taking a breath. “Archer is good at streamlining sleaze. He’s building an infrastructure of bad here, babe.”
“I need a vacation, preferably on another planet with scantily dressed alien chicks.”
“Little green and blue women!” She laughs. “Be careful! They’ll probably have fangs in their vaginas.”
I cackle, “Doll, how did shit get so fucked?”
“I don’t know,” she echos. “Oh! I have one more juicy bit for you.”
“Do I even want to know?”
“Oh, darling, I saved the best for last. Trust me. You want this o
ne,” she teases. “Several years ago, a well respected, rather nerdy priest did some missionary work in Asia…”
“You’ve got stuff on Carrick!”
“Hush! Shhh! Let me finish!” she scolds giggling. “This wonderful man…priest…liked to visit remote hospitals with sick children and on one of those visits, a regal philanthropist was present as well, and she suspected what the Pakhan, Cristos, and Muerte were planning because she funded the communite gangs. She warned Priest Carrick Byrne to discourage their involvement on the Emerald Isle, but he went home like the good brother he is and told Thomas.”
“Aki Nakamura rang the warning bells, and Thomas wanted in on it…”
“You’re so good when I give you pieces of puzzles,” she praises with glee. “Still, Carrick threatened to spill the beans about the pipeline, which is why you are to silence him.”
“Servet isn’t going to agree to this.”
“Not a chance in hell. They’d rather hobnob with The Commission than these grifters,” she snickers. “But all of the leaders from Allegiance, Immortal, and Cristos are supposed to be in Dubai.”
“Where does Lotus stand?”
“The Chairman is in full support of these pipelines because he can make a lot of money on them,” she informs. “But Aki, and so far, your wife is very much against team douche bag pushing the smaller outfits out.”
“Less than that.”
“Shitmongers,” she suggests an alternative. “They are the lowest of the low. Lotus presents a challenge because if it stays under Keishi Nakamura’s rule, he will not only agree and profit from the existing pipelines, but he’ll likely offer to fund one of his own in the Pacific. Lotus and the other three families are big enough to unite and underwrite one.”
“And Iris has known…”
“I would estimate that your wife has known for at least a year if not longer,” she somberly informs. “And that is likely why tensions have been building between The Chairman and his granddaughter.”
Opening the bag of trail mix, I fret, “She never bothered to mention any of this to me.”
“Iris wants to be a big girl and make her own mistakes,” she informs. “You cannot fault her for that.”
A Dark Place (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 5) Page 61