“And when they come after you for dissension?”
“Servet, Nero, and Lotus will provide.”
“I will not support your efforts,” I claim. “What you are doing is wrong.”
“You don’t have a choice, Chica.” He stabs another piece of meat, offering it to me, but I turn away. “Eat, Iris.”
“I don’t want to!”
“Don’t force my hand,” he warns. “I will phone Salvatore right now.”
“… Would you?” I attempt to call his bluff.
“Yes,” he cockily remarks.” If his bitch won’t behave for me, I will call her Master.” I fume with rage and open my mouth. “Good, Chica.” I chew the scrumptious food. “You keep scowling, and I’ll keep it a secret that you can’t decide if you want to shoot me or fuck me.”
I swallow, slide out of the chair, and run for the door, but not before he pushes the button on a key fob, locking the entire place down. Pounding on the door, I yell, “Grrrr!”
“Do you know what your biggest problem is?”
“I didn’t ask you!” I hastily spin and accidentally twist into the train of the dress before winding up on my bottom.
My goofy nerd presents for his Dominant.
Good one, girl.
“Goddamn, you are sexy when you’re mad!” he boasts, standing in the kitchen with his hands on his hips. “I know why he has such a boner for you! You are muy caliente!”
“Slime bucket! Human trader! Gang member!” I try and get up off of my ass, only to slip again. “Assholes! Damn Fucking Alpha Males! Dickheads! All of you!”
“Let it out, señorita!” Amused by my show, he blinks and smiles as I reprimand him. “Are you done, Queenie?”
“No!”
“Jeesh!” he booms, approaching me. “Raniero better be good to you, or I will steal his feisty wife!” He towers over the top of me. “Are you done? Would you like some help up?”
“Sí por favor.”
“You speak my language?”
“Non.”
“Tu parles français?”
I barrel over laughing. “I speak very little of many languages.”
“Hey, it’s a start,” he concedes, helping the rotund, pink ball off of the elegant mural of Saltillo tile. “Any Italian?”
“He hasn’t taught me his native tongue.”
“His native tongue only speaks one language, and it is the biggest problem you don’t see,” he persists as I gaze into his hypnotic green eyes. “It starts with I and ends with an S, and I can understand why he loves you so.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For?” he asks, stroking my cheek gently. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Iris.”
“Yes, I do. I may disagree with your inventory and the stock you keep or how you transport, distribute, or exploit it, but it doesn’t mean I am against doing business with you.”
“Prostitution, brothels, porn, and the sex industry as a whole,” he says, waving his hand. “It’s never going to change. You must ride the tides to survive, even if you disagree with the color of the seas—blood-red oceans, dark jet black oceans, white wedding oceans.”
“Murder. Mafia. Maxim.”
“Maxime en français,” he whispers. “Who taught you?”
“A truth in the rule of conduct. In your case, skewed by your hypocritical code,” I reply. “And my Baba taught me many things within the cold chambers.”
“If you want to change the oceans, you ride the wave better than the rest of them motherfuckers.” He smiles, still touching my face. He dips down to kiss my lips. He’s the son of a kingpin, a peddler of women, a drug dealer, and an arms supplier, and I want this son of a bitch on my team. And in me. Because I like him. “Or what was it you said—Damn Fucking Alpha Males?”
Nailed it.
82
CODA
The Master
Several days after our rendezvous on the sofa, I wake up early to find Cruz pecking away on my keyboard. He’s wearing my gray sweats with no shirt and staring at the screen through his new glasses.
I am not immune to the sexiness he portrays. Rolling over on my side, I ask, “What are you doing?”
“Crunching the Cristos numbers that Georgia sent you yesterday to prepare you for the meeting with him today, and wishing that you would start sleeping in the bed.”
“Anything in the financials?”
“Nothing obvious,” he says, acting more academic than I am accustomed. “Are we sure he’s funding Allegiance? There is no movement whatsoever to claim such.”
“Then what the fuck is he doing?”
“Hell if I know,” he replies, leaning back in the chair and spreading his legs wide. “We need to back up and think about what we do know.”
“We know he used Jaid to get in with Immortal,” I point out, stretching my fingers. “And she is the sole heir of his fortune.”
“That isn’t on Cristos,” he mutters. “Jaid plotted that one all on her own.”
“You think she is lying about blaming Archer for everything?”
“I don’t know,” he replies in frustration, tossing his glasses on the keyboard. “The whole thing is fishy. The only question that matters is—do we think Cristos is the kind of man who would sell off his baby girl or even allow that to occur with his knowledge?”
Sitting up, I snicker, “I’ve been asking myself that question for days.”
“Let’s say she instigated the whole thing. By spreading the lies she has, fostering those untruths, we now believe both Dale Archer and Delarte Cristos are sipping tea in the pits beneath hell.”
“Do you realize the level of a sociopath you are considering Jaid to be?” I ask, lighting a smoke. “It’s next level—premeditated, diabolical bullshit.”
“Her brother is Nick.”
My jaw pops. I don’t want Nick to be the topic of my first-morning conversation, least of all with Cruz. “I’ll be honest. I don’t know that Cristos is that manipulative on a social level. If you were talking pure business, I’d tell you he is as unscrupulous as they come, but personal shit like this…I don’t know.”
“What time are you meeting him?”
“Noon,” I answer, running my hand through my hair. “And before you ask, Mass will be in the shadows. Safety is not a concern.”
He spins in the chair to stare at me. “Would you say the same thing about Jaid or Archer?”
I consider the question for a good minute while drooling at the noticeable lump in his pants. I stub out the smoke and stand up, only to walk over and lower to my knees between his legs. “No, I wouldn’t trust Jaid or Archer. And if you are asking if I have considered if they could be in cahoots together, my answer is affirmative.”
“You aren’t my sub,” he claims, sliding his finger along my jaw. “And I can’t make you get into the bed with Amber and me. You’ve got me in a Gordian knot, Master.”
“Are you serious about her?”
“I don’t know,” he whispers. “But I am damn serious about you. Don’t put Amber between us. There is no debate about who I serve. I am not your equal, and I don’t want to be. I beg you to stop respecting and putting the value of Amber’s and my relationship above your needs. You and Iris always come first. I am yours, and she is nothing more than a plaything.”
“Do you love her?”
“Love is a fickle word when it comes to Amber. She’s hurt me a lot. I enjoy fucking her, and if she is behaving, I even like spending time with her. But love—like I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you—true love is rare.”
“Ya, it is,” I agree. “And Iris, and you are mine.”
“I’m going to pick up your suit from the cleaners and grab some coffee beans from downstairs, now that you’re awake,” he informs, placing his hands on my cheeks and kissing my lips. “I love you, sweet thang.”
I smirk. “I love you, baby boy.”
The second he leaves, Amber lingers in the doorway. It’s the first time we’ve been
alone since the truth surfaced concerning Cesario and Vinny. “You lied for me.”
“I did,” I admit, getting up. “And you owe me.”
“I know,” she whispers. “But what I don’t know is why you did it…”
“Because even bad girls deserve a chance at redemption,” I challenge. “But don’t fuck me over again.”
“Do you want to know why I did it?”
“I know why you did it,” I say, catching her stare. “You did it to get back in my good graces.”
“It happened when you were working at RE and dating Emily,” she confides. “I thought we were off.”
“I will take our bond to my grave.”
Lowering to her knees, she whispers, “Is that a promise?”
His Mistress
Slamming my body against the shower wall, he mauls my sensibility away, pawing my flesh until it melds with his. He is a raptor in the morning, vigorously feasting on his prey.
I am trapped beneath his wings—arms outstretched and hands pressed to the tile—and inviting my demise under his siege. He glistens with the droplets and serves the perfect sunrise cocktail.
“You like this?” he growls, biting at my neck. “You like it when I cross the line with you?”
“Yes,” I mutter. “I like being Sal Raniero’s bitch.”
His magnificent thrusts are amplified in the water, where his fires fight to stay alive. I provide the eternal source of fuel for his ignition. We’re a complementary continuum of my malleable whims to his dynamic machismo.
“I love fucking my slut.”
Laying my hands on his shoulders, I smile. “And I love it when you treat me like your whore.”
“Who do you trust?”
“You. Deacon. Iris.”
“What about Jaid?” he inquires. “Do you trust her?”
“Do you want my stock answer or how I feel in my heart?”
“I want the chamber,” he demands, nipping my lip. “Always the blood.”
“I wouldn’t trust her if I were you,” I admit. “But in saying that, I fear you may think I am just trying to up my position with you by making her look bad.”
“You were right about Archer,” he seethes, hitting the pinnacle and driving his cock with such force that I am rendered to mere mush in his hands. His pounding rigidity annihilates any strategy. “And you warned me.”
I am weak under his rule, aiming to provide a vessel for his sins. He groans with gusto and graffitis the inside of my cavity with his cum.
“And I am counseling you about Jaid too,” I moan, feeling the blistering heat of the orgasm flow like molten lava from my core and saturating his cock. I turn the viscous fluid into stone; I make Sal harder. “The antechamber is far more unpredictable than the daredevil owning the big top.”
The Master
I arrive at the bistro at five minutes to noon. I’m dressed to the nines, in a dark charcoal suit with a white shirt and a solid black tie embellished with gold koi and red lotus. The handcrafted piece was a gift from Cruz and made a clear statement of my intentions.
In general, I hate meetings.
But I’ve known Cristos for so long, and it’s more like a social engagement than a professional negotiation. We’ll chat, eat, and part ways with a handshake.
I’ve just been seated at our table in the corner when he arrives in his off-white suit and black shirt. His bald head and reflective sunglasses shine underneath the enormous, dangling Edison bulbs. I hit send on two text messages.
One to Jas - “I know what you did.”
And one to Georgia - “One care package of bangs and blow, straight to Kill Rat. For shits and gigs, send it to Rowan Tully.”
She immediately responds, “Not to Stroker?”
I smile as the hostess escorts him across the crowded bistro, and quickly type out, “No.”
He tosses his expensive sunglasses on the table and grins as I stand up. “Raniero!”
His diminutive frame embraces me. Cristos is shorter than me by probably three inches. He is quite literally a little powerhouse of a man with hazel eyes, a regal nose, and slightly crooked teeth.
“How are you?”
His hands hold onto my jaw. “I’m wonderful now!” He doesn’t hesitate to kiss both my cheeks and my lips. The first time he did it, I thought his grandiose PDA was weird, but I have come to expect such from him. “You’re just as beautiful as ever!”
“How is your lovely wife?” I boldly ask, checking in on Ma.
“You know, she’s alright,” he says with a smirk. “It isn’t anything more than what it ever was—a stunning piece for appearance’s sake.” We sit down, and he says, “I’m sorry to hear about Iris and you. She’ll figure it out eventually, but I can’t believe she hooked up with Costa.”
My fingers twitch with the memory of his heartbeat, stopping.
“Ya, it was unfortunate for sure.”
We proceed to have a lovely lunch, making small talk between bouts of laughter and sincerity. The thing about Cristos is I genuinely like the guy, and I am not certain he deserves to die any more than Carrick does.
We’re sipping on espressos when I ask, “What do you know about Father Thomas Byrne?”
“If you want to talk shop, you’re going to have to come out to my office.”
I don’t need to ask what he means. His temporary office is undoubtedly a luxurious limo fully equipped with only the best. I slam the cup back and say, “Let’s go.”
His hand is resting on the table when I notice his new ring—two fat bands—channels of exquisite diamonds connected by three crabs. The open space between the bands accentuates with the lustrous crabs.
“That’s an incredible ring,” I comment as he pulls it off and hands it to me. I try the ring on and pull it off, dangling the precious piece on my finger. “Stunning.”
“Keep the ring, consider it an upgrade,” he remarks, putting on his sunglasses. “And I like your tie...a lot.”
His limousine is the cream of the crop with lavish detailing from gold plate finishings to mirrored wood trim. After sliding inside, I ask, “Yours?”
“Yes,” he replies, waving his hand at the bar.
I shake my head. “Nah.”
We ride in silence around Frosinone, passing Mass Vidal’s villa, the Basilica, and stopping outside Oscurità. I’m not sure how Cristos even knows where it is, but he does, and every nerve ending tingles with an anxious awareness.
“Where is my daughter, Raniero?” he asks, producing an ornate crystal vial. “Tell me.”
Lighting a cigarette, I ask, “Give me one reason to do that.”
“Because she is dangerous,” he informs. I already know as much, but there is something in the way he says it that sends a spiked electrical bolt through my spine. “And she has my grandchild in her possession.”
“And why should I believe you won’t adhere to The Arrangement within The Four Horsemen?”
“You know I’ve disassociated myself with them,” he replies, setting the vial of snow on the console. “Besides, you already know I am no longer a Horseman.”
Marcello Campanelli, Cesario Raniero, Wendy Cruz, and Gage Boudreaux.
“Who is filling Wendy Cruz’s spot?” I cockily ask. “I need to know.”
He stares straight ahead with his effeminate hand resting comfortably under his chin. He glances at me. “Who do you think?”
“Dale Archer,” I answer. “He isn’t truly broke.”
“No,” he replies. “Far from it.”
“He moved the money, but I don’t fucking know to where.”
“Not where,” he says. “Who.”
I grab ahold of his fingers, sitting on the cupholder between us. “I am supposed to kill you in Dubai.”
“On whose order?”
“A dead man and a Red Crow.”
“Carlo?” He smirks and nods. “Yeah, that didn’t go exactly as planned. As for the Red Crow, Serene is angry because of my marriage to Trudy, but what was I
going to do? Tell her to eliminate my son so that she could marry me?”
“You could’ve made her a Queen.”
He snarls, “She didn’t need me to do that. She burned many bridges in her younger days, which eliminated that possibility from ever coming to fruition.”
“You’re with my wife.”
“I am always with your wife,” he replies, bringing my hand to his lips and kissing my fingers. “And, you.”
Every instinct I have says—Cristos is accountable in many things, but he’s not guilty of the rumormongering lies of late. He doesn’t deserve to die.
“What do you want me to do?”
“You bring me Rowan Tully, unharmed, and I walk away from Allegiance and Immortal.”
“They’re already together,” I argue.
He laughs. “That deal won’t go down without my support. Immortal’s interest is lukewarm at best, and Allegiance—specifically, Stanis Kozlov—won’t budge without the full support of his mistress, Tatyana Lebedev.”
“Stanis is fucking the Pakhan’s…”
“Sister,” he says, filling in the blank. “And you owe your mistress a new sweet ride.”
She’s already got one in my lover boy.
“The deal isn’t happening?”
He shakes his head. “We’ll all go to Dubai and pretend like it is, but if I back out, it topples like a house of cards. Even still, you need not let Iris develop Etienne. She doesn’t want to get involved with the underground strife there. Rowan for the European pipeline?”
“Why do you want Rowan?”
“I liked her father,” he informs, smiling. “We used to go golfing.”
“You promised to take care of her…Just like Iris.”
His brows lift, and his eyes fill with tears. “I promised my daughter I would watch after the two of you. It doesn’t mean bad things haven’t or won’t happen, but if I can stop you from making the big mistakes, I will.”
A Dark Place (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 5) Page 65