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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “Where are you going?”

  “Very far away,” she whispers. “I’m sorry, Deacon. For everything.” She turns away and leaps off the porch.

  Lowering the gun, I yell, “Prissy!”

  She blinks back at me. “… Hmm?

  “What’s triggering your brother?”

  “I think a better question is, what isn’t?”

  “Be careful.” I gaze at the talete symbol inked on the underside of my arm in amongst the rosary beads. “Dammit.” I pace over the creaking broken boards and watch as she walks to her car. “Jaid!” Jumping off of the deck, I sprint toward her, slamming her body into the car and hastily cinching her wrists with a zip tie. “I can’t let you leave.”

  “I have to help Nick!”

  She wrestles, scurrying away as I latch my arm around her chest and press the switchblade to her neck. “You don’t have a choice.”

  “No one is going to see you coming,” Madeline said. “You are the perfect decoy, Cruz.”

  “What if I get stuck?”

  “Use your best judgement, but don’t hesitate. Always follow your gut instinct. The difference between taking the time to think versus act could be the bullet in your heart.”

  When I think about the former Unholy, Dom and Nicky juggle all the aspects of our business with equal ease, not excelling in any one field. Iris’ gut is often wrong, and Sal can’t feel. Amber is a survivalist, akin to me.

  Who is winning?

  I wouldn’t go up against any of them.

  I cannot work a map like Sal, or even Jaid, but I thrive on intuition. Iris is the most strategic competitor; Sal is an analyst, profiler, and networker; I am the feeler—the predator hidden in the shadows that no one expects—the proverbial boogeyman. Unlike Nicky, I have never let it get out of hand.

  Until now.

  “Where are we going?” she says as I toss her over my shoulder. “Fuck!”

  I snicker because she isn’t in the same shape she was before Lukas came along. Before his appearance, she would’ve brought on a combative assault like a ninja.

  We must push Iris after the delivery of Ariella.

  We approach the dilapidated Victorian house that Sal and Iris will raise their beloved family in. “You should know, I am signing the papers.”

  “For Lukas?”

  “Yes,” I reply, squatting to undo the locks on the massive cellar doors. “He is my son.”

  “You should come up with somewhere better to stow me,” she hisses, doubting my reckoning and clawing her fingers on my back despite the zip tie. I walk down the steps with her on my shoulder and flip on the light. “Oh shit…” she protests, and I laugh, knowing she has spotted one of the old cages from the prison. “This belonged to my mother.”

  “Yes,” I confirm, setting her on her feet. “And when Sal went to visit your brother, he noticed they were still there and asked if we could buy them. We have a few good friends who tore them down and moved them.”

  “You are both fuckers!”

  “I am not a fool, beautiful. You can’t be trusted to run around all willy nilly.” I run my finger over her cheek and snarl. “Payback is going to be hell, Pretty.”

  Her jaw locks in place as she stares straight ahead with a trained composure—I don’t possess this skill.

  Taking my time, I unbutton her blouse and let it loosely fall before running my knife through the sleeves and removing the garment. “You aren’t getting away with this.”

  “Wanna bet?” I question, picking her up and setting her on the rickety old table. “You’d be amazed at how many people aren’t going to care. But we do.” I tug off her lace-up boots and pull off her pants with a jerk before severing them from her body. “We care very much.”

  “Who is doing this?”

  Staring at her, I snicker, “Who do you think?”

  “The fucking Queen because she is behind everything!”

  “Is that your final answer?”

  “Yes!” she hisses. “Iris is the one everyone should fear. She’s a damn black widow.”

  “She didn’t kill Chance.”

  “Are you sure about that?” she asks as I scan over the pretty pink lace bra and panty set. “Maybe Dom is doing Iris’ dirty work.”

  I spin her around on the table and comb my fingers through her hair. I carefully divide it into three equal parts and braid it. I yank a hair tie—blame Sal for my rocking the man buns—off of my wrist and fasten it tight. “Are you still nursing?” She looks down, but I lift her head with my finger. “Answer the question—are you still nursing Lukas?”

  “Yes,” she sighs. “Eight times a day. He usually feeds twice from me.”

  “Guess a breast pump and me are your new best friends.”

  “I fucking hate you,” she scorns. “Send Sal or Amber, but stay out of my fucking prison.”

  I ease closer, breathing along her neck. “Why is that? Did you like riding my dick too much? Was it just so good?”

  She doesn’t answer, but critiques, “You liked it as much as I did.”

  “I like many strange and unusual things.”

  “Clearly, by the company you keep,” she sasses as I slide my hand into the cup of her bra and expose her breast. I gently squeeze her nipple between my thumb and forefinger. “I hate you.”

  “Again?” I snarl. “So soon?”

  “Yes!”

  “All the more reason to start bonding with me now.” Lifting my brows, I grin and latch on, suckling the milk from her nipple. It’s sweet and good on my tongue as the throbbing ache awakens in my jeans. I buck my hips against the table. I unzip my fly and palm my dick, pounding one off while nursing at her breast. I come hard with a groan before I detach, wipe the corners of my mouth with my fingers, and happily swallow with a smile. “Tasty!”

  With a sour face, she asks, “Does anyone know how fucked up Deacon Cruz is?”

  “Why do you think they love me, Darlin’?”

  His Butterfly

  We were halfway to Little Bee when I watched in horror at Georgia’s pink Beetle veering in front Dom’s Bronco. He tried to pull out of it and only ended up hydroplaning into oncoming traffic where a truck plowed into him. Dom’s vehicle rolled into the ditch.

  “Did you see that?” Giacomo asks from the driver’s seat. “There isn’t anyone left alive in that fucking car!”

  “Just pay attention to the road,” Alessi remarks, staring out the window as we continue driving through the torrential deluge. These two buffoons won’t stop to render aid in the middle of an abduction, but my phone is affixed to the palm of my hand. Carefully, I press the 911, hang up, and click off my phone.

  It won’t help me.

  But maybe it will help Dom.

  “Where are we doing this?”

  “Turn,” Alessi directs as the rain pours down. We drive four miles, and he mumbles, “Turn.”

  I know it’s four miles because we’re on Coronado Way, which is a stupid name for a road. There is no way about it.

  The road is full of overgrown trees, dangling with fallen branches and huge rocks, which I assume at one point lined the path. Now nothing but a few sparse pieces of gravel and mud remain for the driving surface.

  With winding curves and multiple wooden bridges, no one ever takes the way unless they own the property because it is dangerous.

  My bad boys handle it in their suped up trucks.

  And these thugs slow down near our back gate.

  “You should keep going. This road gets used a lot when it floods,” I suggest, lying—Del Rio Canyon does flood, at our property and the adjoining one, and our neighbors and us are the only ones ever to use Coronado Way. “If you’re looking for someplace to stop, drive to the end of this road, and turn left towards Godland. It will take you to the old fairgrounds.”

  The reason behind my exaggeration is that whatever these fellows have in mind—it isn’t ending well for me. I will be murdered or raped, possibly both, and the boys aren’t coming to save
me because they’re on a Nicky-hunt from hell.

  No way my saviors are at home.

  Sal, Deacon, and I dreamed of living at the Swamp Shack for the rest of our lives. I don’t want them to suffer with the constant reminder of whatever happens tonight at their back fence. The source of incident is about to occur must be relocated for their sanity.

  Remove potential triggers.

  This is how I think—my perceptions make my motives and moves. It doesn’t have to make sense to them; it only needs to make sense to me.

  “Is it abandoned?”

  “Yeah.”

  Minutes pass—the men on their mission and the pouring rain—so much the same. I cannot change either one. How do my minutes fare—I am not dead yet. I am not defeated and concerned, not forfeiting. There are thousands of things I could’ve/should’ve/would’ve done if I wasn’t carrying twenty pounds of potatoes in my midsection.

  But I will not blame Ariella.

  I blame these terrorists.

  I must be the best Iris I can be and make the best choices for my daughter and me. The priority is the survival of both, but if it comes down to it—and she can survive—I will welcome my last breath.

  In a matter of minutes, I was crowned a Queen and taken as a hostage, inaugurating my place in the mother’s den, where I would give up my life for my child.

  Who would give up their life for me?

  Not my mother, father, or grandfather.

  Sal, Deacon, Amber, and Dom would.

  But the only one who did give up her life for me—Aki Nakamura—but these natives aren’t abiding by the Old Testament and an eye for an eye.

  This is more an eye for everything you hold dear.

  At the old fairgrounds, Giacomo turns the engine off and crawls into the backseat on the other side of me. I am not sure these two desperadoes have ever done what they’re about to do, but I do know—they’ll never do it again.

  His hands are rugged.

  With determination, Sal delivers me.

  The thing about The Suits in The Commission is most of them have others to get their hands dirty in the name of the card-carrying member. That is the reason Nero’s brotherhood exists.

  Hitmen are expensive, and not every mafia family allots for the necessary evil of a salaried hitman. Many smaller organizations have little use for a permanent hitman—maybe once or twice per year—and Nero fills the void.

  Mafia soldiers are not hitmen.

  Being an assassin requires a skill set far beyond random bullet-dusting.

  A rogue assassin is an exact fine art.

  I should know; I am one.

  And guys like Vinny Veramonte, Massimiliano Vidal, and Salvatore Raniero—who not only understand the business aspect but run hits are uniquely qualified. Good hitmen who keep their eyes down and their mouths shut are ultra-rare. Henceforth, Nero.

  I should know; I married a Nero.

  I cannot get out of this mess.

  “What are we doing, boys?” I belligerently ask, obscuring their vision. I won’t play the weak card. I never have; I never will. They blankly stare at each other. “Rich spoiled brats never raped a bitch before?”

  “I’ve raped plenty of bitches,” Giacomo boasts, lying, and pulling my torso to his lap. I feel Alessi rustling about between my legs as he rips his zipper down, bunches up my skirt, and tears the panties from my body.

  That’s better.

  This is how rape should happen.

  The Master

  “We sent one of the volunteer units to scour the area,” Georgia calmly says like she is defusing a bomb. Only the bomb is me. “Over a dozen people combed the property…”

  “And all we found was her fucking hat!” I yell, raging like a hothead and throwing it in the air. Hooray! It is all too much—Nicky. Megan. Dom. Iris.—and I am on the verge of breaking something or a breakdown. Mega-fucking asshole alert. We received word from Ronnie of the major accident a little bit ago. “What is the latest on the Gennaro clan?”

  “Dom injured both of his legs,” she pauses, looking at me. “Are you sure you want to do this right now?”

  “When are you going to tell me?” I erupt, getting up from the chair again. I cannot sit still. I am anxiety-ridden with nothing making sense. Everything was good, and now, we’re melting down. I pace. And check my watch. And pace some more.

  “I don’t know, Sal,” she mutters. “I’m not used to physically seeing you like this. I hear it on the phone, but watching you fight with yourself is agony.”

  “I am not usually this bad. Someone, tell me, when is it an appropriate time to take account of things gone wrong? Six months from now? Six weeks from now? Six days from now? When does their story matter? I am not a grunt anymore. I’m a fucking man. And I need everyone to stop worrying that I cannot handle shit because that alone is making me skittish. People just need to fucking trust me. I am fine.”

  She rapidly blinks as I snapped too hard. “Both of his prosthetics were destroyed, and he sustained significant trauma to the knees. He has multiple broken ribs, lacerations, and his left shoulder is dislocated,” she professionally informs. “He will be having two surgeries, one to repair the damage to his knees and one for the shoulder.”

  My jaw tightens. “And?”

  “Oki was pronounced dead on the scene. Raine had significant head trauma and has been moved to Houston. However, despite the cognitive impairment, she is stable. She did have a significant wound on her face, which is being attended to by plastic surgeons. Finn twisted both of his ankles, and he is on crutches. Romeo handled it like a champ in his baby seat with minimal lacerations.”

  I crack my neck. “… And Megan?”

  “She passed before they ever had a chance to do surgery,” Georgia remorsefully says as tears slide down her cheeks. “God, I am so sorry.”

  “Briefing.” I point, not faltering.

  “There was gross amounts of sexual trauma and approximately a dozen stab wounds. I am honestly amazed she made it as long as she did.”

  “I pray to God Iris went to Japan,” I mutter, cracking. “Fuck!”

  “We have multiple people who report that a pink car cut off Dom, causing the accident,” she informs, sobbing. “And I would like to note, for the record, while said automobile does belong to me…I was not driving.”

  My lips pucker and twist as I fight back the capsizing emotions. I glance at Cruz, who showed up for moral support. He is stoic with a vacant expression as his fingers remain tucked beneath his chin, and he growls, “He’s dying. No more excuses. No more talking to him. No more reasoning with this son of a bitch.”

  “It’s not your call to make,” I remind.

  “You put KOS orders on fucking Amber!” he shouts, standing up. “Put them on goddamned Nico Cristos. Please do it. Trust me. And stop triggering back to when you were a fucking teenager on your knees at Old Poppa’s funeral when Nicky was the only one there. Let me kill this asshole before he destroys anymore lives.”

  “Georgia?”

  “Yes, Sir Sal?”

  “What would you do?”

  She gulps back her tears and wipes the wetness from her cheeks. “Frankly, I would kill the fucker, Sir.”

  I peer over at Mierne, rocking in her desk chair. “You know what my vote is, Salvatore. But I understand your hesitation to issue kill-on-sight for Nico because we do not know the location of the Lotus.” She takes a breath. “I will say, we have recently, in the last five minutes, detained one Stephanie Serene Smith-Stanton Cristos at the Miami airport. Kary Vega is en route now. Kade Cristos is with Rosalina Valle and checked into a hotel.”

  “Tell her to run,” I say without the mother’s wishes. “Buy two plane tickets to Tokyo and send them to Murasaki Hada.” Mierne blinks at me like I’ve lost my marbles. “Valle, related to Salomé?”

  “Uh,” Georgia replies, frazzled. “I dunno, I will get on that.”

  Mierne asks, “Does she know they’re coming?”

  I give an
affirmative nod, staring at Cruz. “KOS orders, for you only. I don’t want this turning into some botched ordeal where he gets away because some idiot couldn’t hit the fucking target. Is your Ma at the hospital?”

  “Ma and Amber are on their way now, but with an escort,” he says, pulling his hair up. “Tank is out of surgery and expected to make a full recovery…if you want some good news.”

  “That’s awesome,” I mutter, somewhere between sarcastically dicky and genuinely meaning it. “I’m going to see Dom. I have to tell him that not only was his baby killed in a car accident but that the girl he was about to marry was slaughtered by the asshole we trusted in the Unholy.”

  The Master

  Rushing into the emergency room, I stop amidst the chaos as the cute blonde at the reception desk asks, “Can I help you, Sal?”

  With a confused daze, I think—How does she know me? Did I fuck this girl? Did I have her number? Was she so bad I trashed it?

  And then it hits.

  This ain’t Boston, Gifu, or Italy; this is home, idiot. And here, I am infamous.

  Anonymity—GONE.

  “Dominic Gennaro checked in?”

  “Yes, his whole family did,” she says. “He is in room #12. Go right on in, Sir.”

  I hurry away, internally shaking my head because being back here is destabilizing after years of being gone. I feel like everyone knows me. I will readjust, but I need a hot minute to acclimate to the influx of new me-but-old ways coming in hot.

  “Boston,” he groggily mutters as I open the door. “I fucked up, son.”

  “I know,” I say as he grabs for my hand. I run the other over his messy hair. He’s always dapper, and this man lying in bed is anything but. I am unaccustomed to seeing my Dominant unwell.

  The reversed positions feel out of alignment as I become the grown man, the caregiver, and the Master.

  “How is everyone?” he asks. “They won’t tell me anything.”