Diary of a Submissive (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 4)

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “That’s not Cinco.”

  “No, that’s Immortal.”

  She watched as a dozen men pillaged her precious ride. “How do you know?”

  “Unmarked cuts in this state...”

  “They’re destroying my car,” Amber muttered in disbelief. “It’s not mine anymore.”

  “And neither is he,” Navarro mentioned. “Destroy them. Show me what a bad bitch you can be. 3...2...1...”

  Hitting the button on the remote, she closed her eyes and latched on tight to Navarro as the car exploded and sent the men flying.

  “I’m not just an accomplice anymore.”

  “No, now you’re a killer,” he replied, impressed. “And the most wanted woman in the world.”

  With a solemn stare, she whispered, “Better me than Iris.”

  3

  Standing on the Brink

  St. Andrew’s Hospital

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Standing outside of the private room, Sal gave a brief nod to Deacon, sitting in the chair. He smirked and blinked at Iris. She was visiting with Cat, and they were smiling.

  A happy vision.

  Sal tried to grin, but it was more half-assed acceptance than genuine pleasure as Deacon swaggered in jeans two sizes too big, a Metallica concert t-shirt, and Sal’s gray hoodie. The thin fabric wasn’t nearly warm enough for the Boston winter.

  While typically Deacon loved to shop, he’d spent most of his time since the incident by Cat’s bedside, and that little fact bothered Sal.

  His boy was suffering…changing…

  Becoming something he was not.

  “Any better?”

  Deacon rolled his eyes. “She knows who I am, but the spark…”

  “Give it time.”

  “I’m trying.”

  Sal laid a hand on his shoulder. “We need to go to chapel.”

  Deacon raised a brow. “… Am I praying on my knees?” He flirted, and Sal snickered as they walked through the hospital like they owned the place. “We usually call this church back home.”

  Sal stopped and flipped Deacon off. Like he didn’t know what church was. “I’m very well aware of what your kind calls it, but where I come from, we call it chapel.” He opened the door to the small but quaint cathedral and spotted the priest on the second pew.

  “... What’s Quinn doing here?” Deacon stuttered, walking in and noting the altar set up with papers, bibles, colored blocks, crayons, and unlit candles as Sal locked the door behind him. “Are we purging? Exorcism? Baptism? What do you call it when you get your dicks cut?”

  “Painful,” Sal replied, refusing to play. “And we’re all going to have our balls severed in the current landscape.”

  “Did you steal the blocks and crayons from a patient or buy them from the gift shop?”

  Tossing his hat off, Sal sat on the top step of the two-step altar, facing Deacon and Quinn. “Neither. We borrowed them from the daycare.”

  “At ten o’clock at night?”

  “God works in mysterious ways, son,” Father Quinn mused with a smirk. “Now, sit the hell down.”

  “This is bad if Q is cursing.” Deacon slowly eased back onto the pew to the right of Quinn.

  “No,” he corrected, laying his wrinkled hand on Deacon’s thigh and patting him. “This is fucked up beyond consideration. Nothing but a miracle can save us.”

  Sal bent to rest his elbows on his knees and clasped his fingers together. His face held a dire seriousness. “Twelve Immortal members were killed earlier today in the Sonoran Desert.”

  “Well, there’s only 19,988 left.”

  Sal didn’t crack at Deacon’s attempt at humor. “The woman responsible is escaping and being funded by me.”

  Shooting up like a rocket, Deacon shifted his joyful resolve to a worrisome glare. “Goddammit! Amber? Really, Sal? Why?”

  “Better me than Nakamura.”

  Deacon pointed to Sal. “She’s got your balls in a damn noose. Did Lotus fund the attack?”

  “Not to Iris’ knowledge,” Sal replied. “Petra Soryn hired Amber. Much like Cas hired her to disrupt shit with Cinco in South Texas.”

  “Amber is a fucking loose cannon, and she needs to be eliminated,” Deacon added, sitting back down on the edge of the pew. “What are we going to do?”

  Father Quinn cleared his throat. “That is why we brought you here. We’re brainstorming.”

  “Tired of flying by the seat of our pants?”

  “The fabric is getting thin,” Sal admitted. “We need a clear and concise plan to try and determine what the fuck is going on.” He stood, waving his hands towards the makeshift war board. “Let’s go over this.”

  “Stop,” Deacon scolded. “Do you trust both of us?”

  “You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

  “Then, where is Iris?”

  “With Cat,” Sal excused.

  Deacon shook his head, not buying it. “You don’t trust her.”

  “Iris is a damned Queen in the making. The things that affect The Unholy, Reckless Rebellion and my name are so far beneath her standing it is ridiculous. She could pluck her finger and fling our efforts off the board like a marble.”

  “That!” Deacon shouted. “Would she do that?”

  “No,” Sal murmured, looking down at the floor. “I don’t think she would, but I cannot very well ask for her assistance either.”

  “Let me get this straight… You were trying to clean up her mess with Amber concerning the shooting…was Iris involved in it?”

  “I already told you no,” Sal replied with growing agitation. “But she’s hired Amber in the past. When she reached out for assistance in disappearing, Iris volunteered. Let me repeat this, I do not think Iris was aware that the wedding massacre was going to occur. Nor do I believe Keishi would have put his only granddaughter before a firing squad.”

  Deacon agreed, “No, he wouldn’t have done that.”

  “It wouldn’t make any sense, but other Lotus may have known. Heaven knows, the Goro gang is pissed off. Or for all I know, Lotus and Goro didn’t have an inkling. But what I do know is someone tipped off Petra Soryn to my whereabouts. Amber was going to attend the wedding anyway to try and stop it, but Soryn got involved, and shit got messier than expected.”

  “You’re making excuses for Amber being a cold-blooded killer.”

  “No…well, maybe indirectly…but the bigger fish here at the moment is Soryn knows I killed her father, and she will not stop until I’m hurting as bad as she is.”

  “Then, you need to get Iris someplace far away from you.”

  “We tried that...for almost three years, we tried that,” Sal floundered, pacing. “She is staying with me.”

  “Okay,” Deacon sighed, displeased. “What do you have going on up there?”

  “A fucking mess,” Quinn mumbled. “And I’m not convinced you’re savable, Salvatore.”

  Sal hastily shot Quinn a glare. “Thank you for the vote of confidence.”

  “Look at the facts, son. You’ve now managed to piss everyone but The Commission off. By taking Amber from Iris’ hands, you made yourself Immortal’s number one enemy. I know you expected Amber to behave and quietly vanish, but you need to remember who you are talking about. Amber doesn’t do anything without pizazz and flash. You needed to let Iris stumble, so she could learn how to recover. Instead, you caught her and softened the blow, but at what cost?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Sal scoffed. “I can take the heat if it means keeping Iris safe. I’ve alerted Serene with my concerns since she’s running Sibyl.”

  Deacon cocked a brow. “You didn’t tell Nicky?”

  “If I tell Nicky, he will agree with you and end up gallivanting south, wearing a sombrero, and waiting for Amber to show in a pair of huaraches.”

  The men cackled.

  “What about Pico and the Cas situation?”

  “Cas is laying low in the Cinco clubhouse and serving in an advisory position. Pico isn’t h
appy and doesn’t trust her, but unfortunately her adoptive father, Juan Neves, and the upper ranked members do. Cinco isn’t stable, especially since Cristos pulled out his investment in Houston.”

  “What is the tower of blue blocks on the left side, and why is it so big?”

  “That’s Zach and Zeke in Pac-West. They’ve managed to swindle some sweet mergers with Hong Kong, Macau, and Taiwan.”

  “Triad of fun, but China?”

  “That is where Hong Kong is…but they don’t have mainland yet…they’re working on it.”

  “You’re fucking insane,” Deacon sneered. “Gang activity is ripe with dark and black battling it out.”

  Quinn furrowed his brow as Sal explained, “In mainland China, there are dark forces and black societies.”

  “Lotus won’t be happy,” Quinn mumbled.

  “Lotus isn’t happy unless they’re being left alone. Problem is you don’t get paid if you don’t play. Lotus knows this, and that is why they’re trying to pick up pieces in the States.”

  “Not broken ones,” Deacon said, deep in thought. “That’s where they’re fucking up; they’ve shifted their focus from smaller mom and pop gangs to the big boys. They’re going after the markets—Chicago with Campanelli and Atlanta with Morpheus. It’s going to pinch them soon.”

  “I think,” Sal whispered. “That it already is. Lotus wasn’t ready to hold the Houston business, and they’re losing ground fast with Immortal’s spread.”

  Quinn studied the mess on the floor and asked, “Are we still good with The Brethren?”

  “For now,” Sal answered. “The thing is…and I know this breaks rule number one, but I like Zach and Zeke. They’ve got good ideas.”

  “If you can ignore Zach being a cannibal, sure,” Deacon said. “Might as well send him south with Nicky to hunt Amber.”

  Sal tilted his head back and stared at the acoustic ceiling tiles. “We aren’t killing Amber.”

  “Right, right,” Deacon snarked with a wink. “Not yet.”

  “Stop the pissing contest, boys. We’ve got issues. What’s with the red on the right? And why are there single blocks of red scattered out?”

  “That’s Raniero Enterprises and Cesario getting back in bed with Cristos and moving into the Caribbean and western coasts of SoAm.”

  “Why the fuck is he going there?” Deacon asked. “Cristos has the money but not the men to do battle with Immortal. Brazil alone will eat him alive unless he’s got a rabbit in his hat.”

  “That’s the concern,” Sal pointed out. “I’m worried Cristos might be attempting to form a partnership with Immortal. If anyone could branch them out, Cristos certainly has the means.”

  Quinn eagerly quizzed, “Is Iris still tinkering with Cristos?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe you should ask her next time you’ve got her pinned by your dick,” Deacon taunted. “Hey, babe? You still in cahoots with Cristos?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “God’s house, Salvatore.”

  “Only when it’s convenient for you, Padre.”

  Quinn glared over the top rim of his glasses and popped Sal the finger, garnering a laugh from the young men. “House Boudreaux is doing exactly what Lotus should be,” he informed with a sigh. “Which is sad because Gage Boudreaux doesn’t deserve the leaves he shits on.”

  “He’s personable.”

  “If you like water moccasins,” Deacon groaned. “As long as he leaves New Orleans alone, Reckless Rebellion will maintain a protective but peaceful stance. If anyone comes encroaching on Sugargrove or my home, then all hell is breaking loose. I don’t ask for much. I don’t need a whole continent. I’m not a greedy bastard.” He eyed Sal.

  “I resent that.”

  “Boys,” Quinn warned. “Don’t. I don’t know what the tension is between you two, but you’re better together than apart. Pull your heads out of your asses before I do it for you.”

  “The green blocks with a line of crayons north in the mid?” Deacon pointed. “What is that?”

  “Campanelli marching to Canada.”

  “Great,” Deacon chided. “A daego with a maple syrup fetish. And the Bible here?”

  “Juliet, currently involved with La Morte.”

  “Ahh, yes,” Deacon stressed. “Vinny Veramonte and your second legacy with The Commission.”

  Sitting on the edge of the steps, Sal spread his legs and grabbed his nuts as he licked his lips at his lover.

  “Deacon Vincent Cruz, if you do not leave Salvatore alone, I will put you in the corner. Stop badgering him. At least, he is trying.”

  “I’m trying to stay happy with what I have.”

  “I don’t have anything,” Sal insisted. “Everything I have relies on invisible floaters and the deals we’ve made. Anyone from The Brethren to Reckless Rebellion could decide to screw me.”

  “Fuck off.”

  Quinn scowled. “The next shipment that you want to run through my parish, you can take it to the docks, Cruz.”

  “Shit…” Deacon slumped in the pew and crossed his arms. He was bordering on throwing a tantrum. He shook his head. “You should just go back to the cornfields.”

  “Je Suis is running like a charm with Jas and Georgia at the helm,” Sal boasted. “But it doesn’t make up for the fact that I need to be making some quotas without Raniero Enterprises assistance.”

  “Any news on the Bordertown Murders?”

  “Not yet, but as you can see by the data…” Sal lifted the stack of papers.

  “Or green crayon line,” Deacon interrupted.

  “Yes, or green crayon line, the Bordertown Murders have been increasing with Campanelli’s presence.”

  “What is with the candles?”

  “Allegiance presence funded at least in part by the Middle East. We think anyway. That’s a hard one unless you have interpreters, which we do not.”

  “This is all well and good, but what are you going to do?”

  Sal walked along the step. “What do I always do?”

  “Start shit and make me clean it up?”

  Quinn smacked Deacon hard in the arm. “Two rounds of shipments.”

  “Yes, Sir. And when one of those street gangs comes into your house…”

  “Don’t Deacon.”

  “I’m just saying, give some credit where it’s due,” Deacon requested. “Who has protected your interests?”

  “You have, Mr. Cruz,” Quinn said, standing up and rubbing his hands over the cassock. “But you chastise Sal for his choices and never look inwards. You are far from perfect. At times, you need a blanket and a binky, or would you prefer Serene’s tit?”

  Deacon said nothing as Quinn hugged Sal. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have dinner plans with Father Altromessa, and I’m going to stop by and hug those lovely girls before I leave.”

  They watched the older man leave, and Deacon brushed Sal’s fingers. “I’m sorry.”

  “I do know why you’re acting out.”

  “Because I’m a greedy toddler?”

  “Yes,” Sal replied, slightly rocking on his heels. “That’s it exactly. Seriously, you require a certain amount of attention.”

  With his guilt-ridden expression, Deacon asked, “What can I do for you?”

  “Go home after the funeral.”

  Deacon’s mouth dropped open like he was about to chew ass, but only two words fell out. “Yes, Sir.”

  4

  Death of an Irish Priest

  The Backroom of Half-Baked Restaurant & Pub

  Belfast, Ireland

  “We cannot continue to allow the unruly to determine our future. Father McPhail was paving the way for our entrance on the international scene,” Sam said to the rowdy group.

  “I’m proposing one clear plan, as an Irishman and a native Louisianan, I encourage you to take the offer from Gage Boudreaux.”

  “He’s French,” the one, tough-looking girl said in the back. “You shouldn’t trust him. Fill you up on wine
and cheese only to stab you in the back.”

  “Quiet, Rowan.”

  “Shut up.”

  Moving forward, the tiny woman, not even five feet, took center stage. Her naturally mocha hair was tucked beneath a black beanie. “I want to hear what Sam’s excuse will be for his Frenchman.”

  “My brother and I don’t have any excuses,” Connor said without a hint of remorse. “My partners and I are offering help to establish your presence in the States.”

  “I’m more than willing to work with Handcock and Boudreaux,” Davy replied. “They’re the sole reason I’m here.”

  “And the Englishman speaks,” Rowan barked.

  “I’m not English,” Davy corrected. “I’m an American.”

  “I’m the English investor,” Mack claimed, extending his hand before the girl. “Mack Larrabee.”

  She spat in the curve of his pointer finger and thumb, and the mucus slid into his hand. “You can use that to palm one off later.”

  “Pardon, but why exactly are we listening to a yapping female midget howling about things on which she knows nothing!”

  Rowan stepped forward. “Midgets everywhere are insulted.” She fired one quick jab of her fist to the man’s loins as she looked to Mack and surmised, “And you’re a flake.”

  “Fuck you,” Mack rebuked.

  Rowan sighed. “We need to take a vote on whether to accept Gage Boudreaux’s offer.”

  Sitting on a stack of crates, one of the men asked, “Will the terms be equal?”

  “Never,” Rowan hissed. “Don’t believe the lies. He’ll rip Kill Rat apart and feed our bits to the Italians!”

  “Row, that’s quite enough!” a man shouted.

  “The terms will be equal,” Sam said. “75/25 for Kill Rat business in Ireland. 25/75 for Boudreaux’s business in the States.”

  “But it gets us in the door!” another man yelled. “What will be required?”

  “You will send your top three leaders to meet with Gage,” Connor replied.

  “In Louisiana?” Rowan snarled. “In the quag?”

  “Gage is willing to meet in New York.”