“Will all of you clowns be there?” Rowan asked, eyeing Connor, Sam, Davy, and Mack.
“We’re the middlemen, earning a meager five percent.”
“Off the top of our pot!” Rowan announced. “I’ll go for no less than forty.”
“That’s suicide in our lands, Rowan!” one complained.
“Only sixty percent isn’t enough to pay the men much less feed their children,” another one added. “Being a criminal for a crust of bread isn’t much reason to be a criminal.”
“Let’s take a break, have a pint, and calm down,” Mack suggested, “including you, Rowan.”
The two dozen men dispersed, leaving Rowan and Mack alone in the room. “You didn’t have to insult me.”
“And you didn’t have to piss me off by showing up.”
She lit a smoke, filling the small room with a dense cloud. Leaving her pack open, she held it out for Mack. He took one. “Thank you.”
“You are some kind of something,” Mack mentioned, shaking his head as she flicked the lighter. “I’m not sure if I’m remarkably impressed or want to kill you with my bare hands.”
Easing up on the crate, she played with the loose threads on her oversized cargos. “It doesn’t matter one way or the other, and that is the point everyone is missing. Even if we do combine forces with Boudreaux, we cannot even begin to chip away at the castle of Kings. Kill Rat is nothing compared to Lotus. Do you know how much the endowment is for the man who marries The Chairman’s granddaughter?”
Remembering every minute his dick was buried in her temple, Mack feigned oblivious. “Not a clue.”
“Her name is Iris Nakamura.” Reaching across several rows of crates, she grabbed the trash magazine. She quickly flipped open to the page spread with Iris’ face. “She’s fucking gorgeous.”
“This is in…”
“Japanese,” Rowan replied. “I got a few friends, one of whom can read this. Her dowry is said to be worth billions.”
“You’re assuming The Chairman ever allows her to marry.”
“She’ll never marry that damn guinea. He’s an idiot. Fine as hell but an idiot.”
“… Salvatore Raniero?” Mack asked.
She nodded. “He should’ve left his shit behind. That is what a smart man would’ve done for that kind of coin.”
Mack couldn’t believe he was about to defend Sal as he said, “Maybe he wants some integrity on his merit?”
“It wouldn’t have mattered,” Rowan alleged. “If I thought I could grow a foot, strap one on, and hitch up that bitch, I would.”
“You’d need to grow more than a foot, Rowan.”
She flipped him off.
“I stopped growing when I was eleven. The doctors said, that’s all I get.”
“You look like you’re about fifteen.”
“Thanks, but I’m twenty-four.”
“Holy shit,” Mack marveled. “You’re an old bag!”
Rowan laughed, showing off her slightly crooked teeth. “But we cannot compete, even aligned, with the likes of these big dealers. We’re lucky if we are making six. McPhail was going to get us to seven.”
“There are other dirty priests,” Mack pointed out as she shut the magazine. “Kill Rat will find a way in.”
“There will never be another McPhail.”
Mack assessed the cherubic features of her face and imagined if cleaned up, the girl could be attractive. He felt sorry for her and her group. They got the short end of the stick. “Father Byrne.”
“He doesn’t have the connections of Patrick McPhail, and we both know it.”
Seeing an opportunity to exploit his relationships and get her to vote in favor of the merger, he asked, “What if I introduced you to Iris Nakamura?”
“We meeting or what?” The large Irishman asked. He was muscle-bound with brown hair to his shoulders and haunting grayish-green eyes. “I was late.”
“Fucking Niamh again?”
He slugged back her beer. “Roisin. I’m going to talk to the boys.”
“You’re going to catch a disease!” Rowan shouted as he walked off.
“Who was that?”
“Stroker Mullins.”
Mack’s brow knitted tight into a line. “... Mullins?”
“His father was Irish.”
“Is his name...”
“It’s really Stroker,” she interjected. “He continued Kill Rat when his father died.”
“… Who was his father?”
“A man named Gregory, lived in Texas, somewhere. He was a former IRA.” Mack blinked but tried not to show his panic. He knew Gregory Mullins, Anna’s former Master of Ceremonies, who died from a heart attack in 2014.
“… The leader of Kill Rat isn’t Irish?”
“Stroker is 100% Irish. He just wasn’t raised in Ireland.”
“That’s why Connor and Sam Kincaid came. Stroker knows them. He went to school with them and Gage’s daughter, Fiette, right outside of Baton Rouge.”
“… Fiette?”
“Fiette Boudreaux,” she said, lighting another smoke. “She’s an artist in San Francisco. How do you know Iris Nakamura?”
“Same way I knew the elder Mullins, a school named Juliet.”
Rowan slowly rocked on top of the crate. “You really know her?”
Mack cackled. “You could say that.” He pulled out his phone, pressed her number, and left a message. “Snow Rose, call me back. It’s urgent. No harm from me.”
“I take it the idiot doesn’t like you,” she observed.
“Not in the least,” he agreed. “I enjoy pushing his buttons.”
“This deal is going through,” she whispered, watching the men returning from the bar. They were cajoling and happy. She was not. “And it’s the worst idea ever.”
The gruff bunch filled the room. “We’re taking a vote,” Stroker announced. “All those in favor of meeting with Gage Boudreaux to discuss a possible merger, say aye.” The overwhelmingly positive vote sent a shiver through Rowan’s spine. “Those against, say, nay.”
“Nay,” she said alone.
“The vote is completed, and we will be meeting after Father McPhail’s funeral with Gage Boudreaux.”
“Who is going?”
“I will be as the leader of Kill Rat,” Stroker replied. “And taking two additional with me.”
“We should all go!” someone rattled off.
“We don’t have the funds for that,” Stroker informed. “We have to play smart. There are ten sitting at the table, but we agreed to three.”
“Stroker, Shea, and Keegan!” The group burst with suggestions. “Stroker, Duff, Phelan!”
Stroker glanced at Rowan who was giving him a hurt-filled stare. Everyone had an opinion as the storage room turned into a madhouse. “Quiet down, everyone!” Stroker demanded. “I am picking my selection, and they will pick one additional. Rowan will be joining me. Now, who would you like to take?”
“Keegan,” she whispered as her eyes filled with tears. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, but it isn’t needed,” Stroker said. “It is the right thing to do. The decision is final. Rowan and Keegan will be joining me for the funeral of Father McPhail and meeting with Gage Boudreaux. You all need to return to your posts and inform your men. If we reach an agreement, you will be notified immediately. Have a good evening!”
Rowan leaned against the wall as the men came one by one to say farewells to Stroker. It was good networking, if nothing else.
On the opposite side of the room, Keegan waited with the tips of his fingers tucked inside his jeans. He was young, just twenty-five, and causing quite the stir in his recruitment efforts.
People liked Keegan, much like Stroker.
But no one liked Rowan except Stroker and Keegan.
Rowan was radically aggressive and violent. Members of Kill Rat didn’t like her vendetta against practically everyone, but more than that, they couldn’t stand the fact that she was a woman.
And
adding to their dislike of Rowan was nine times out of ten, she was right. She was probably right concerning the agreement with Boudreaux, and Stroker understood it better than anyone, but he also had to try and keep the peace in his gang.
The men followed, leaving only Stroker, Keegan, and Mack in the room with Rowan. She looked despondent, smoking another cigarette. “I have nothing to wear for a funeral.”
“Then we’ll buy you something,” Mack boldly offered.
“Absolutely,” Keegan agreed, brushing his blonde hair back. “You don’t get to worry about that on top of everything else.”
She didn’t seem to hear a word they said as she was lost in her head. “I don’t own an appropriate dress.”
Stroker laid his hand on her shoulder and bravely crossed the bridge to her dwindling mental state. “Rowan, we will get you something before we go.”
“When are we leaving?”
“On the twenty-ninth,” he replied. “Keegan will take you shopping tomorrow.”
“… You aren’t leaving?”
“No, baby.”
Few could get away with calling Rowan any term of endearment, but Keegan trusted his place in her world. “I don’t understand why they are so against me. This merger with Boudreaux is the worst possible outcome. We’ll no longer be Irish with one Englishman, but a melting pot.”
“This Englishman has been pouring money into this establishment for several years.”
“I am well aware of your purpose, Mack, so what do you want to do?”
“I hate to agree with you because you might get a super-inflated ego, but you’re right. The problem is if you don’t offer these men something…”
“They’ll rage faster than a bitch on the rag,” she sassed. “I’m very well aware of what the problem is—we’re having growing pains without enough substantial funding.”
“Exactly,” Mack replied. “And I am tapped to the maximum.”
“Where are you getting your money?”
“I have some overseas investments. One is supposed to have an enormous payout within the year.”
“I’m going to have a beer,” Stroker said, kissing Rowan on the head. “It will all be okay.”
“I’m joining you.” Keegan passed by Rowan and reminded, “Tomorrow.”
“I won’t forget.”
“If you need some money…”
“I don’t need your fucking money,” she interrupted, sliding from the crate. “I need a fucking dress to wear to the wake and funeral of my father.”
“Father McPhail…” Mack whispered, grabbing her arm. “He’s your…”
“My name is Maeve Rowan Tully…McPhail. I am an only child, orphaned by my parents with no immediate family. The entry onto the world chessboard was my ticket out of this wretched hole. I’ve spent twenty years staying silent with my father’s contingency for a crown, and someone took that chance away,” she informed with tears in her eyes. “That is not only my father we are burying but all of my dreams. So, tell me, Englishman, how am I not supposed to be pissed off?”
II
No Breath in the Box
5
All We Are
His Butterfly
“We’re gonna be late!” Deacon rallies, opening the bathroom door. “I don’t know what…”
He stops dead in his tracks, staring at me in the rollers, makeup brush in hand, trapped in the black corset with stockings, garters, and scanty lace panties.
Sal sticks his head out of the shower. “Stop getting a boner and text Dom. Tell him to fend off everyone.” He shuts the door only to reopen it quickly. “And do not tell Nicky to do it, or our body count may increase!”
“Gotcha!” Deacon winks and glances back to me.
With a swoop of my arm over the bathroom counter, I move the various makeup containers and offer a place for him to sit. I wave my hand with a smile and return to my black eyeliner.
In my peripheral vision, I note his study of my craft after he sends a text to Dom. Sal is singing a mixture of show tunes, combined with lines from his favorite rap songs. It’s a jumbled hodgepodge of wonder as I try and connect the dots of his psychosis.
“Is he okay?”
“I don’t know,” I whisper, finishing the wings on my eyelids. I turn to glance at Deacon. “He’s not been normal.”
“He’s never been normal.”
“Retracted,” I correct, pointing my lip pencil at him. “But after one good round, things deteriorated rapidly.”
“This is a helluva lot of work.”
“Sal or being a girl?”
He laughs. “Both?”
“Yeah, well, it isn’t every day I have to walk into a cathedral full of Raniero clan on the arm of the dead’s fiancé. Today, the face matters because it’s a mask.”
“You should geisha up.”
I roll my eyes. “Stop talking about your fantasy. It’s only going to make your hard-on much worse.”
“Or much bigger...”
Trying not to grin, I finish lining my lips in the red color and toss down the pencil before giving Deacon a side-eyed blink. “Am I wearing a kimono, obi, and geta in that fantasy?”
“Fuck, yes!” he confirms with a snarl as Sal cuts off the water and lets a billow of steam into the room.
“Shit!” I run out the door. “You’re going to smudge the face and flatten the mane!”
Standing just outside the bathroom door, I watch as Deacon tosses a towel to Sal. He slides off the counter and closes in on my man. I grin with contentment.
He says words I cannot hear and follows them with a simple kiss to his lips. It feels right. Everything is normal. Nothing out of place. Just a couple hiccups in his dysfunctional family. We’re going to be okay.
I smile at the boys and look at the four dresses I’ve picked out for Emily’s funeral. Apparently, a happy floral print is inappropriate, as is the hot red number I bought.
We were staying at the hotel until Sal decided yesterday that it was “too restrictive.” In minutes, our things were packed, and we headed to Nonna’s recently restored home. It’s beautiful but smells a bit like a florist shop from all the condolences everyone has sent. My favorite is Anna’s enormous bouquet of white roses, gladiolas, and fragrant jasmine. Sal promised to pluck the petals and fuck me in them.
I’m not holding my breath.
Now, everything is a mess in our bags. I unpacked some, but not enough. The room looks like a cyclone hit it as my four dresses hang around the room. They’re all black in different cuts and styles. I have a hat too, but I don’t know if I can justify wearing it. I mean, really, what am I to Sal aside from being the mistress of his mobster?
Deacon says I need to be thinking about it more from a business perspective, but that is simply impossible. I’m in love with the grieving would-have-been groom.
I glance at the boys. Sal is slicking back his hair, and Deacon is brushing his teeth for like the millionth time. As far as I can tell, it is his only nervous tic.
He’s not doing well because while Cat knows him, she seems to have zero interest in continuing their relationship. No one can blame her, but if I’m being honest, she’s faking it, so her long-term issues won’t burden him. She’ll need months of rehabilitation to learn how to eat, walk, and form coherent sentences. She talks a lot, but they’re garbled with misplaced subjects and verbs. Verbs are almost always last, such as, “Funeral you are going?”
Again, I’m not sure she isn’t exaggerating her issues. She is, after all, a Raniero. Controlling people is in her DNA.
“Ugh!” I cry out as the boys immediately stare in my direction. Deacon’s hand is on his gun, strapped on his hip. “Unless you’re going to shoot the dresses you don’t like, that will do no good.” He strolls into the bedroom as Sal grins, undoes his towel, and flashes me. His brow quickly darts up with an invitation. “We’re already going to be late, according to our timekeeper.”
Deacon scowls and rechecks his watch. “Limo will be here in fift
een minutes!” he shouts like a drill sergeant, despite that we’re both within twenty feet of him. He scans over the dresses as Sal starts dancing in the bathroom. I feel the heat rising on my cheeks and decide to play along with a hip roll of my own. He sticks his tongue out and laughs. Good. He’s laughing. Better than the alternative.
“You’re so bad, Sal.”
Deacon pulls two dresses from the hooks. “You should wear this one if you want to be respectful,” he says of the matronly looking knee-length piece. “And this one if you just don’t give a shit and want to make a statement.”
I bite my lip at the floor-length dress with significant V-dip. “I disagree with both options,” Sal insists, strolling by completely bare-assed naked. My eyes follow his ass, and I sigh. “You should wear this one.”
“It’s barely knee-length,” I argue.
“And your gloves,” he adds, tossing them on the bed and disappearing into the closet. Deacon points at his watch and blinks those blue eyes at me. I shrug as Sal returns a good minute later. “And my grandmother’s real sable fur coat.”
“Jesus Christ, are we trying to piss everyone off?” I ask as my fingers run over the silky soft fur.
“Why not?”
“Since she is going to look like she fell out of 1950-time capsule in that dress and coat, will you be donning a fedora, Mr. Raniero?”
I giggle because he’s right.
“Yes,” Sal confirms. “I am.”
Our eyes open wide as we gasp, and Sal grabs the hat from the box and plops it on his head. “Are you only wearing the hat?”
“No, I have a brand-new black suit for the occasion.”
Deacon glares at his watch again. “We’re going to be so fucking late. We might make it to the bar tonight.”
“Why are you bitching when your tie isn’t even on?” Sal chides, getting dressed. His pants are undone and hanging on his hips as I sit on the edge of the bed and try to straighten my stockings. I am…distracted...by the ink and skin and avoiding the obvious.
This is his bride’s funeral.
“Lay back and lift your feet onto my shoulders,” Deacon says, tugging the sheer black fabric. “Why are you wearing lined stockings?”
Diary of a Submissive (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 4) Page 4