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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “Tacky bastard!” I tease, tossing a pillow at him.

  Walking away, he licks his lips. I smell like his aftershave now. Great. “No touching my kitty. I’m leaving my credit card on the desk, go buy a dress, something nice for the show.”

  I chase after him. “I have my own credit cards, Raniero. I don’t need a sugar daddy.”

  His thick arms engulf me. “This isn’t about whether or not you have a credit card. This is about me taking care of you. Go buy a fucking dress and spend all my goddamned money. It will thrill the fucking shit out of me.”

  I grin wide and leap up. He catches me as I wrap my legs around him, and we spin. “When will you be back?”

  “Not too late.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes,” he assures. “I’m having brunch with Mom and meeting Mass at two for a brief meeting of the minds.”

  “Should I worry about you?”

  “Today? Nah,” he passively says. “This is an easy day. I’m leaving the truck with the valet and taking a cab, so don’t freak if you see it. I’m not downstairs banging the maid.”

  I laugh. “I would hope not,” I reply, looking him in the eye. “Bang the bellman for the kinky effect.”

  “Speaking of kink,” he mutters, holding my ass in his hands and squeezing. “Do you like it?”

  “You want the true confession?”

  “Yes!” He grins. “Give me the inside thoughts.”

  “I got up to shake the snake,” I giggle, trying to keep a straight face as he rapidly blinks at me. He starts laughing, and it’s all over. “I had to turn on the bathroom light. I stood there for about ten minutes just staring at the sparkle and wondering how in the hell I got so lucky to have you.”

  “First, you do not have a snake to shake.”

  “Oh, I could!” I lift my brows. “A really fat one! Where is your credit card, again?”

  “Dammit,” he laughs. “You have a fat snake I know nothing about?”

  “Uh huh,” I mumble, unable to control my laughter. “And I’m going to get a diamond dick necklace to embellish my fat snake so it will match the ice collar.”

  “I swear I’m coming home with a diamond dick noose and ball cage.”

  My smile fades. “You would know where to get one, wouldn’t you?” I erupt into hysterics.

  “I have several,” he seriously replies as I settle down, oddly curious. “In Texas.”

  “Where did you get them?”

  “It’s unimportant,” he remarks.

  “Inside thoughts!” I counter, “Tell me.”

  “Kaci.”

  Suddenly, as if instantly, in less than a breath, we scratch beneath the surface, drawing blood, and licking the wounds of the past—together. The hold of our bond binds with an intimacy bordering on insanity.

  And this is the place we call home.

  18

  Foolish Candy-Dipped Hobgoblins

  The Master

  I’m running late for my lunch date with my mom. Thankfully, she’s even later. I order a drink and scan through my phone, pretending to look busy. The Manhattan eatery is fusion shit. I don’t know what they’re fusing, but by the looks of others plates, I’d guess Italian and Latin.

  Lots of tomato-y based things.

  “Salvatore,” Stella welcomes. “We’re upstairs.”

  And at this exact moment, she is Stella because I can’t think of my mom looking that hot. Seriously, Stella is…Stella has…very bluntly, Stella has a fantastic figure that she works very hard to maintain—a gym rat with a personal trainer, nutritionist, and masseuse on call. Her body is her temple, and she’s got beautiful lines with her more than average height.

  Beyond all the gridlock of genetic lines, I am a confident enough man to say when someone—male or female, related or not—has a breathtaking effect. Everyone has at least one quality. Some people are blessed, dipped in the fountain of vitality and beauty. Some like Stella, hold a gold medal in particular regard.

  Her body is inspiring; her face favors Cesario, who looked like his mom. She isn’t ugly, but a lovely face isn’t something she possesses. She has gentle eyes, but her bone structure is more rounded with the Roman nose. She looks very Italian in a not good kind of way.

  If I run the self-profile, my physique is more naturally inclined to resemble her than Vinny. Except I get the short (…or at least I think I’m short at 5’10”) from him. He’s probably 5’5”—ish, stocky, and muscular. She’s trim and wears clothes as if they came off the runway.

  I have a nice balance of both. Stella is only an inch shorter than me, and if she wears heels, she is taller than me. My face is equally balanced between Luca’s rigid angles and the fullness of Vinny’s eyes and lips. I do not take after Cesario at all, but I see some of Mama and Nonna in me.

  Nonna had to have known…

  And that is why she fervidly protected her boy from the crows.

  I follow her up the two enormous flights of stairs as the elevated view offers a unique perspective of the busy streets. “You rent the whole thing?”

  “They’re expanding and want to be a client,” she informs, smirking. “I call ahead, and they give me space.”

  I pause, knowing that doesn’t make any sense. “A client of who?”

  “Competition is thick in the city,” she segues, but I don’t have time for her games.

  “You relocated to the city to be near Durante.”

  Durante is her off-again/on-again boyfriend for the last…God, maybe they’ve been together since I was born. Suffice it to say, they’ve been in a long-term relationship, but stability is nil—at least from an outsider’s perspective. Maybe it’s an open relationship. I don’t know.

  “Because I can’t stand being in Boston,” she says. “And Durante works for Carlo Torrente.”

  Whoa.

  Stretching my hands, I lean back. “Oh, fuck …you’re leaving RE too.”

  “Not yet, but Durante wants to get married soon. He wants children, and I’m getting older.”

  Ill-prepared for her honesty, I’m knocked back by the idea of a half-sibling. I never considered the possibility. She’s only forty-four, and children aren’t out of the question. I don’t know what to say, so I politely reply, “Nice.”

  “I don’t think we can have the necessary fluidity working for opposing teams.”

  I guess this answers if they’re serious.

  “You’re giving up your relationship with Vinny?”

  “Unless my son causes an inferno, in which case, I will be Team Salvatore until the end,” she readily admits as I attempt to process between the lines. “Vinny is never going to divorce Michelle.”

  She’s marrying up, advancing, presumably doesn’t love Durante, but is willing to have spawn with him if it helps his position with Torrente. He’s got to be aiming for a right-hand man spot.

  Got it? Good. I’m not sure I do.

  “This is a mess.”

  So much shit in my life makes sense.

  I can’t handle the truth as I realize how alike we are.

  And that scares the fuck out of me.

  “But if you need my management skills, I’d be willing to help you. We both know Dad…Cesario…is running it into the ground by chasing after Delarte Cristos. It’s the shark battling with the eel. It’s all good fun until…”

  “The eel is no more.”

  “You need to get out from under RE before it diminishes your value,” she encourages, reaching to hold my hand. “Don’t let the shark get you.”

  Run faster evolves into swimming faster.

  “It was Old Poppa’s,” I excuse, taking a sip of my water. “I can’t just leave it all behind.”

  “Sal, it’s a piece of shit outfit. All the Irish eyes aren’t smiling. They’re focused on you, and it isn’t pretty. Get the fuck out of it now before it destroys you.”

  Leaning forward, I say, “And then I have nothing.”

  “You have The Unholy, your name, and your reput
ation,” she stresses. “But none of those are going to save you if you go down with RE.”

  “Do you want to combine our shares before the sale?”

  She shakes her head. “It isn’t about the money.”

  “I know, but do you want to unite forces?”

  “Let me think about it,” she replies, meeting my gaze. “I don’t want to end up in the belly of the beast any more than I want you to.”

  Something about her analogy sends my mind in a different direction as I consider how to kill a shark.

  Feed it rigged bait and watch from a distance as it implodes.

  And we feast on shark steak for days.

  “You’re fucking crazy,” Dom declares on the phone as I wait for Mass. After my eye-opening lunch, I called Dom because my choices were limited to: call Master or snort a line.

  Unfortunately, I don’t mention the heart of the issue—am I using Iris to advance my game?

  I don’t think I am, but Stella has my synapses frying like a chicken after Sunday-go-to-meeting in the South. “It’s a fucking kamikaze mission.”

  “It isn’t Cesario we need out of the picture,” I contend, smoking a cigarette on the roof lounge and trying not to think about Iris’ dowry, net worth, or royal criminal status. “Our problem isn’t in Boston. It’s in Brazil rubbing shoulders with Muerte.”

  “You just like blowing shit up.”

  With the whiskey and cigarette in my hand, I walk over to the rail and look down on the world. “I like destroying things that misuse their position of power. It’s kind of a thing with me.”

  “How are you going to do it?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I honestly state, taking a seat at the table. The outdoor lounge is almost empty because it’s 1:45 in the afternoon and freezing cold. “But it needs to have a lasting impact.”

  “You want a long slow death of a wannabe God?” Dom laughs. “You are a sadist.”

  “So I’ve been told,” I snicker, watching a couple of touristy types checking out the view. “You sound so proud.”

  “Because I am,” he praises. “Listen to me, if you’re doing it, I’m in. But you seriously better think this out and double quad-check this shit before you make one move. If he finds out what you’re up to, he will swallow you whole.”

  My mind is in overdrive. “If I could take him out and profit off his losses, even better.”

  “You’re dancing on a razor wire tightrope, Boston.”

  “Can I do it naked, Daddy?” I tease, laughing. “Swing my schlong in the wind and piss on everyone?”

  “God, if I could get you to that place, I would in a damn heartbeat,” he claims. “Hit him where it will hurt.”

  “Not the hotels…”

  “No,” he mutters. I can tell he’s thinking. “It needs to be something you’re well versed in. Real estate is not your forte. Honestly, if you could intercept his drug tunnel, you could stun him. But you need a chain reaction lined up.”

  “Like dominoes…”

  “Precisely.”

  “Triggered events.” I plan, brainstorming as Mass steps off the elevator. “I gotta go. He’s here.”

  He pauses. “… When are you doing that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Fair enough,” he says. “Take your time. You’ll know when to kneel.”

  “I’ll call you later.”

  “Be good, baby boy,” Dom teases. “Keep making your old man proud.”

  “Always,” I vow, ending the call and standing up to greet Mass with a handshake. “How did it go?”

  With a mischievous grin plastered across his cheeks, he takes the seat beside me, pulls the box from his pocket, and sets it on the table. “See for yourself. You designed this, so if you don’t like it…” He shrugs with a smirk. “It’s fucking gorgeous, Nero.”

  I open the blue satin box to spot the ornately carved wooden box inside. My fingers caress over the grain. “Shit, the box alone is stunning,” I mutter, overwhelmed with emotions. “I can’t believe I did this.”

  “You request it,” Mass informs, lighting a smoke. “I make it happen.”

  Slowly, I unhinge the tiny latch like a giant monster is about to leap out and attack me.

  And in a way, it might.

  “Holy fuck,” I mumble, staring at the diamond engagement ring tucked inside the pink pillow. The split-shank, French pavé in platinum impressively sets off the Asscher-cut rock surrounded by a double halo. I stop breathing and stare, unable to look away. “Jesus, what am I doing?”

  “You bought a fucking ring.”

  “Holy Mother of God…” I bite my bottom lip and shake my head. “This is…”

  “Seven carats of heavenly promised matrimonial bliss.”

  “Ya,” I whisper as my hands tremble, and I examine the engraving inside the band—More than words – LSR. “Do you think she’ll like it?”

  “If she doesn’t, you need a new bitch,” he sneers. “Everything is squared away, including the insurance on your cool half-mil ice. Don’t fucking lose it.”

  “What do I owe you?”

  “Nothing,” he replies, propping his foot in the extra chair. “I just want a wedding invitation.”

  “What are you talking about?” I question, grinning like the devil. “You’ll be running the security team.”

  His Butterfly

  Sitting at a corner table in the coffee shop at three in the afternoon, I blot my eyes and glance at the four shopping bags sitting in the booth across from me.

  I can’t stop crying. I’ve been going like a crazy woman on Black Friday since 9 AM and still cannot find anything to wear.

  It sounds stupid, I know.

  I tried on twelve dresses in one boutique, and upon looking in the mirror, all I saw was ‘Fat Iris.’

  I’ve been every size from four to twenty, and my body dysmorphia is a real problem. I worked my ass off to get where I am, and I did things some people didn’t agree with, but I’m not a girl with a beautiful body. I am a giant double-sized campfire marshmallow in size 8 pair of slacks that are way too big.

  Everything contradicts between my mind and body.

  I close my eyes, realizing I am going to be late and remembering how the surgeons warned me this could happen.

  At the time, I deemed it impossible.

  Undoubtedly, the panic attack is happening because I’m bloated and feeling like a failure.

  All I want to wear for my date to Broadway is a bulky shirt, jeans, and sneakers.

  On the table, between the uneaten slice of lemon cake and the empty espresso cup, my phone rings.

  “Shit,” I mutter, seeing Deacon’s name flashing on the screen. I can’t fake happy with him. “Hello.”

  “… What’s wrong?” He immediately picks up on my mood by the sound of my voice, but quickly swings to panic mode. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I ponder, staring out the window at all the beautiful people. I’m not one of them. “I can’t find shit to wear.”

  “You’re in New York City,” he slowly states. “And you cannot find anything to wear? You, who has a body to die for, cannot find anything to wear?

  “Yes.” I sulk, not wanting to talk to anyone. “I feel like a fat fucking cow!”

  “Do you realize whatever you wear, you are going to look gorgeous?”

  “No,” I reply, taking the bait. “I won’t. I’m ugly like someone dredged my thick ass out of the sewers, and he’s …well, he’s Sal. He could be slinging damn horse shit and look hot. I hate him.”

  “Oh, baby doll, this is bad,” he soothes, understanding without being patronizing. I hear the clanking of tools and imagine his grease-covered hands and sweat on his skin. And like the slut I am for these two, I envision Deacon serving Sal on his filthy, grime-covered knees. His left-hand grips Cruz’s platinum mane with his knuckles marked with THAN as he sucks hard. I discreetly wiggle in the seat. “Do you have a long black skirt?”

  These images have to stop fest
ering in my mind because I’ve accepted the fact I will never see them intimate together. Time with me as the focus—yes! But together with me watching will never occur. What we cannot have, we covet the most. Sick, twisted, fucked up.

  “… Earth to Iris?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I mumble, returning to reality and rubbing the smooth handle of the fork between my fingers. “But, it has a slit up the back.”

  “Even better!” he boasts. “Put on a nice sheer blouse and wear a silk cami underneath it. Steal one of his suit jackets. Lined stockings. Heels. Tall ones. Sex heels.”

  I blink like he’s off his fucking rocker. “Are these heels like sexhats but for men? You guys need sex heels?”

  “Sure, but not for Nico,” he answers. “We don’t want to encourage him.” We laugh and it feels good. “And don’t wash your hair, just toss it up in a librarian’s bun.”

  “… Are you serious?”

  “I’m creating a fucking fantasy any guy would come in his pants over,” he informs, being 100% Deacon Cruz.

  “You mean like you are now,” I prod, giggling.

  Our transparent conversation revitalizes my mood. I slip the fork into the cake and take a bite. It’s good. A little too sweet, not enough lemon, and I push it away.

  Fat Iris would’ve eaten the whole thing, whether it was tasty or not. New Iris doesn’t stick anything in her mouth that isn’t yummy.

  And I do mean it that way, pervy angels.

  “Don’t ruin the fantasy,” he snaps, chuckling as I wonder if his black-stained fingers are stroking one off. I close my eyes and try to breathe as I’m about to have an orgasm here in the coffee shop with just a few more of his words. “You need to be over-the-top confident. Own that shit. You’re Iris-fucking-Nakamura. You’re beautiful and sexy and brilliant.”

  “… Makeup?”

  “Not too much, just enough to pop the eyes and pout the lips. Do not go with your funeral mask on because he’s going to kiss it off of you.”

  “He did that in the limo.”