“You’re welcome,” I snark. “I give her a few weeks to come crawling back to the Cruz romance.”
“Fuck, I hope it’s not that long,” he mumbles. “Because if it is, I’m going to wear my fucking hand out. I miss her so damn much…”
“I know, babe,” I say as Skeet plays with Serendipity. “You know I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about your sister.”
“Would you stop apologizing?” He takes a drag. “You kept a promise to Ma. As long as Skeet is okay, I am okay. You being with her is good.”
“How do you know?
“Because I can hear it in your voice,” he contends. “I haven’t heard you this clearheaded in a long time.”
“I love you so fucking much.”
“I know you do,” he mutters. “And I love you. Did she ask about the back?”
“Of course.”
“And what did you say?”
“The truth,” I reply. “I won’t deny my loyalty to Iris or Lotus or you, but I can’t keep going in circles. Should I say something about wanting to call it off with Iris?”
“Not yet,” he says. “She needs time for the shock to hit and dull without the shit storm circus. Do you have any idea how proud of you I am?”
“I don’t know why…”
“Because you finally figured out how to disable Kaci,” he acknowledges. “Iris won’t be nearly as easy.”
“I’m still fucked up.”
“Aren’t we all?” he laughs, and it feels good. “Can I call you later from the arctic tundra?”
“Are we having phone sex?”
He snickers, “You bet your sweet fucking ass.”
56
A Bird in Hand, A Bush on Me
The Master
“You want me to what?” Trudy asks at the kitchen table later that afternoon. “I am not going after that two-bit tramp!”
“Ma,” Cruz implores on the phone from the plane. “Sal is right. Amber will only come out of the shadows for someone she hates.”
“Thanks!” She lights a smoke as I blink at Skeet. “So what do I do? Take off all my clothes and run around with an Amber wanted poster? Let me get right on crafting that! I’ll get some glitter and glue.”
“No,” Cruz huffs. “You dangle the one thing she wants more than anything.”
“… A hard johnson?” Trudy jokes.
“No, money.” Skeet elaborates with a giggle. “The Cruz inheritance is about to get divided again because of me. Just use me.”
God, don’t say that because I will use you all night.
“I am not using you, sis.”
“If you want to get her out of her hole quickly, you dangle me.”
Can I dangle in your hole?
“Sure,” Trudy says. “Like I can just say, here’s a million! Come kill my daughter, so Deacon doesn’t lose his inheritance.”
Popping my gum, I contend, “Pretty much.”
“Raniero,” Cruz snaps. “No!”
“It would work. And fast,” I inform. “Then, we get her off the fucking streets and keep Iris safe.”
“Assuming you don’t let her go again!”
“I let her go…”
“Cause you were a fucking pussy!” Deacon yells, ripping the scab from the wound. “You should have gone down there, put a gun to her head, and pulled the fucking trigger. Now, she’s running all over the goddamned place, we have no protection on Iris, and we have no idea where Amber is. Does this not sounds like an accident waiting to happen?”
“Yes, I know I fucked up,” I mumble, taking the blows because they are deserved. “I have issues with Amber.”
“Because of goddamned Kaci Hope.”
“Yes,” I admit, rocking in front of Trudy and Skeet. “We’re working on those.”
“I’m sorry for being a dick,” Cruz grumbles. “I want Mass tailing them. No longer than three days. Where was Amber last seen?”
“Mass is busy,” I reply. “We had a sighting in Tel Aviv and another in Rome.”
“She’s in Europe,” he sighs.
Skeet excitedly remarks, “I’ve never been to Europe!”
“Well, you aren’t seeing much,” he says. “And Jaid can’t decoy it. Fuck!”
“If you can find Iris and let her decoy it…”
“That’s a genius idea!” Trudy sarcastically chirps. “Send in the Lotus to lure out the bitch wanting to kill her!”
“It is,” Cruz praises, shifting gears back to Team Sal. That’s right, come to me, boy. “Iris doesn’t play.”
“You cannot go,” I order. “I can make this happen, but you are going to fucking stay put. Stick Iris on a plane and go back to Colorado.”
“How are you going to swing that one, Nero?”
Left, always, left.
“Cardinal-S would do anything for revenge,” I brag. “I’ll have full access to any of Sibyl’s resources in less than five minutes if I tell her Buttercup is going after Amber.”
“Oh, Lordy,” Trudy sighs. “It will just be Iris and me going?”
“Yeah,” Cruz assures. “Needs to be simple, in and out. Little agent back up.”
“I can get Madeline Grace and Bertrand Jameson both on it,” I contend. “This is too easy. What are we missing?”
“I don’t know,” Cruz mutters.
“You’re missing the fact that if you two boys fuck this up, the Lotus will be dead,” Skeet points out. “You better damn well aim and not fucking miss. From where I sit, you got one chance to get Amber because there is no way that bitch is alone.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Cruz mumbles as I proudly smile. “Where did you come from?”
“Our mother’s pussy,” she rapidly chimes, proving she can indeed—dish it.
We all laugh.
“She’s my daughter, alright,” Trudy says. “Will Swain be with Skeet?”
“She is staying at the Swamp Shack,” I promise, reaching across the table and grabbing Trudy’s hand. “I’ll bring in trailers and a whole team. It’ll look like a damn military base.”
“… For one girl?” Skeet blushes.
“You are Victor Saint Cruz’s daughter, honey,” Trudy whispers, taking Hannah’s hand too. “You aren’t just one girl. You are one very important little bitch.”
Standing up, I pull my personal phone out of my pocket. I furrow my brow and answer it on speaker. “Raniero.”
“I’m almost to Boston.” Her voice sweeps me into a maelstrom.
“Um,” I stutter, dumbfounded. “… Why?”
“Sal,” Iris whispers, crying. “Have you not checked your messages?”
“No, I haven’t had time, babe,” I mutter, without thinking. Skeet and Trudy glance with concern at one another. “Why are you going to Boston?”
“Because Val was killed tonight in Nonna’s house.”
“Oh, my God,” I roar in disbelief as every nerve ending sends an electrical surge to my heart. “No! No! No!”
“Raniero!” Cruz yells. “Go get on a damn plane. I am on my way.”
With a breathless hesitation, Iris wails in the silence “…Deacon… No! You can’t!”
“Why?”
“Because it was Diablo,” she sobs. “And if you go…”
“Holy fuck… No…” I barrel over as the sirens blare inside my brain. “No…”
“It was brutal,” Iris whimpers. “I talked for a long time with Stella. I saw the pictures. There is an APB out on Diablo Cruz, but the risk isn’t worth you showing up Deacon. Because the similarity is frightening.”
“I’m on my way, Angel.”
“I’ll be waiting, Sir.”
Deacon says nothing, hanging up the phone.
“This is a fucking mess between the three of you,” Trudy realizes, crying. “I’ve got two sons. And they’re both monsters.”
Clasping my fingers together until the white knuckles brim, I whisper, “Actually, Ma, you’ve got three.”
She breathes through a trembling lip.
Five minutes later, I am sitting with Trudy and Skeet, each holding one of my hands while I meltdown. With a steady gaze, Trudy suggests, “You should take Skeet with you.”
“No,” I argue, shaking my head and standing up. “I won’t expose her to that.”
“Sally…”
Skeeter blinks the drops from her eyes. “I don’t mind going to Boston with you.”
“I mind, beautiful girl.” My tears course over my cheeks as I try to reconcile after the fall. “I’ve already lost two girls. Let’s not make it three.”
On the flight to Boston, I realize my life is one crime scene after another.
Valeria Raniero was tortured, raped, and maimed by a despicable human being, who also happens to be related to two people I love. Yet I keep replaying the way she said, “Deacon…”
Surprise. Joy. Elation. Love.
I may have called her baby and Angel, and she called me Sir, but they were nothing compared to…Deacon.
… Save me, Deacon.
… Hold me, Deacon.
… Claim me, Deacon.
… Fuck me until I see stars, Deacon.
I nod at Vega, who showed up because it’s a Raniero case. I glance around Nonna’s house and know this is beyond anything we can recover. The house should be buried alongside the blood, tissue, organs, and bones because the “body” does not exist.
Diablo is his namesake, and he is worse than Deacon Cruz. And …Deacon… (breathless bitch) isn’t light and happy.
In ten years of working cases and consulting on a few others, I have never seen anything quite so gruesomely macabre. Neither has Vega. And it’s horrible to compare cases like that, but this is…so much worse than I ever considered.
Just like the butcher…
I refused to do a scene with Kaci at The Downbelow in the horror room. White tiles splattered with red paint…dim, industrial-style lights…and equipment to change my code and enough medical equipment to commit mayhem on my mind.
I had a few hard limits.
And I remembered all of it.
I wasn’t supposed to remember any of it. That’s what the drugs were for…that’s what all the straps were for…that’s what Kaci was for…insuring I didn’t remember a goddamned second.
Bitch, I remember—everything.
After the butcher finished, he sent me to the caretaker, Paul Klepper, for post-care. I don’t know the identity of the butcher because I actively avoid cases like this.
I’ve been hunting the CAE for years and came upon Paul by accident. A sweet little fucked up thing named Natalie eliminated him for me.
When I find the butcher—and one day, when I am ready, I will find the butcher—I will make Diablo’s mess look tame because I’m no different from them.
We pick a lot on Nicky for shoes and sex with dead and/or dying girls.
It isn’t fair.
Because Deacon and I…we’re no better.
And if we’re together, we practice the fine art of disintegration.
And like arachnids, we craft the fabrication.
Just like we were trained.
“What can I get you to drink, Raniero?”
“Quad whiskey neat,” I mumble to Al at Mario’s Deli, the original one in Boston. “Fuck it. Bring me the bottle.”
“You got it, Kid,” he says, knocking on the table twice. “I’m sorry to hear about your sister.”
I nod and light a smoke.
It’s after hours, and a few of the Raniero crew are hanging out as Al, one of Mario’s sons, prepares for the nightly shipment of tomatoes and AK’s.
What a pair…
Blues look the other way…
… unless, of course, there is a bloody crime scene of the famous mob family.
Then the lights shine too brightly with my ugly mug blasted all over the local shit by morning…
“Raniero Son Back in Town!
Hope for Reconciliation after Wedding Slaughter?”
… unless Daddy Raniero quiets the busy bees.
Cocksucker.
Okay, maybe not quite that bad.
But not far off either.
“Hey, Nero, you want any pie?” Al yells from the counter. “I’m cutting the ovens.”
“Nah, man.”
He groans, stretching over to see me. “Have you eaten today, Salvatore?”
“No, Sir,” I reply. “But, I’m fine.”
“Will you eat Italian sausage?” he barks off, waving his fat fingers that resemble sausage. The thought sends a queasy rotation to my gut. “Or do you want spicy?”
I’ll take one spicy Cajun sausage…lots of fucking sauce.
“I’d prefer a vegetarian.”
“Fucking new kids…” he grumbles. “Coming right up.”
I pause for a moment, thinking about Cat. God, she doesn’t need this. “... Al?”
“Yo, Nero…”
“Make it a calzone with extra cheese.”
“You got it.”
I drop my coat in the booth because I plan on staying here awhile. I can’t go to Nonna’s…crime scene…I don’t want to go home to Cesario and Lucilla’s…Stella is still in New York. Vinny is well...I’m not there yet.
I could check into a hotel, but I’m being lazy. And I’m a better vampire than that. I’ll take a park bench over a 5-star suite any day if it requires conversing with humans. This is why I have Cruz.
Hot sausage and hotel reservations.
I’m such a fucking dick.
The funeral will be two days from now. I already have plans for Trudy to arrive on Wednesday night. She and Iris will be heading off to Europe to fish out Amber after the funeral on Thursday morning. I have a late flight back to Texas that same night.
I duck into the bathroom. I take a leak. I wash my hands. I pop an oxy cause...fuck this is bad. And I’ll wash it down with a bottle of whiskey and a couple of lines when I finally find a place to crash my skull.
Welcome home, Pretty Boy.
After splashing water on my face and hair, I look in the mirror. I don’t like what I see here in Boston. I don’t like the man I’ve become. I also accept there is nothing I can do about it.
It is the retractable shell concealing years of abuse, hardened from neglect, and chiseled to the bare minimum. The need to suppress the emotions is ever-present the moment the wheels touch down, falling into the drive of another’s man vehicle, my father’s mob.
He’d kill me if he knew the iridescent love I have, and that reason is enough to harbor the demons.
Come one, come all into this body of this man…you can reside here if you cut the pain…you can reside here if you enshroud the boy…I once was…the boy before the man.
The pills line up like soldiers, ready to aim, and seize the enemy. They hover like angels, allowing the sin, and protecting the holy. And they don’t ask for much—a few sweaty nights with a ragged breath, a few nightmares with my heart pounding in the silence…screams and wails…
Don’t hurt me, Daddy…
Don’t hurt me…father…
Don’t hurt me, again…cocksucker.
Strange what we learn from our fathers and the templates and grids and lines they build like architectural temples just waiting for after the fall…
Just waiting to be the God of them all.
Tears stream down my cheeks as I cough up a load of phlegm and spit in the sink. It’s messy. I am messy.
But he loves me this way.
But he needs me this way.
…broken…
Cruz is a fixer. His list of repairs is a mile long, and I’m on top—not like that—every single time. Sal Raniero. Adjustment on the clutch. Empty the drain. Fix the stove.
He is a machine, marking every task off but the one at the tippy top.
I’m the golden star...with a mother named Stella Oria…
I’m the goalie…with a father named Vin the Sin, who loiters in dark places…
I am their son.
And there is only one wh
o can truly save me.
His name is Cruz.
With a heavy sigh, I sneak out of the bathroom and freeze at the sight of red heels strapped to a girl I used to know. Her long black dress is accented with a broad red belt as her beautiful silk mane is clipped back low, near the nape of her neck.
A neck I have wrapped my hands around.
And replaced my chokehold with a collar of diamonds.
I bravely step closer and peer down my nose to find her wilting blue-violets laden with dewy tears. And all I want to do is stop them. But I know if she stays—I will hurt her, whether with my ties to the violence or with the sinful acts we believe are sacred.
We aren’t holy anymore.
Righteous and just died in a cemetery.
Our unholy black souls wait on a ticking time bomb. And I can’t put her through it; I won’t. I won’t walk through hell with her by my side.
I love her too damned much.
“I couldn’t stay away.” Her arms wrap around me. I want to collapse into them. I know, I should—but I can’t. I don’t trust her anymore, and she doesn’t love me.
“Salvatore,” she whispers. “Say something.”
“What is there to say?” I growl. “I am mafia.”
57
when the HONEY dries
The Master
“God, fuck me!” she screams in the back of the limo as the back of her hands plink against the glass. The sound draws my attention as I note the sapphire ring and the rain droplets running lines. We’re in the alley by Mario’s, steaming up the windows, and searching for ground that doesn’t exist.
We free fall with no fear—she and I.
We’re just a couple of crazy kids soaring on the slopes and finding love without end.
“Why do I like fucking you so much, Dandy?”
“Because I’m the drug you’ll never get enough of, Sir,” she whispers in a raspy breath. She licks her lips as her hands skim beneath my damp white dress shirt. My pants hang from my hips as I look down and snarl at the sight of my dick going in and out of her wet cunt. She slicks around my shaft, surrounding me with wanton lust. “What do you want from me?”
Diary of a Submissive (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 4) Page 47