“… Cesario Raniero?”
“He wants you dead,” he mutters, scowling. “Fucking fa…”
The single gunshot wound to the head renders him silent as Deacon peers up at me. “You should warn a guy before you do that!”
“Nothing good was going to come from his mouth,” I say, taking a drag and tossing the gun in the chair. “Mama, don’t like that kind of talk.”
I turn and walk towards the darkened kitchen. “What the fuck? You took my kill!”
“I saved your soul from more damage,” I hiss, easing up on the table. “Because heaven knows, you’ve seen enough tonight.”
“I was going to…”
“Finish the sentence, Deacon,” I demand. “Say it!”
Through gritted teeth, he announces, “I was going to shove my fucking crowbar up his ass!”
“Did you do that to Atticus?”
His heavy breathing undulates his sweat covered abs and chest as his long hair hangs in a mess over the sides of his face. “Does it matter?”
“It does to me.”
“I’m not right, Iris.”
“Then neither is Sal or Nicky…”
He shakes his head. “None of us are.”
With blood covering every inch of his skin, he stumbles over in a state of disbelief as I have abruptly ended his scene.
The reality comes into view—the blood, tissue, and death. The living room of Sal’s Dollhouse is destroyed, but it’s okay. I’ll have a good time redecorating with my playmate.
With barely a whisper, he confides, “I need you.”
“You’re not going to fuck me like that?”
“No…” he says like the idea is unthinkable, revolting—and dishonorable to his Lotus.
Handing the cigarette to him, I suggest, “Call Junior and have the janitors come clean it up.”
I consider messaging Sal, but instead, I text Kali and issue a Lotus wide capture for Enzo Gennaro. I want him delivered alive. I need to feed my hellhounds.
He drops his phone on the counter. “Done.”
Sliding off the table, I walk closer to Deacon, still off in the bloodthirsty high. His eyes are hazy in a delirious state. It’s more than one line. It’s a heinous monster coming to the surface—one he never wanted me to see. I extend my fingertips, and we pace through the house to the guest bedroom downstairs.
I turn the shower on, and he gets in the tub. I drop my muddy heeled, twinkling shoes in the sink and toss two unfolded towels on the floor.
Red pools in the tub as he vacantly stares and drops his rings one by one to the basin. I scoop them up and place them on the counter.
Stepping in, I undo his pants and lower down to untie his sneakers. I remove them and drop them on the towel along with his pants. I raise, and his blue eyes blink as he kneels and rolls off my stockings, dropping them on his pants. His fingers make quick work of the garter and corset. He switches places in the standard size bath as water pours over my hair and my diamonds.
“You are one tough-ass bitch.”
I smirk. “I try.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine, Sir,” I reply, knowing he is coming back. “Are you?”
“I don’t know.”
I grab the soap and ease my hands over his body, lathering his skin, and caring for him as I imagine Sal has so many times. “I have you.”
“Did I hurt you?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“The chain didn’t hit you?”
“No, Deacon, you kept me safe,” I whisper. “You protected me.”
I wash his hair and mine. I run the soap over my skin and turn to face the water. His hands slip around my hips, and he curls up on my back and breaks down. There is nothing I can do to ease the pain. His sobs lash against over my soul, and I offer my ass for his erection.
His bare fingers grab my wrists as he shoves my body against the wall. The tiles are cold against my nipples as he runs his finger the length of my slit and thrusts in my pussy. His hands hold mine down as his dick does unimaginable things to me. I glance over my shoulder, and he runs his tongue over the diamonds.
He is worshipping me. I am his repentance. I am his prayer. In me, he will find salvation without Sal. It’s the best we can do.
He’s got to come.
He needs the ground.
I open the temple and welcome his sins. “I’ll take you. All of you, Saint Cruz.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing to me,” I whisper as my mouth waters and a bit of drool puddles on my lip. “Just don’t stop fucking me with your dick.”
“This could take a while.”
“I’m here until the end.”
With the commotion going on just outside the door, we tangle our naked bodies in the sheets. He had to open the window because the smell of chemical cleanser was intense.
He left my shelter briefly to dry my skin because we ran out of hot water. He carried me to the bed and tossed me down before his mauling resumed.
His dick is beyond hard, throbbing with an absolute ache. I offer my body for his consumption. My fingers skim over the ink on his back as we roll and move. He keeps switching from being on top to my straddling him.
It is some of the most intense lovemaking I’ve ever experienced, so similar to what I witnessed that night in the dungeon with Sal and him. Primal and savage. He isn’t rough, but there is a grit to it—a feral quality. His gentle kisses reassure that we’re okay.
“Is it always like this?”
“Yes…for both…”
I tilt my head. “Both?”
“Sal too…”
Immediately, I understand their brutality with one another isn’t about hurting one another but traveling through the labyrinth to get to a place of acceptance. Their acts are enough to drive them insane, but what neither of them understands is I get it—all of it—probably more than I should.
With death, the craving for life comes on strong—the need to bandage the crime with a smattering of come. I don’t understand the science behind it, but I’m certain Sal could write a paper on it. He has language and feelings I do not. I exist in a naturally cold mental state, Sal is always hot, and Deacon provides a neutral ground.
I can only imagine what Sal’s aftercare would involve. And to think I could have known if I had only gone to him after he killed The Spider.
He turned to the silver box out of fear.
He didn’t want to hurt me.
He wanted to protect me.
I get it because Deacon is borderline assaulting my body with my consent. But it is turbulent and determined fucking filled with a violent rage that is slowly dissipating.
“Sal was scared he would hurt me.”
Running a gentle finger over the diamonds, Deacon looks at me. “Yes, he was.”
His body slams against mine as I take his quick thrusts and react with my desire. He isn’t just fucking it out; I am his partner in this crime of our affair. We roll again with me top side. I pin his hands and push my hips, dipping my wetness along the length of his shaft and pummeling down with all my force.
“I want your cum in me,” I whisper, biting his lip. “Let it go.”
His hands grip my ass as we struggle in the torrent of our love. He is unwavering and relentless in his focus. The only thing he wants—me. And the closer to coming he gets, the more I see his need of me. It becomes authentic energy as the intimacy showers an aura of understanding around us. We are held captive by the bubble with a promise not to escape.
We are in this shit together.
Thick or thin, we’re in this—blood bath bonding—together.
“Iris, I am in love with you,” he growls, rolling over on top of me. “Thank you for being here for me.”
“You’re welcome, Deacon.” And without even a change in his breath, he erupts inside of me. “I am in love with you.”
I feel his cum dripping from me as he moves to the other side of the bed, and my
tears quietly surge like an unexpected storm on the surf.
Everything is changing, not just Sal.
Every minute—every action and every reaction—changes the path of our lives—the decisions and choices we make pinball to another trajectory and outcome. Aims alter, and crosshairs move from target to target, but the only thing I want to be marked for is their love. This love with these two men.
And my only goal is to stay afloat.
In a haze, I wake close to noon the next day. I stumble for the bathroom and twinkle. Wiping myself, I smell like his cum.
I spot my pretty shoes cleaned up and sitting on their box in a chair. I grab a shirt and boxers out of the dresser. I don’t know which son they belong to, and I don’t care. The house is too quiet.
I am too much alone.
I tiptoe to the living room and spot the debris from last night’s spectacle. The furniture is gone. The pictures are stacked on the kitchen table, along with anything that wasn’t broken or damaged. Faint sanguine stains remain on the walls and wood. But my fucking dress is hanging—on a padded hanger—untouched and perfect.
“Goddammit, Deacon!”
This is the life I am signing up for.
Such a far cry from Lotus.
They are mafia. They are blood. They are brothers.
And now I am theirs.
I open the back door, hoping Dom will be sitting in his favorite chair and enjoying a cup of coffee. Or that Nicky will be grilling up the breakfast of random meats. Or that Deacon will be greasy in the garage because he had to change his fucking oil. Or that Sal will be showing up sweaty from a run.
I cry over all the things that could be.
I cry over all the things that should be.
None of them are here when my bottom drops out.
I am so fucking alone.
Peeking in the garage, I see the Stingray and the Raptor. This is our house. My hands graze over the diamond collar as I accept the absence of one Ride.
He left me.
He left us.
We are no longer 2 + 1, but 1 + 1 + 1.
And so far away from 3, we might not ever recover.
At that point, my knees hit the ground, and I wail like a raging siren, beckoning her storms because goodbye, Iris was too much to ask.
Because it hurt too fucking much.
In the blurry tears, I spot the two diamond bracelets encircling my wrists, and I know why I have three strands of diamonds—the collar from my Master; one bracelet for Deacon; and one for me.
Finally, after five years of being Dominant Salvatore Raniero’s submissive, I understood self-discipline.
Well played, Sir.
81
In the Pitch
The Master
After putting Hannah on the plane, I return to the hotel for my last night in Kyoto. I will begin training with Masa tomorrow at the Lotus Palace.
Cold chambers.
On the sofa in the dark, I aimlessly stare at the ceiling, trying to convince my dick that he and I did the right thing. My phone lights up with an unidentified phone call. “Raniero.”
She giggles, “Nakamura.”
My heart stops. “… Iris.”
“I just wanted to wish you a belated Happy Birthday.”
“Thank you,” I politely reply. “I didn’t even…”
“Did you have a good day?” she somberly asks. “I meant to call you, but I’ve been so busy.”
“It was a day,” I reply, licking my lips as her voice ties a noose around my heart and squeezes. It burns good. “Pretty unmentionable.”
“You sound amazing,” she whispers, crying.
“You sound upset,” I honestly say.
She nervously stutters, “I’ll be fine.”
“What’s wrong, baby?”
“I need to go,” she says, breaking down. “I have stuff to do.”
I squint at my watch. “… At 4 AM?”
“Well, I’ve heard your voice, so there is something to do.”
Running my hand through my hair, I charm, “Bad girl.”
“Always,” she teasingly brags. “Talk to me, Salvatore.”
“You just want to listen to my accent.”
“Low and sexy,” she whispers sniffling. “Comfort like Italian pasta on a rainy night—so good.”
I can’t stop grinning. “Where are you?”
“In your bed at The Dollhouse,” she answers. “The pillows smell like you. I’m thinking about making out with them.”
After I finish chuckling, I furrow my brow. “Why are you in my room?”
“I can’t sleep,” she answers. “I came in here to find enlightenment.”
I adjust the growing erection that I also can’t stop. “And you just thought you would call me?”
“I haven’t talked to you in two months,” she whispers.
I quickly announce, “72 days.”
“Sorry,” she mumbles. “What are you doing?”
“Laying here on the sofa and staring at the ceiling,” I say. “Why?”
“Pretend I am there with you, curled up in the crook of your arm with my hand on your chest,” she mutters, making quiet tears flourish and drip over my cheeks. “What are you thinking about?”
“How fast I can get you on my dick,” I quip, playing along because there is nothing for me to lose. I’ll test her waters and her loyalty to Cruz in one splash. “I’d kiss you and feel you up and love you for hours until I submerged my dick in your waters. Touch yourself, Angel.”
Not hours, eternity.
I’ll love Iris for eternity.
“I miss you,” she says, gasping. “And I already was when I hit your number.”
God. That’s hot.
“You’re just having a hiccup,” I suggest, thinking they probably had their first spat. “It will be okay. You don’t really want me. I’m just a guy you know who happens to answer the phone when you call. I’m comfort in the rain.”
“It was more than rain, Sal…”
“Thunderstorm?”
“Vengeful hurricane,” she moans. “I need you inside of me.”
I breathe, trying to resist the urge of pounding one off. “I take it,” I mumble, putting a smoke on my lips. I don’t light it. “That it was not an intentional one you built together.”
“No.”
“You will survive,” I reassure as I rest my hand on my dick. Settle down, boy. “You got this. Are your fingers inside of my kitten?”
Oh. Fuck.
She lightly giggles. “Yes, Sir. But they aren’t you. Nothing will ever substitute you.”
“You have Cruz,” I declare. “What more do you need?”
“The Salvatore...”
“You can’t have this one, Dandy. You gave me up. I’m not good enough for you. You don’t love me enough to fight for me.”
“But,” she says. “... I do.”
“I don’t know what to say to this…”
“Durante Costa is going after his birthright.”
“I know,” I reply, feeling the pulse in my palm as I gently stroke. “Are you getting in bed with him?”
“Yes,” she breathily mutters. “But I’d rather be getting in bed with you.”
I cannot ignore her flirtatious double entendre and taking the bait, I reply, “You just want me to fuck you until you can’t walk. You want to feel my dick hitting that spot, round and round with every hip roll.” I hear her gasping, and I know she’s close to climaxing. The sad part is I am too. With a firm grip, I hastily pump my cock. “I’m doing a few weeks of training with Masa.”
“And then what?”
I whisper the lie, “I don’t know.”
She doesn’t need to know when Etienne starts the war; Sal Raniero will be waiting. It is unimportant. The Unholy protect her interests, and I must defend mine.
“I wish you were inside of me. Fucking my pussy hard,” she spouts off. “I wish we could go back to that hotel room when you gave me the diamonds.”
&n
bsp; “The collar,” I ruthlessly contend as we speak on two levels—professional and so much more. “That you threw in the safe…”
“I didn’t throw it,” she argues with ragged breaths. “I put it on your journal. What are we doing?”
Something about the way she says the word journal warms me.
She knows me.
She doesn’t know how to handle me, but she fucking knows me.
“Having sex from seven thousand miles away.”
“This is incredible,” she whispers. “God, I need you, Sal…”
“You gave up a collar for a cut,” I coldly remark despite the heated passions of our intimacy. “I told you I would be with you forever unless you walked away. You did that. This is not on me,” I grunt, coming hard and erupting all over my hand. “Ohhh…fuckin’ eh… I reacted in my best interests at your actions. You don’t get to cry wolf now.”
“I cannot do this without you,” she cries out, coming with a sensual moan as a shiver runs through me. “I love you, Sal. I love you so fucking much. And I want you back. I want to be like we were.”
“We can’t go back, baby,” I stress as a few tears wet my eyes and my dick throbs with an ache. I could so go for two more or two thousand with Iris. “You chose Cruz over me. You made it abundantly clear how you felt. You don’t have a choice now.”
“I was wrong!” she yells. “I was so very wrong. You were hurting, and I didn’t know how to deal with that. I don’t understand how come you are allowed to grieve, but I am not allowed time to get accustomed to us together. Why do I have to be punished?”
“You wanted to have an affair,” I point out. “I condoned it in the only way I could. What happens next, I don’t know.”
“You’re fucking Hannah!”
“I have not fucked anyone,” I retaliate, full of fury and fire as I confess the whole truth. “The last woman on my dick is shouting at me on the phone! And this was the first time I’ve masturbated since we parted ways in Boston. I have messed around with Hannah as Dom to sub, but my dick isn’t going in anyone’s hole unless I am in a loving, committed relationship. Cheap thrills aren’t doing it for me anymore, thank you.”
I don’t count those nocturnal things.
Diary of a Submissive (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 4) Page 67