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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  With smug arrogance, I grab the cape and act the role because I will do anything to marry Iris Nakamura. They want a bad fucking Italian boy to fuck some shit up, I’ll be that guy.

  “Let’s go beat a bastard.”

  And I unhinge the pain.

  His Ride

  The excited crowd echoes in the warehouse, but it’s different from any other fight I’ve ever done. International Suits are everywhere. These aren’t cuts with longnecks hanging between their fingers. These are big players.

  I’m just a fucking biker with a chip on my shoulder and an ax to grind.

  From opposite sides, we come through the tunnels at the same time. I make it to the ring first and spot Nicky. I don’t look at Iris, sitting behind him—because I can’t. Crowds hoard around Sal because they know him.

  I’m unknown.

  And I’m also expected to win.

  “How far do we take this?” I asked in the interrogation room. “I’m not putting the damage on that I did at the shack. I’m not angry.”

  “I’ll be angry,” Sal assured, possessing a keen ability to draw up his emotions on a dime. “Don’t worry.”

  I snickered, “Should I be concerned that you actually plan to kill me?”

  “Nah,” he said. “But we have to give The Chairman reason enough to warrant handing over hundreds of years of lessons to both of us.”

  “I won’t break your pretty mug.”

  “Thanks,” he laughed. “Asshole.”

  “Nicky will be there with your present,” I informed. “Dom will have the tool.”

  He snarled. “Alright.”

  “Are you going to be able to do this?”

  “Yep.”

  “No hesitations? No doubts? No triggers?”

  Sal contended, “You won’t be able to do it…”

  “You’re right, I won’t,” I admitted. “Allie died in my arms.”

  “I’ve gotchu, bro.”

  By the time Sal reaches the ring, everyone is on their feet. He scans the audience and spots Iris, higher than everyone else. She must be standing on the armrests.

  God, don’t fucking drop her guys.

  I really fucking hate it when I’m not playing her bulldog. And the notion of someone else guarding his girl—our girl—pumps a surge of adrenaline into my veins.

  Fuck.

  The monster rattles in the cage as I pace around and snarl.

  Calm the hell down, calm the hell down.

  I spot my brother in the back, and I know I will kill him. Maybe not today. But one day soon.

  I will murder him for the way he is looking at Sal’s wife. Like he’s going to run off to a dark corner and beat one off while staring and slobbering over her ass. Like he’s stalking her and just waiting for the right time to pounce.

  The chain securing the gates of my hell clunks to the ground.

  And I unleash the hate.

  93

  ∆ m4£ƒun¢†!Øn

  His Butterfly

  With Dom and Nico holding my legs, I cheer like a bloodthirsty fan of the game. And I might be if it weren’t the two guys I love more than my life inside of the ring.

  Deacon strides from side to side in a straight line while Sal bounces in the corner like a boxer. He rolls his neck and cracks his knuckles. They are genetically predisposed—the biker and the mafioso—and they’ll fight like it.

  The volatile pair meet in the middle as Masa announces them. “Fighting for the Goro Family, I present Saint Cruz.” The audience cheers. “Fighting for Lotus, I present Salvatore Raniero.” The deafening noise hurts. They know him, but expect him to lose.

  I know better.

  I am the woman who worships them both. I’ve witnessed their acts of love and crime. And now, I will watch as they destroy one another to earn the rites of the Lotus. It is a blessing never bestowed to anyone outside the lineage, but Sal is just enough of a hustler to get not only himself in, but his right-hand man.

  How much does he love me?

  Under the lights, I realize Deacon needs some sun. Noticeably a few inches taller, he holds a finely chiseled—almost svelte—physique with the toned six-pack. He isn’t harboring any fears of injury. His swelling muscles offer no excuses as he knows how to street brawl.

  In the other corner, Sal’s ripped olive skin shimmers under the lights. His center of gravity is lower, wound in the core of a delicious eight-pack, and ground in massive fucking thigh cords. His body is constructed to cause harm.

  Deacon’s balls are bigger, and his palette craves the blood. Sal’s dick is bigger, and his brawn pumps with raw energy. I know too much about them—every scar, ink, and flaw.

  In the light, Deacon’s pubes will shine with a golden hue. His mother’s natural red hair shows in his beard. And if Sal doesn’t keep his body manicured, he turns into a hairy primate, but I adore the happy trail he vainly insists on waxing.

  I harbor the secrets they hold.

  And I am their girl.

  I honestly have no idea who will win.

  No amount of comparison can determine the aptitude of the fist. They’re mean.

  And they’re mine.

  I imagine a baby—with straight blonde hair and bright blue eyes or a curly raven mop and deep emerald eyes—and I don’t include me because I’m irrelevant in this equation. I honestly have no idea whose baby I could be carrying, but I fear I know how the test will turn out.

  And that is why I have avoided it like the plague.

  A big positive sign.

  Or two lines. Running parallel.

  Two men. Two loves.

  One baby.

  One girl.

  One epic fucking Raniero versus Cruz war.

  Pulling out my phone to video the fight, I spot the odd message from Charlotte Tuddle. “Call me. ASAP.” And another from Ella Hemsworth, “They took Anna to the ER.” And the final one from Tank, “1012 are en route. We got you. Sato is calling in resources to help locate. Get home if you can.”

  … Locate what?

  They sound the bell, and I scream, “Oh! Fuck!” I could release a shrill cry of bloody murder, and no one would hear me. Between watching the boys dance around one another, I quickly punch out the texts in order:

  Charlotte: “Can’t.”

  Ella: “Where is Oki?”

  Tank: “I want the Tenn 12 @ Shack. Get someone on Hannah Cruz and 911 Jaid NOW.”

  The only immediate response is from Tank: “Swain is with her. No response from Jaid. Will keep trying.”

  Motherfuck.

  Running through the lists of people I kind of trust, I understand the ones I do trust are here. I hit the record button as they dance, and all I can do is pray.

  … for my sticky bean.

  … for my beautiful boys.

  … for Juliet to be still holding onto Romeo Salvatore Gennaro.

  And then, I text Cat Raniero: “I need you to go check on Jaid, please. Take Dale with you.”

  She responds, “Jaid is here at Henney’s. Call me.”

  “Can’t call. What happened?”

  “Merritt has issues.”

  “Are you okay? Is she okay?”

  “Yes. Yes.”

  The sheer panic may be my raging hormones. Or it may be a planned assault by Cesario Raniero on everything The Unholy holds dear.

  Between the moments of light with the man I love, unhappy darkness takes up residence in my oceans, pregnant with swelling hostile seas. A dire fear of heights plagues my thoughts, but I am never afraid of the plunge—into the abyss—and after the fall from calm. I thrive in the chaos of his flames and the soothing clarity of his breeze.

  I will be the wife of a mafioso.

  And the real irony in that is he will be the husband of one too.

  The Master

  “Stop dancing with me, Pretty Boy.”

  “Don’t egg me on,” I warn. “I’ll level your ass out, hussy.”

  “… You think?” Cruz throws the first swing, and it land
s on my jaw. “Bring it, bitch.”

  “I swear I’m going to do things you’ll be crying about later,” I threaten, landing an uppercut. He swings, and I slip, dodging the move with the grace of a swan. I pop a jab, and his lip bleeds. “Shit…”

  His blonde hair shakes with sweat, not from the intensity of our battle, but the nerves we share. His blue eyes change from admiral blue to steel gray as I skip around the ring. He rushes, barreling his body into mine, and we hit the mat with a thud.

  “This is gonna hurt, fucker!” he yells, ramming his fists into my gut as we attempt to kill one another. I’m spinning around, like winding the hands of a clock, but he chases me.

  He is always chasing me.

  Picking up after me.

  Taking care of me.

  Loving me.

  With a smirk, I quip, “Have I mentioned how much I fucking love you lately?”

  “This is really not the time for this.”

  I deliver the low blow. “Afraid you might get turned on in front of all these people, Cruz?”

  Taking the bait, he rampages, using every tactic in his arsenal as my head bounces against the mat, and I accept wherever this leads. Blood spills from my mouth as I twist like a reel, or one of Georgia’s wind-up toys, tighter and tighter until I spot Iris.

  “Get up, Salvatore! Get the fuck up!” Her screams trigger the release of the tension, snapping the pressure as I mechanically react.

  With all the force in my body, I fly out beneath him and punt his chin with the agility of a crane. He tumbles back, rolling close to the edge. “Fucking bastard!”

  Cruz’s name may as well be DRC—Deacon “Resilience” Cruz—as his capacity to withstand my blaze is enviable. He never succumbs. He never gives up. He never quits. We are so much the same.

  He would be a good husband for her—the best.

  I would be a good husband for her—I try to reprogram my low self-esteem in this one instance. But without a doubt in my mind, he is a better man than I am or will ever be. He possesses kindness, compassion, and empathy. I struggle with the basics of—Hello, how are you?—much less real, honest to God, heartfelt, intimate conversations. I am working on it, though, and I have a hell of a teacher in him.

  The most I can do is try.

  He’s got a dastardly alleyway skirmish as I hit the mat again for another round of fun with his unforgiving fist. Thank God, he took his rings off, or this would be long over. His round of hooks impact where it hurts the most—chasmic in the cage. We’ve sparred many times, but never like this. I chalked up the cemetery and game room as lessons from my submissive.

  Ones my Dominant needed.

  With a fierce kick to his kidney, I manage to wrangle out from underneath him. “You just love being on top, don’t you?” I challenge as we pace in circles. “Fucking pussy!”

  Heaving. Sweating. Bleeding.

  “You’re determined for me to kill you!”

  “Then, you get her…” I wave my hand at Iris as he glances over in shock, and I note Nicky is missing. I take full advantage and pound a stack over his face and torso. I swipe a boot to his ass for good measure. “And you’re worthy!”

  “Motherfucker! So are you!” he roars, charging towards me. Fucking prick picks my ass up in the air and pummels me to the ground before slamming the full weight of his body onto mine. Okay. That hurt. “You’re going to be her husband! You fucking insane Guido!”

  “I feel so insulted by that,” I hiss, elbowing him in the ear and striking back with my heel. I knock his nads so hard he groans. “Damn white trailer trash!”

  “Don’t even!” From the ground, he kneels up to grip the waistband of my shorts. No. No. Don’t do that just because you’re turned on by this, you fucker. I grab his forearm, and we glide back to the mat. He’s on top again. “Gonna make you my hussy!”

  Through gritted teeth, I seethe, “Make me your slut!”

  “I should kiss you and say please, baby,” he rouses with a crooked grin. I try not to laugh because God knows my face is black, blue, and bloodied just like his, but it’s hard. “I ought to fuck your ass raw, Raniero.”

  “Dare you, lover,” I challenge with a smirk.

  He glances up. “Nicky is back with your present, Sir.”

  “Thank fuck!” I say as he shakes my torso and my head bobs. He’s calmer as we watch the ringmaster of the cirque resist temptation—quite the challenge for Nick. I smack my fists on Cruz’s shoulder as we continue to struggle, and I spot her bare feet. Nice. Purposeful. Props to the murderer with the shoe fetish.

  Pulling a blade from his pocket, Nicky quickly removes the ropes and yanks the tape covering the mouth of Petra Soryn—the love child of Hilda Hanson and Jack Kerris.

  There is only one problem with our killing her, but it’s not enough to derail our plans. Her sister is Astrid Hanson, and she is married to Bertrand Miles Jameson.

  Cycles and circles back around.

  … Isn’t it ironic?

  The girl I loved so hard at one point in my life will have her crosshairs aimed at my back, Deacon, Iris, and all The Unholy. The one thing I know, looking up into the stands, is that Serene is finally finding closure for her misdeeds.

  Still, this bitch harmed way too many souls to warrant our forgiveness. She will pay for her sins…now at the hour of her death.

  The minutes pass where we almost maimed one another to death and unruly heat spurs on my inferno, but with Cruz’s guidance, he controlled the burn. Her cold blue waters calm my red-hot flames, and he provides the protection.

  I can lay the track anywhere the fuck I want.

  All the way to her heart and back to his.

  His Ride

  On the ground, I find relief in his ebony-hued moss eyes when I tell him it’s go time. His poor mug looks like someone tenderized him with a mallet.

  I am evil; he is vile.

  And God, I love this man.

  I want to spend the rest of my time loving him, but if anyone were ever going to hate enough to send his ass to the casket, it should be me, followed by my suicide.

  I am the last person he would want to see; Iris would spur his fight for survival. He hasn’t matured enough to realize this yet. I’m the wise old soul raising two youngsters in love.

  I will love him to death.

  I’m the gator, fishing in the swamps.

  “Here we go,” he mutters as the crowd grows silent as if in vigil—from bloody boxing match of saints to impromptu mass in a library of sinners. “The Chairman is watching.”

  Nicky marches up the side steps and warns, “Do not take off her blindfold!”

  “Why?”

  He winks. “Apéritif!”

  Sal berates, “Oh, good fuck!”

  “We did that too,” Nicky snickers in his pink plaid shirt and pants. “Have fun with the siren!”

  “Don’t insult alluring mermaids everywhere, Nicky,” Sal charms, pointing at Iris as I stare at the bitch. Red trickles over her cheeks, where clear, salty tears should be.

  Masa hands the microphone to Sal, as Keishi Nakamura observes with a strict jaw. Our performance took an unexpected turn, an impromptu intermission instigated by a plot from four sons with maximum epicenter implications.

  “With great honor and respect to The Chairman, Lotus, and the Lotus Queen,” Sal introduces with a heavy breath. “We present Petra Soryn, who was partly responsible for the attack where the Lotus Queen was in attendance.”

  With a stunned expression, Iris’ sapphires glow with a wide-eyed gaze, and I blink at the woman in the red dress, standing near Diablo Cruz.

  Amber.

  Number two is right there—so close.

  I bump his shoulder as he continues, “Cruz and I would officially like to request the draw of our battle in exchange for her immediate death.”

  The Chairman nods and bows with an enormous smile as his security team gathers around him. Champagne will flow tonight like magma from the blow. We did it.

  “W
e are The Unholy,” he shamelessly advertises. Like we need anymore business.

  I tap Sal and point to Amber. He doesn’t catch my need, but someone else does, and her keen observation sends her hightailing it towards the woman. Amidst the glorifying crowd, I howl, “No! Iris!”

  No one can hear me as Sal spins to Soryn. She reaches around in absolute darkness and gets way too close to my boy. My furious storms thrive combining into a supercell as I roar, escaping the cage and slamming her body to the ground. I hadn’t been angry until now. “You fucking bitch!”

  Seeming to accept her fate, she laughs in my face. “I did it for the others! And I’d do it again! You should grill your Lotus! Waterboard the bitch like they did in the chamber!”

  “Bullshit!” I unload every ounce of venom in the punches from my fists. It is rare for me ever to hit a woman. Her soft skin buckles with little effort as I understand Nicky’s touch must be that of a skilled surgeon. I overdo my bravado, but I don’t care. “Stop speaking your lies!”

  Wrapping my hands around her neck, I choke her, and she gasps with barely a whisper, “Ask your fucking queen!”

  “Stop speaking!” The brute force of my crimson covered knuckles splits her mouth open wide until her jaw snaps. I feel the crack in my bones, deep in my skeleton, before I dive down and sever her hate-filled tongue out with one odious, cannibalistic bite.

  “Nice!” Nicky booms as I spit the rare, fleshy organ over for his appreciation. “Go, Cruz!”

  Sal glances in revolting horror as I beat the piss out of her for the hurt she has caused. I’m mentally so far past ass rapes with crowbars as I epitomize the villain to scurry away from. Stay back. I’m mad! She stole loves and inflicted long-lasting injuries, including the emotional wounds over the last five months in our trinity.

  She stole time.

  And I am fucking pissed.

  “Cruz, back up!” Sal warns, nudging my ass with his foot. “Back the fuck up now, boy!”

  He fires one shot into her head and another six into her body. The intensity of his gaze is one of a primeval predator.