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

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  Maybe he is older than me.

  And I fail to comprehend his history.

  “Raniero!” I bellow, but he doesn’t hear me as he scuppers in the flooding gorge. I’m losing him. “Sal! Come back to me!”

  “Be done, Boston!” Dom assertively orders, entering the ring. “You shot seven bullets for seven deaths.”

  He fires one more with an insidious snarl caressing his full lips.

  ” Boston!”

  “That was for scratching up Baby Mae, you fucking whore!”

  He spits on her corpse, and the crowd goes wild as he ducks under the ropes and makes a dash for the tunnel. I scan the crowd for Iris and Amber, but they’re long gone. I’ll find her because there is no escape route from damnation.

  And when I do, I’ll issue punishment.

  No questions. No drama. No concern.

  Dom glances at my bloody knuckles. “You okay, Baby Saint?”

  “I don’t know, Junior… Is anyone ever really okay?”

  With a silent assassin internally attacking my soul, I blink as Sal disappears, and Dom says, “Deacon…” Taking a breath, I swagger up. “You should be with him.”

  “Wrong,” I whisper, running my fingers through my disgusting hair. “We should.”

  “You don’t have to share him with me.”

  “Yeah, I do,” I acknowledge as we lock fingers. “He won’t make it without you. And neither will we, Daddy.”

  After everything we’ve been through, unleashing regenerates my current and replenishes the flow I need to keep my boy and my girl stable.

  I am their spiritual holy guide, the warrior to fight for what is right and just brave enough to point out the flaws of misdirection and misbehavior—even my own.

  I serve as the scales in their love.

  94

  Ivory Powder in the Lotus Goodbye

  His Ride

  Outside of the bathroom, I spot Megan, standing sentinel and prohibiting anyone’s passage. “Is she in there?”

  “Yes, but if you go in there,” she warns. “Do not upset her. She is with child.”

  Using my palm, I wipe some of the sticky sanguine from my mouth. “I know, and I won’t.”

  “Sal doesn’t know.”

  I nod and lower my head. “I know because I study everything about them.”

  “You love her.”

  “I love them,” I correct. Despite how I know I could overpower Megan, I don’t out of respect for Dom. “May I go inside, please, Ma’am?”

  “No stress!”

  I lift my hands like her words hold the gun. “None! I just want to check on her.”

  “It should say something to you,” Megan adds with a blink of her blue eyes. “That you run to her before him.”

  “He is stronger than she is.”

  “That’s debatable, Deacon.”

  I lick my lips and taste the hint of iron. “She is the priority.”

  Quietly, I walk inside and spot her slumped on the ground. I hate the idea of my girl on the floor of a public bathroom. Out on the street with me is okay, but this is not. This is wrong in so many ways.

  My flesh is a mess from the battlefield.

  “Baby girl,” I mutter, approaching slow. “She’s dead.”

  “Who?” I peer in the bathroom stall at the corpse draped over the toilet. Blood pours from the gunshot wounds. “Oh, my fucking God!” I grip my hair. “Why is Kali dead?”

  “I dragged Amber to the bathroom, and we wrestled until we ended up in the stall,” she mutters, crying as I squat down. “She had her hands wrapped around my neck against the wall when Kali jumped her. I couldn’t breathe, Deacon. I don’t know why Kali didn’t pull first, but Amber grabbed her gun and shot her dead. It’s all my fault…Deacon...it’s all my fault…”

  I slowly creep closer and take her in my arms. “Where did Amber go?”

  “I don’t know,” she wallows, gripping onto my forearms. “She pointed the gun at me, and I told her I was pregnant.”

  I kiss her head and gently rock her in my arms as tears fill my eyes. “You’re going to be okay…”

  “She said she wanted to wait until it counted to kill me, Deacon. She wanted me full and heavy with Sal’s baby before she killed me in front of him.”

  “Sweetheart,” I coax. “There is not a chance in hell I am letting her come anywhere near you.”

  “I have to get out of Japan, Deacon.”

  “… Why?”

  “Because Anna is in the hospital with chest pains and if Sal finds out, he won’t go to Gifu. He needs to go to Gifu, and you need to go with him.”

  “Are you going to Sugargrove?”

  “Immediately,” she assures. “And the Tenn 12 is already en route because of Anna. I will be fine. X and Neil and the boys will have me. Swain and Pico are there, but I need you to convince Sal to stay here.”

  “Amber…Enzo…Diablo…”

  “I know,” she acknowledges, gazing up at me. “But I need you to do this for me, please. Sal needs you. And he needs this. He’ll listen to you.”

  Maybe not, but I know who he will listen to.

  I know a guy who knows a guy…

  I nod. “If anything happens to you, it’s all on me.”

  “Nothing is going to stop me, Saint.” She kisses my crimson-stained mouth, and her tongue traces over the blood on my lips as I pull her closer. “I promise.”

  I murmur into her breath, “I want to be inside of you.”

  “I know,” she whispers, running her delicate hands over my chest as the empty space of the cage crushes in regret. There is no longer a home for the monster to return. It’s been demolished, and the bulldozers have swept the lot clean.

  “I need you, Iris.”

  He is dark; I am the light. But the beacon is filthy now, filtered through the lens of blood splatter and cum shots. She reaches between my legs and grazes her hand over my protrusion. I won’t turn this into an altercation. I am only a rapist with a metal tool in tow. And the dead speak no tales of my blasphemy. The licentious desecration squandered by vermin, such as me.

  I am no better than the shoe connoisseur.

  I am an aficionado of slaying.

  “Is it worth the cost of hurting him?”

  “No.” I proffer, “But it doesn’t deter the desire.”

  “It never will.”

  The Master

  In the locker room, I strip down and crouch under the hot water as the blood slips down the drain. It’s gone—a dilution in the seas—a memory in my cortex.

  Not the girl.

  I don’t give a fuck about Petra Soryn.

  My youthful bravado died, and I don’t know when it happened. But the time for easy, chipper excuses said in the light of day are gone.

  We can’t keep running away from what we are and who we’re meant to be. The past days of Cruz mutilating someone with a crowbar where we don’t consider the debt to our souls and everyone in close contact is over.

  Masks won’t save us.

  We were wild and reckless and carefree—shooting guns and throwing fists like it was no big deal. Like we were invincible.

  If the last five months have taught anything, I know I am not invincible in any way—physically, emotionally, sexually, or spiritually.

  By others or self-inflicted, I can be hurt. And those hurts collapse inwards like a cavernous sinkhole, and I lash out, spinning razor wire floggers at those I love the most. I cut them.

  Just to watch them bleed.

  The easiest way to blanket this emotional paralysis, crippling and seizing every neuron and synapse in my hard drive, rests in an ivory powder.

  Not this time.

  Not this time.

  Not this fucking time, pearl.

  “Salvatore!” Iris shouts, tossing her hat and pulling off her shoes, as I glance up through the busted haze of broken crystalline. In the water, fully dressed, she quickly lowers but doesn’t touch my trembling naked body.

  “I killed he
r…”

  “You served me,” she reassures as the water soaks through her white pantsuit. “You did what was necessary.”

  “I deliver,” I mumble as I hear the click of the lock. “Because I am the darkness.”

  “The Chairman would like to speak with you when you’re done,” Cruz informs, holding the bottle of champagne. “He is beyond ecstatic at the state of affairs.”

  My fists stiffen as tears burst from my eyes. “I need you.”

  “Should I go?” Iris whispers. “I don’t mind.”

  “No,” Cruz declares, smoking. “Both remember.”

  Walking closer, he drops his shorts as I peer up. “I’m sorry…”

  “We ain’t got no beef, brother.” In the foggy mist of the spacious shower built for many, he takes a drag, leaving the smoke in his lips, and running his fingers through my damp curls. “Do what you need to do to put yourself back together again. I’ll just stand here, sipping champagne and smoking my cigarette. I must guard you.”

  I glance at his semi-erect cock, not understanding how Cruz manages to reassemble my pieces faster than anyone else. He is a Master of my conundrum. My neurotic prolapse is his recreational sandbox. My fingers graze over his sack. “Are your balls okay?”

  “My balls are fine,” he charms, exhaling. “How are yours?”

  “Mine are good,” I reply and shoot a gaze to Iris. “How are yours, Lotus?”

  “Perfectly aligned.” She grins, playing along. “I love you, Lucas Salvatore. Stop holding back.”

  Easing my hand under her drenched jacket, I cup the weight of her breast and kiss her delicate lips. My thumb runs over her nipple as it hastily erects beneath my touch. “I’ll be back.”

  “I’ll be waiting.” Her sapphires stare at Deacon as he offers his fingers and helps her stand. “I love you, Saint. Don’t let him go.”

  “What are you talking about, baby girl?” He tosses the smoke and swallows a swig of the champagne before kissing her lips. My salivating open orifice eases around his shaft as we succumb to our existence in the dregs. He grips my hair and forgives this love with an inviting tug. He whispers, “You aren’t going anywhere, flower. You belong to us.”

  I hear her giggle—her effervescent jubilation—and I nurse his cock like I’m a starved pilgrim on the path to his excellency. Her white pants fall on my knees, and she lowers to hers and sets the bottle down. Her soft fingers wrap around my dick as she strokes with care and precision.

  We aren’t fucking—

  We are healing.

  We are recovering.

  And we are loving.

  With one hand secured to the base of Cruz, I ease the fingers of my other hand between her supple thighs. She slicks on my skin as I gag on his pronounced erection. He’s thick, beautiful, and veined. She is tender, warm, and so fucking damp.

  Her hand replaces mine against his shaft. I pull my fingers from her and open my hands with a welcome Buddhist-like gesture.

  Come, girl…

  Hide your open wounds on my cock…

  Seek salvation in my ride.

  I vow to caress you—when you orgasm—within these guns. I promise to catch you—deeply—on my tool. I swear to carry you—with pure love—away from the meshuga…the lunacy we breathe is riddled with deranged and deplorable contaminants.

  …when you orgasm deeply with pure love…

  She takes my hands, and I pull her closer, never letting my lips part from his shaft. She straddles my lap and slides onto my swollen cock as we find the perfect rhythm of our holy bond. I fill her, stretching and expanding her shallow pool to cinch around me elastically.

  We matter so much more than ever before, pulsing with a vibrant echo of a complete frequency and strumming a full chromatic scale. Every nerve ending waves with pure blissful ecstasy as our flesh makes quiescent oaths we won’t regret.

  Cruz groans, bucking, as Iris speeds up her trot. Her vampiric kiss attaches to my neck with a harrowing bite, and I crave the uncomfortable pain she brings.

  I brace her close, knowing as soon as he comes, so will I. The splatter of his precum salts my tongue, and I ravenously engulf him. She greets my thrusts and her pussy clenches to my dick as I moan from deep in my gut and crank Cruz into rumbling turbocharged propulsion.

  We launch—fused as a unit, bound in essence and sacred with one mission—staying true to this love.

  “Salvatore,” Iris breathlessly gasps, digging her fingers into my biceps. Hurt me, baby. Hurt me. I want to feel you. I need a reminder of you. “Deacon.”

  I couldn’t hear her love for me before because the melodic beat of my drumline deafened me. I didn’t pay attention to their notes, but I listen now. I experience every syllable trailing gracefully from her tongue. And the rigorous study has made them that much sweeter. Her lutes prove gloriously divine for soaring wide over untouched landscapes as his smooth percussive jazz rhythms ground my sanity with the grit I crave.

  He holds the string for our kite. She is silk, and I am the sticks. He encourages our passage to sail in the skies while keeping his feet firmly planted on the earth.

  And it all seems so simple now.

  She is the water; I am the fire.

  And I believed he was the air, but he’s not that simple. He isn’t a pure element of just gales. His symbiotic relationship between the wind and the earth is unparalleled—a sacred walk. He’s found peace and balance in the equilibrium, sculpting the mountain for my burn and building shores for her seas to strike.

  And it works.

  It so fucking works.

  We fucking work.

  “We’re going,” Cruz growls, touching Iris’ face. “Come with me, baby girl.”

  “Yes,” she whispers. And the dialogue of the two catalysts spark my ignition as I stay silent with my tongue pressed against his ridge. “Go…go…”

  His loud grunt reverberates through the tiled stall, and I gulp his sugared milk down as her voice reaches the highest chord in successive soughs. My dick jets, spitting into her dewy goodness. And we breathe heavily and smile with the secrets of our sins.

  “Holy shit...” Iris giddily mutters, grabbing the champagne bottle and shaking it up as Cruz lowers to his knees. He passionately kisses my lips, and she swipes her tongue against ours before moving her thumb and letting the champagne flow.

  The bubbles bless our drunken love.

  “Don’t tell me,” she quips. “Four-hundred-dollar bottle?”

  “I don’t fucking give a shit,” I banter as he can’t stop smiling. With a grin, I yell, “I’m so fucking happy!”

  “Make that two!” he says.

  “Correction,” Iris challenges. “Make that three.”

  “We have to get dressed,” Cruz informs. “We have people waiting for us.”

  “We needed to put ourselves first for once,” I point out, holding onto Iris’ bottom. “This stays number one from here on out because it is so much better than any other pearl of folly.”

  “Agree,” Iris says as he nods. “Do either of you have anything I can wear because um…I….”

  “I gotcha, baby girl.”

  “That’s my boy,” I proudly say. “Taking care of my girl.”

  “Always,” he pledges. “Forever, Sir.”

  His Butterfly

  In Sal’s gray sweatpants and black hoodie, I wear my red stilettos as we meet with The Chairman in the warehouse office. I understand why my sofu wanted to test the validity of the relationship.

  We made no secret of our brief lapse apart.

  Sabbaticals by intended betrothed bothered my grandparents. It was fine for Aki or Keishi to take a relationship breather for months at a time because they were married. We were not. We were seen as seriously dating with a pre-proposal imminent. An engagement ring would come, and a wedding would be appropriately planned.

  In the ways of the Lotus, marriage was thicker than any blood.

  My first marriage to Chance Ballister proclaimed by the family—and neve
r noted in their heavy tomes—to essentially be annulled because I had not yet accepted my role within the family. Sal’s marriage to Kaci Hope was absolved by her death and would also never be acknowledged.

  In the ways of the Lotus, we were free and clear to marry.

  My father’s marriage to my mother was punished per Lotus doctrine because of their divorce. They did many other things wrong as well, including not raising their daughter with the values of the old ways.

  My father, Raiko Nakamura, would’ve had a clear-cut spot in the Lotus throne, but he fucked up. And Masa was the punishment, which only served to muddy things for me—a multi-generational penance.

  I could keep Masa close or risk his joining his half-brothers in the Goro crime family. Upon my original arrival in Japan, I chose peace, and Keishi fully supported that decision by allowing Masa to control the sword of the old ways—the samurai and their eight virtues.

  And now, my future husband was asking for things out of bounds, such as Deacon Cruz’s training alongside his own. Sofu, not so much The Chairman, granted the permission out of respect to Masa, Sal, and me.

  Sal and Deacon honored the ancestors and future lineage by protecting my honor with the murder of Petra Soryn. The Lotus weren’t an overly violent sort unless attacked, in which case, there were no rules once shamed.

  Everything in Lotus revolved around that one keyword honor. If Sal and Deacon continued to express their honor to The Chairman and his flower, they would be revered amongst the Lotus.

  Where Lotus differs amongst the Raniero’s and Cruz’s of the world is anyone was capable of restoring honor, even Goro could have done it. Not that they would. They’d take their few percentage points and return to killing our gangs. Still, we needed the competition in the market because it brought growth—not only in purchasing decisions but as a recruitment tactic for new Lotus franchises.

  Ultimately, it all came down to honor.

  We thanked The Chairman and properly partook of tea. His loyalty to the Gods of old—Luca Raniero and Victor “Saint” Cruz—was profound, and I’m sure it played heavily into his blessing Sal and Deacon. Informally, my sofu kissed the cheeks and lips of my future kings. It was scandalously unheard of for such an act to occur, but my grandfather adores my boys.