When I lift my head to make the sign and kiss my cross, he whispers, “Peace be with you.”
“And also, with you,” I reply as he squeezes my hand. “What are you in for?”
“Assaulting my father in law for insulting my wife.” I furrow my brow. “I cold-cocked him with the pistol grip and threatened to shoot him in the head.”
“Do I want to know what he said?”
“He called her a Muslim whore,” he calmly replies. “I lost my temper and got a misdemeanor battery charge, fined, and a year in jail. Good behavior reduced it to six months. I should mention my wife is white and Jewish.”
He’s got my attention for more reasons than one.
“What do you do?”
“I work in computers,” he says with a glimmer in his eye. “I’m a professional hacking consultant. I try and break into systems.”
“And you get paid to do it?”
He laughs. “Yes. Quite a bit.”
“How much longer do you have in here?”
“One more month,” he says, standing up and offering me a hand. I don’t need it, but I take it out of respect. “Wait,” he remarks, taking the red string from his desk. “My wife makes them.” He reaches for my arm and places it on my left wrist, but not before noticing the scarred over wounds on my knuckles. “You’re a fighter.”
“I am,” I proudly say. “Where are you from?”
“Atlanta.” He grins. “Be safe, Sal.”
“You too, Kev.”
Heading to the shower, I’m wrapped in his mysticism, which at times has evaded my spiritual thinking. Still smelling spent, I relish in the grounding of the bracelet. I miss my many bands—leather, string, and beads. I’m used to having their weight and balance.
I turn the corner to the shower and never see Handcock or his fist jabbing into my eye until I hit the floor.
“You little bitch!” he roars, winding up to go in for round two. “I’m going to fucking kill you!”
Fuck. This. Motherfucking. Day.
His fat ass splats over the top of me as I squirm like a pinned bug in a science fair project. We draw up a commotion fast as I nail him in the gut and someone manages to pull him off of me.
I’m livid, swinging recklessly, as my invisible hero holds his arms from behind. The chain with the cross Amber gave me breaks in the brawl. I’m heaving, my lip is bleeding, and I’m in the kill or be killed mode when Cameron yells. “Raniero!”
“He fucking jumped me!”
Handcock spits, and it lands on my cheek. That’s it. I pound my fist into his jaw bone. I hear the distinct break from one of us, but I don’t think about it. My knuckles split as I manage to land three more punches before Cameron pulls me off of him.
“He broke my jaw!” Handcock bellyaches, covering his swelling cheek with his hand. “He broke my jaw!”
“You want to get sent to the hole?” Cameron shouts in my face. “Calm your shit down. Who started it?”
“I’ll tell you who started it,” the heavily inked, bald man from behind Handcock says. “This motherfucker!”
“Get to your cell,” Deputy Craig says, knocking twice on the floor with the end of the baton. “I’m taking this son-of-a-bitch down to the infirmary. Do not bring the boxer down there.”
“He’s going to my office,” Cameron replies, holding me. “Show is over folks. Get back to your business.”
I’m breathing heavily as my hero walks past. “Name is Mock, nice to meet you, Sal.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Anytime for an RR brother.”
Everything moves in slow motion as we walk back through the cellblock to Cameron’s office. I look at Kevyn and spot Naby. Tiny is sitting at one of the tables with a few of his crew. I glance up to the second floor and see Mock, offering a salute.
I have them—all of them—if I want them.
Because I am a leader.
Because I am a Raniero.
Because I am my father’s son.
“Have you ever considered that you might have some PTSD going on?”
I was growing agitated with the push and pull in our conversation. Stepping on the treadmill, I cranked it up and ran as I considered his assessment of me. He had gotten under my skin and pissed me off. I pulled the emergency cord.
“I don’t have a fucking PTSD problem,” I objected, full of fire and rage as I stepped down and pushed him.
“You do.”
“I have fucking issues,” I screamed louder than I ever had. “But don’t make me out to be some nut job because my head is on just fine!”
“Those issues are going to eat you alive unless you eat them first.”
I closed my eyes, trying to regain control. And then I swung. And so did he. If I ever needed an evenly matched sparring partner, Deacon was it.
“You’re such a motherfucker!”
“I am,” I hissed as he twisted my arm behind my back. “Yours.”
He pulled harder. “Don’t you fucking bring Ma into this!”
“Why not?” I yelled, kicking him in the shin and throwing a jab in his gut. “She’s a good stress reliever!”
“I fucking hate you sometimes!”
“Good, that makes two of us!” I bellowed before hitting my knees and pulling my hair. He made a quick recovery and wrapped his arms around me. “I hate myself, Cruz.”
“You hate what they did to you, but you can be more. You can get out of this. I got your back, man, but you can’t run. Running gets you nowhere. All it does is blockade you from the team. We’re your tribe.”
Iris stood in the doorway in a white silk nightgown. “Is this going to be a common thing with you?”
“What?” I huffed.
“Beating up on your one and only friend,” she challenged, stepping closer. “Because if it is, I may be on the wrong team.”
Sitting in the chair, I rock back and forth silently as Cameron studies me. “… Are you always so focused?”
I give him the evil-eye and painfully lift my middle finger. “Yes.”
“It’s frightening,” he ponders, sitting back in his chair. “Do you need anything?”
“Ice would be a nice thought.”
“Keishi wants to meet you,” he says, like mentioning the weather. “To discuss your future within his organization.”
The words mean little to me. I won’t be joining Keishi Nakamura for anything unless it involves the walking of his granddaughter down the aisle to me. “Does he realize I’m a bit preoccupied?”
His laughter fills the room. “We both know you aren’t going to be here very long.”
“I don’t know that, do you?”
“Raniero, get up,” Ronnie says from the doorway. “You got a visitor up in holding.”
I stand and look at her. Her expression says all the horrific things her voice cannot.
“We’ll finish this later,” Cameron says.
Don’t be so sure.
The instant we hit the main hallway, Ronnie asks, “What the fuck happened to you?”
“I got jumped by Handcock.”
“Did he go to the hole?”
“I assume so, but I don’t know.” I know if Handcock is down; Violet is out, and I can’t waste time on my busted fingers. “Who is here?”
She unlocks the door to the room and hands me a bottle of water. “Just be nice.”
Oh, Dear God. No.
“Mama, what are you doing here?” I embrace her tight as she starts to cry.
“Mio Figlio! What happened to my son?” Her hands shadow over my cheeks like she wants to grab them but can’t for fear of hurting me. “What happened, Lucas Salvatore?”
“I had a run-in with the wrong guy.”
His mouth drops open as she glares over the top of her glasses. “Did you at least get a swing in?”
“I think I broke his jaw,” I cackle and we both laugh. “Fucker deserved it.”
“Yes!” she hoots, spreading her arms. “For making my baby look like that
!”
I sit on the loveseat, and she follows. “How are you?”
“Wondering how much longer you are going to keep this charade going with your father,” she complains, clutching my hand. “I mean, have you seen yourself, Salvatore? Is this worth proving your point?”
“I think it is,” I reply in a solemn, low tone. “Dad is an evil beast with horns and a pitchfork.”
She seems to ignore my opinion (not unusual) as she carries on, “He got your message from that little tartlet named Firecracker. I think she had implants, honey!”
My eyes blankly stare. “… Really, Ma? Implants?”
“Yes!” Her body language is so much better than mine. Her hands extend far from her chest. “They were out to here! And she was wearing some slinky blue sparkly thing with all that red hair. It clashed horribly! She looked like an Americana slut!”
I tilt my head and nod along. “Well, her name is Firecracker.”
“I know, but how she could do something so repulsive is beyond me. We had all the guys there to watch the show from the docks and here comes this hussy out of one of those big four times four trucks.
Rolling my eyes, I open the water from Ronnie. “Big 4x4 trucks, hmm? Not sure what kind of asshole would ever drive one of those things.”
“I think she serviced your Uncle Vinny with a lip job!”
“Blow job, Ma!”
“Yes! It was appalling! Emily and your sisters were doing nothing but giggling!”
Wait. What. Whoa.
Stop.
“… Emlee was there? Emily Lee Granger?”
I sent her off to a safehouse in Colorado.
“Oh! Yes!” she excitedly booms. “She is such a dear! We’ve been having her over for dinner every Sunday after mass since she got back into town.”
“And when was that?”
“I picked her up from the airport on June 21. She was so upset,” she whispers with that gossiping voice. “Crying. Hysterical. Said her boyfriend broke her heart and dumped her in Colorado.”
Ya. That would be me.
I was the first guy she trusted since the rape, and I shipped her off like a crate after she gave me her secondary virginity.
I said I was an asshole.
“Is she staying with you and Dad?”
“Oh, no!!!”
Whew.
“She’s staying with Stella!” she giddily says. “They’re getting so close, Salvatore, like sisters!”
Oh. Jesus. Fuck. No.
There is a moment when a choice arises. The proverbial fork in the road. I can dodge it or plow my big motherfucking four times four through the woods into the unknown darkness.
I adore my ditzy mother, but she has spent my whole life in the rumor wagon mill. Frankly, I think it’s made her dumb. That and my Dad enjoyed using her as a punching bag until I was waist-high.
The visit is bittersweet as I ask, “Do you happen to have Emlee—Emily’s number?”
She opens up her oversized, garbage can of a purse where nothing is organized. It’s reminiscent of my brain when I hit rock bottom. Changing her glasses, she pulls out her phone and swipes through the pictures.
“Here she is when she first got back,” she reports, shoving the phone up under my nose. Not sure if I’m supposed to snort Em for the high or look at it and see everything I did wrong. “She’s staying in your old room.”
Yes. I see that, Ma.
Just give me her digits.
“I let her borrow your old practice soccer jersey to sleep in.”
Strumming my fingers, I impatiently say, “Ma, can I have her number?”
She stops and swings back away from me. “Are you going to be the stand-up guy and call her to apologize, Lucas?”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Because if you’re just going to hurt her again—No, you cannot have her phone number.”
“I promise, Ma. I will not hurt Emily again.”
Fuck. This. Fucking. Day.
19
Shit. Hits. Fan.
The moment Mama leaves, I call Mierne. Unfortunately, it’s Thursday, and she is at work. With no other choice, I call Deacon. The phone rings and rings, but he never answers. I’m about to walk out of the room unattended when Ronnie bustles in.
“I don’t know what the deal is with you today, but you are one popular guy,” she says, handing the stack of messages to me. Serene, Dale, and Charlotte Tuddle have all called. “You have another visitor, but I’m moving you to one of the cells up by the office and bringing you some clothes because you stink.”
Ya, don’t remind me.
“And after your visit, you are going to the infirmary to have those hands looked at because you’re really swelling up. Lucky for you, Handcock is still in there, so I can’t do anything with you besides wait. I can’t clear you for work looking like that, and I won’t put you back in general until I know you are okay. Do you need anything?”
“Can you keep an eye on Naby?”
Spinning around, she nods. “I will if you will stop swinging those arms and running those hands into hard objects.”
“I’ll try.”
“Then, so will I.”
We make our way upstairs. The cells are the same size as a normal cell but have a small shower stall. They use them for quarantine and new arrivals, especially if they’re at max capacity and waiting on paperwork to get through holding. I spent my first week here with one guard watching over me.
“Can you call Mierne again for me?”
“I can,” she says. “I have nothing to do but babysit your ass today.”
Knowing the reprieve will do me well, I smile.
“You’re in #1.”
“Am I the only one up here?”
“Right now, you are,” she says, handing the fresh clothes to me. I spot the new notebook, pencil, and four protein packets. She places four bottles of water on the stack. “Enjoy the peace and quiet. “
“Thank the Warden for me.”
“I will.”
I scuttle off to my cell, shut the door, and turn on the light. “What the fuck are you doing in my cell, Cruz?”
He hops up off the bed and hugs me. “You made quite an impression with the Warden. Dear God, you look terrible and smell like day-old sex.”
“Shut it,” I scowl, pushing the items into his arms and walking to the corner stall. “I’m going to shower.”
“The real question is, why do you stink like….” I drop my pants and moon him. I don’t have to look to know he’s staring. “Nope, still the same tight ass you’ve always been.”
With a smirk, I disappear into the steaming hot water. It feels amazing. The water in the cellblock is nowhere near this warm. I let the water run over me for a good five minutes before Cruz insists on peeking in. “Are you sure you are okay?”
“I’m having dreams…”
“Sex dreams?”
I frown. “Not exactly.”
His sad eyes coax as he gives a devilish grin. “Am I in them?”
“Sometimes,” I say, noting the change in his expression. Shit just got serious. “… Is Iris?”
“Ya.”
“I came by because I’m heading up to Arkansas. Do you need anything before I go?”
“I think Stanis is bratva. We need a background check on Kevyn Abo. My mother is insane. And I’m the dick who fucked over Em.”
“Whoa,” he says, grabbing the towel. “You didn’t fuck over Em. You sent her to Colorado.”
“She didn’t stay.”
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he lowers his head and rubs his eyes. “Tell me she didn’t go back to Boston.”
“I don’t have to,” I mumble, stepping out of the shower naked and wrapping the tiny towel around my waist. “She’s got a fucking death wish, I swear.”
He grinds his teeth back and forth. “You want me to do something about this for you?”
“No, I need you getting Amber out of the fucking Ozarks,” I say, feeling helpless.
>
“You know it may be a bit before I can make this all come together.”
“I’m aware it could be a few weeks before I’ll see you again,” I admit, opening a bottle and sitting on the desk. I take a long swig and tear open the protein powder before dumping it in, resealing it, and shaking the whole thing.
“You’re making your dick jiggle.”
“Why are you looking?” I laugh as he flips me off. “Food sucks. I need some fucking gray sweat pants, a vegetarian pizza, and some Red Sox.”
“Domestic God.”
“I wish,” I confide, longing for some extended rest and relaxation. Deacon lays back and stares at the ceiling, and I think about telling him about his son, Merritt.
Fearing rejection, I can’t bring myself to say the words, which makes me worse than shoe gum. But what I do know is if Deacon finds out he has a son, there will be an all-out manhunt. I need to be there for him when it goes down, even if he is madder than hell at me.
“It won’t be happening anytime soon,” I grump.
Laying on the bed in his boots, jeans, black t-shirt, and Reckless Rebellion cut, he props one arm behind his head as the fingertips of his other hand tuck just under his belt. He looks sexy as fuck. “How many guns should I take?”
“How many teenage girls do you plan on deflowering?”
His head turns to me, and he snickers, “Fuck. You.”
“I’d take three with enough ammo to level the Rampage compound.”
“That’s what I thought,” he mutters, staring at the ceiling tiles. “Is she good?”
“Amber?”
Latching his fingers together, he whispers, “Yeah.”
“… In what way?”
“Every way,” he says, showing his sensitive side. “I’ve had a crush on her for a while.”
It stings, but I smile. “You’d be perfectly imperfect together, but she’s feisty, Cruz.”
Famous Last Words (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 2) Page 16