Famous Last Words (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 2)

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  “God, fuck! Yes!”

  We’re skyrocketing and believing in the impossible because we’re high as fuck in love. His fingers slip over my balls and squeeze gently.

  Let him do it, please.

  Let him do it without me having to say it.

  He’s gagging my full throttle down when I feel the brush of his fingertip on my ass. Tears drip from his eyes, and slobber comes brimming out. “God, I want to pull your fucking hair…”

  His finger dives into my ass, and we ride the wave until my gun unloads and shoots a mammoth geyser into his drowning mouth. I capsize my dick again and again, spurting every last droplet of cum into my boy.

  I don’t know when I’ll have him like this again, but damn…I need him. I really, admittedly need Cruz like I’ve never needed him before.

  “I think I might be bisexual.”

  He reacts with a deadpan blink—single, one, solitary. My SOS. “… Really, Nero? You just come up with this theory, nowala?”

  I blush and grin wide. “Ya, I mean. I never really considered it until prison.”

  “How many bitches you got serving you?”

  “One—you,” I answer proudly, monogamously. And damn! Fuck! Hell! It feels AMAZING. “I cannot imagine being with anyone else like I am with you.”

  He tugs off his shirt, wiping his mouth and snarling like he’s the lucky one. Little does he know, that is me.

  “You know I never spit that shit out…”

  “I’m aware,” I say as he brushes his shirt over my dick and cleans me up. “And it means a lot to me. Show me how hard you are.” He unfastens his jeans, and I drool over his magnificent piece. “This isn’t fair.”

  “From now on, I’ll say I come first.”

  I laugh. “I would let you. Come kiss me.” His lips graze over mine tenderly as his erection brushed against my arm. “I need you…”

  The door swings open and Deacon backs off, rapidly zipping his pants up. “What the fuck are you doing, Raniero?” Martinez yells. “Cameron told you this morning you had yard duty, you pansy paesano.”

  Deacon’s nostrils flare as he lunges up and pummels Martinez into the wall. His jaw forms a straight line as his arm muscles bulge. Instantly, sweat pours off of him.

  “You should never have called him a pansy,” Deacon warns, popping him in the schnads. Martinez buckles over and Deacon pops his head back to the wall. “And you damn sure never should’ve called him a paesano!”

  “He’s a faggot, and you’re one, too!”

  “Cruz—No!” I warn, knowing this is escalating to a dangerous place. He throws a jab into his side, and Martinez grimaces. That had to hurt. Maybe even broke a bone. Pity. I’ve got two broke hands because Cinco isn’t watching me. “Cruz!”

  “If you ever fucking talking to him like that again, I will split your dick in two and take you home just to see the horror on your wife’s face,” he seethes, fuming so hard steam might as well be blowing out his ears. “Do you hear me?”

  “Yeah,” Martinez gasps.

  Deacon presses his forearm harder against his throat. “And if you tell anyone that you saw anything, I swear to fuck—I’ll rape her in front of you.”

  I’ve never seen Cruz quite this vindictive. His whole body is shaking and rumbling with heinous violence. I’d be turned on if we weren’t in the presence of Martinez, but I know this is bad.

  This is really bad.

  But I won’t call our safeword—I won’t give Malcolm Martinez that bit of intel. I won’t betray Deacon that way.

  “Cruz, back down,” I command, calling off my insidious beast. “Cruz!”

  He cannot hear me, trapped in the torrent of hate. Martinez spit on me, and I cannot blame Deacon for his rampage. He is defending my honor.

  Deacon Cruz is doing something no one has ever done before. He’s crossing into uncharted territory, unshackling the past, and fighting for our freedom in the sun.

  Gone are the days of shame and secrets. Gone are the gray, clouds looming so low to the ground our heads were lost. Gone is the fear of ever being lonely.

  We conquer a glorious castle where he insists I become ruler of the lands and his flesh. My body is his blessed sanctuary. And I will not spare my rod as I grace the moment of enlightenment with my cum in his belly. I will spoil my boy and seek solace in his vicious victories.

  He is wisdom. He is light. He is my Saint.

  I am the darkness.

  “Saint Cruz!” I yell as he slacks off.

  Grabbing his cut, he threatens, “Remember to be careful what you say, asshole.”

  Still barreled over, Martinez questions, “What club are you in?”

  “The. Fuck. You. Club.”

  Deacon embraces my broken body, and I whisper in his ear, “Get Cristos to retract the Cinco funds for my safety.” I kiss his cheek, and he signs an I love you and peace before pointing at me.

  Knowing the trouble I am in, I brandish closer as Deacon leaves. I flaunt my shit. My bound hands graze close to Martinez’s face before I cockily gloat away. I scan over the room and him. Martinez pissed his pants, poor guy.

  Feeling my Master and mafioso fuse, I calmly whisper, “Tell my Daddy—the son he always wanted is coming out.”

  28

  Diffuse

  “You’re going to regret every bit of that,” Cameron warns as we pass by Ronnie. She looks disturbed and mildly unstable like she might go off the deep end and pull her gun on Cameron. I give her a stare and a discreet shake of my head.

  I appreciate the notion, but no.

  Escorting my ass into the depths of solitary, Cameron isn’t the patsy Martinez is. Martinez wants to win the lottery; Cameron wants a bonus check for snagging The Unholy, but he is willing to work for the pay-out. The elevator cranks down to the recesses of the vile sanctum.

  This is where I live.

  This is where I long to be.

  Somewhere in the dark where I can be free.

  I’m checked in by a Correctional Officer Jamichael Tucker. He’s big, buff, black, and…Oh, so mean looking. I imagine the ribbing he got as a child for his last name and all the words it rhymes with….pucker, sucker, fucker. “Where is the Warden’s order?”

  “Martinez is getting them,” Cameron lies. We both know it. “Jolly said, go ahead and get him in.”

  “What’s wrong with his hands?”

  I don’t answer because he isn’t speaking to me. “He broke both of them in a skirmish with Handcock,” Cameron says as Tucker eyes me with suspicion. I give a wicked, maniacal grin. He does the same.

  Oh, you’re good, bro.

  Am I recruiting?

  I don’t know. Maybe.

  A few are definitely on my radar, like Jolly and Ronnie.

  Laying his arm up on the podium, Cameron asks, “Is Handcock still down here?”

  “Yeah, man,” Tucker informs, pointing. “He’s down in #12.”

  “Then give Raniero #13, so he understands how we deal with infractions.” Tucker cocks his head giving Cameron an—are you serious?—look. He taps twice on the podium. It’s a signal for something. A Cinco code. A mark of Lotus. A bond of brotherhood. Something. “#13.” He pivots closer, getting up in my face, and spits, “And I’ll see you, later.”

  Cameron walks off like he took down an epic monster and got bonus points. I swear, he skips. With his dark, almost obsidian eyes, Tucker peers to me. “This wasn’t my choice, Bossman.”

  I furrow my brow. “… Do I know you?”

  “You’re Salvatore Raniero; you don’t need to know me.” He offers a charming smile before flipping his arm out towards me and showing me the Fleur-De-Lis tattoo. He’s either a Saints fan or a Saint fan, but my bet is on the latter. “You don’t have orders from the Warden.”

  “Nup,” I acknowledge.

  “You want me to call her?”

  I shake my head. “Not yet.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Ya,” I mutter. The least of my worries is how I’
m going to work this with my hands, and Kit wants to try and accommodate me. “Let’s do this.”

  He rises off the stool, and I do not kid about this—he’s a fucking giant. Probably six-six, six-seven, and all fucking muscle. I want to sit down and have a round of beers with this guy because I bet he’s got some stories to tell.

  The dimly lit hallway is surprisingly quiet until we reach Handcock. He peers through the window like a psychopath. His eyes are bulging, and his gnarly mouth forms a shape similar to a rabbit. He pounds on the door, but nothing moves. “Are you sure you don’t want me to call Jolly?”

  “I’m certain.” He unlocks the door, and I step inside the padded cell.

  “If you change your mind, I’m on duty every night from six to six.”

  “Thank you, Jamichael.”

  “You’re welcome, bro.” His lips purse together, and he nods. He’s not happy and neither am I, but calling the Warden only promises one thing—whatever is about to happen is going to be a hundred times worse when Deacon freezes the five million. We considered the option in our initial plans before my incarceration. The banks won’t argue with Delarte Cristos. He’s a motherfucking tycoon. If he wants to pull five million from a South Texas gang, he’s going to do it. The threads of my loyalty to Cristos are thickening with each passing day; I am very aware.

  The concrete floor has a slight slope to the center with a drain. It’s a bit unnerving for my OCD—the slope, I mean. I keep focusing on the angle – ten to fifteen degrees – and imagining the center caving in as I fall into the pits of a ravenous hell where men like Handcock reside. They’ll feast upon my flesh and throw my bones to their hellhounds while a scantily clad succubus gyrates wildly in a wicked tantric dance.

  It’s macabre, this nightmarish mind of mine.

  I have to piss, but I ignore it and lay on the bed, which is more cot than a mattress. There is a slight odor of old blood and cum when I sit upon it. My belly curdles, and I deflate to the floor. I’m exhausted.

  I scoot like a centipede across the rugged cement. It chaps my knees and elbows, but I manage to get my back on the wall and curl into a ball.

  From this perspective, the angle worsens. I close my eyes and count to ten to try and calm down. I open my eyes and see a glimpse of his face in my memory. I hear his voice.

  “I gave her up to have you. And boy, I am having you for the rest of your fucking miserable life. You will never, ever forget this.”

  Staring at the drain, I let the sound of his voice run on repeat through my mind again and again until I have it copied in a new mental file. I haven’t wanted to think about this night for years, but here in the cell alone, where I can hurt no one, I dig. My eyelids shutter closed.

  Stop. Rewind.

  Six years ago, my rapist grabbed Kaci. I negotiated my ass for hers. I was that crazy son-of-a-bitch screaming, “Take me instead!” I see his eyes and refresh the image, clarifying it, and zooming in. “His eyes are the color of the cement,” I mutter, lightly rocking. “They were the color of the stone.”

  I’m losing my shit, and I know it.

  The scrips will come. “Take. Swallow. Show.”

  And they will come, too.

  Take. Swallow. Show.

  Walking Bourbon Street, we smiled and laughed in our drunken revelry after picking Iris up from the airport. It was our first time together. We kept the cupcake in the middle and flanked her with tall, plastic glasses filled with Hurricanes we carried. I tipped the waitress extra to quad the shots because we were all nervous as fuck.

  I had told each of them about the other in great detail. This point in my life was highlighted in bright, bold yellow. Kaci wanted me to love and love without bounds.

  We were holding hands.

  Walking…laughing…walking…drinking…laughing.

  After eating crawfish and grabbing a bag of beignets, we called for our driver to pick us up. He was on staff at The Dollhouse, and I had the place to myself all weekend when Dom went away to Florida on a fishing trip with our colleague, Randy Bianchi.

  He knew we were solidifying our triangle – our trinity – and these few days held a pivotal weight to our future achievements. If we couldn’t trust one another, we wouldn’t survive the hurricane of our fathers.

  The lights blurred with color as we sped to the estate. By the time we arrived, Iris was dozing on my shoulder and holding Deacon’s hand. “Come on, baby.”

  I scooped her up slowly, and she latched her legs around my waist. I kept inhaling hair, so much hair. Deacon smiled and kindly swept it off her back. “Someone is worn out,” he marveled, laying his hand on her back. I winked.

  “Will you require anything else this evening, Mr. Raniero.”

  I shook the driver’s hand and said no as we walked to the house. I was carrying Iris and Deacon had her shoes and bags. She perked her sleepy head up and said, “Am I here?”

  “Yes, Angel,” I replied, unlocking the door. “We are here.”

  In the foyer, the chandelier sparkled with the garden lights shining on the crystals. Iris gazed up, mesmerized by the prisms bouncing amongst the glass. It was gorgeous. I sat her on her bare feet, and she took off running across the shiny wooden floors to the French doors framing the pool outside. She glanced back and smiled at me as her skirt billowed around her.

  “Oh, my…” I gasped awestruck. “I’m so fucked with this one. Has she always been so…?”

  There were no words to describe Iris. She was everything perfect and wonderful.

  Lighting a couple of smokes, Deacon handed me one before grabbing a bottle from the bar. “She was when I met her. Highs and lows and God forbid you get in her way. She was a fluttery butterfly with talons and teeth.”

  Opening the doors, she stepped outside to the edge of the pool and dropped her floral dress around her ankles. With no panties on, she eased out of her bra, tossed it to a chair, and swooshed into the water. So much red hair…

  “Dear fuck, she is trouble with a capital T,” Deacon mumbled as we sat in the lounge chairs. “What are we going to do with her?”

  “Pray she doesn’t fucking wake up and realize she’s triggered with years of internal systems, framework, and data.”

  “… You know what Kaci stored in her brain?”

  “Ya, I have a damn good idea,” I admitted, puffing on the cigarette. “But I haven’t a fucking clue how to get it out of her. Gennaro was an investor in the cognitive architecture experiment—CAE—at Sibyl. Instead of sending her away to summer camp, her mother volunteered her thirteen-year-old daughter to go on a suicide trip.”

  “Jesus,” he ranted, shocked. He chugged a few shots from the bottle. “Lydia Kettles let him experiment on her own daughter…”

  “They wanted her trained to be a spy, but at some point, Kaci got ahold of her and broke the record for bad behavior.”

  Leaning forward, Deacon whispered, “How long have you known all of this, Nero?”

  “Since Jaid stole the records from Chance Ballister’s old house, Houston,” I laughed, easing our tension. He rolled his eyes and smirked. “I was on the phone talking her through it. We found his detailed mission log in the files. Take the job at Abernathy, charm Iris Kettles, and shut her down. His only job was to obtain the asset and keep her safe. He started failing miserably, and Dom ordered Chance killed because of his lackluster attitude at protecting her. He had an opportunity to do the right thing, but he didn’t, and he knew.”

  “There’s always a choice…right and wrong…good and evil…”

  I shrug, taking a swig from the bottle. “He felt guilty about his service, and in a last-ditch effort at redemption, he tossed her file on my desk when I was training at Sibyl. He figured out the tug-of-war that was escalating between Gennaro and my father, and I seemed like an easy out.”

  “You’ve never told me any of this,” Deacon mutters with an astonishment. “Why?”

  I kept my eyes on Iris. “What was I going to say? I was conned into protecting a
girl I didn’t even know. I was damn nineteen years old. I was a fucking baby.”

  “There was nothing in Kace’s notes about any of this?”

  “Not a goddamned motherfucking thing.”

  With his elbows on his knees, Deacon glanced up, his hair blowing over his eyes. “Who did Ballister get the contract from?”

  I gave a peeved, side-eyed glance. “My father.”

  “Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.” He took a deep breath and sat up. “So, did Kaci lead you to Sibyl?”

  “Not technically,” I answered, cracking my knuckles. “That belongs to none other than Nicky. He put me on Serene’s radar. Kaci got wind of it. And eventually, Chance. Everyone wanted a piece of the Raniero pie.”

  With a tilt of his head, Deacon marveled, “It’s good pie. So, explain this to me,” he said, sipping the whiskey. “You stumble on one of her triggers and then what happens? Does she just start spouting out random facts?”

  “Depends on how deep it’s planted,” I replied, refusing to take my eyes off of her delectable curves. “I’ve seen it go many ways. Sometimes, they give off a single word or phrase where the intel is located. Sometimes, retrieval fries their brain to the point of needing continuous care.”

  Quietly, Deacon asked, “In a hospital?”

  “A psychiatric facility,” I countered.

  “… For how long?”

  “If she gets broken—it could be forever.”

  I heard his heavy sigh and sob, knowing what was on the line. I denied the tears I cried. I paid them no attention. I gave them no credit. I couldn’t stay in love with this girl knowing she was a lost cause, so I had to believe I could save her. I couldn’t escape and pretend I didn’t know. I had a fucked-up moral compass, but still—I had one. I was stuck in her hell until this was over.

  “Come swim with me!”

  “What if someone else tries to crack into her?”

  I looked him straight in the eye. “They could essentially kill her or send her into a vegetative state. There are no safe answers here, Deacon, but I need your help. She needs to trust you as much as she trusts me. And if you don’t think you can do it, you can go.”