Newsflash asshole: there is a new motherfucking bastard in town.
And he just so happens to be your son.
Slamming the door, I stride into the middle of their glorious Thanksgiving spread—a beautifully huge turkey with all the American sides plus olives, lupines, braciola, bruschetta, and pasta.
With my mother and Vinny on either side of my father, I grab the back of the empty chair – mine – at the other end of the dining room table and fling it away. The legs crash into the curio and send a pane of glass, collectible glassware, and prized crystal into a heap. Curling my fingers under the edge of my mother’s highly-polished fine wooden dining table, I stare into the devil’s soul.
He is me.
I am him.
“Lucas Salvatore!” my mother reprimands, staring at my blood-stained shirt, forearms, and face. “What happened? What’s wrong with you?”
Flicking the cap on my lighter, Cesario reminds me of what he knows—my purest identity.
Roll. Flick. Snap.
Roll. Flick. Snap.
“If you ever come near Deacon Cruz again, I swear I will slit your throat. Do you understand me? Stay the fuck away from the people I love. You crossed a fucking line. And you will never do it again.”
“Then I suggest you cease your unsavory activities with those hooligans,” he scolds, tossing the lighter. Not breaking my stare, I grab it mid-air. “Destroy your ties with those misfits or I will end them all.”
With my jaw grinding, I give a dreadfully menacing smirk and threateningly hiss, “Pot calling Kettle black.”
With a jiggle in his round Dad-belly, he chides, “Don’t even!”
Quaking with the insidious rage filling my veins, I erupt into the dark prince and spew, “She’s missing!”
“Who is missing?” Mama leans forward and quietly asks Vinny. “Who’s missing?”
“If you think for one minute I had anything to do with that…”
“You’re right,” I seethe through gritted teeth. “I know you did.”
“Get to my library! Now!”
“Fuck you!” I counter, popping all of my knuckles with my palm. The pain burns. “You just want me to go in there so you can bully me around. Punch the old kid around some more. It doesn’t mean anything, though! None of this does because nothing ever changes!”
“That’s enough!” Mama insists. “Sit down and have some wine, Lucas!”
“What Mama?” I bellow, not losing the ground or looking for answers on the ceiling because I know them all. “You want to keep lying and not speaking the truth. When baby Rebecca drowned, I got beat with the grip of a gun, his fist, his belt—for years. No one said anything. No one protected me. So, this is what you get, fucking like it or not.”
She begs, “Cesario!”
“Don’t act like you didn’t know!” I huff at Mama.
Crying, she stands and pleads, “Sal!”
“Don’t act like this is all some big family secret that no one dares to talk about. It’s time for some truth.”
“Lucilla, sit down,” my father orders. And she does it. “Then maybe you’d like to tell your mother her only son is gay?”
“I’m not fucking gay!” I contend, lifting my hands. “And even if I was, does that justify your violence? Does that matter?”
“… You’re gay?”
“I’m not gay, Ma.”
“The pictures tell a much different story, son,” my father snidely states. “I assume you saw them.”
“Ya, but they don’t tell the whole story, do they, Dad?” I loudly question. “Why don’t you tell them how I’m in love with Iris Nakamura…”
Jetting up from the table, he points to the door. “Get out of my house! You will not mention that nip in my house!”
“Oooh!” I clap in the air as I purse my lips together and shake with disbelief. “The shame is so much worse, isn’t it? Can’t have our Italian son marrying a half-baked Jap girl, can we?”
Mama looks to Gaby and mutters, “So, is he with a gay hooligan or with a Japanese girl or Emily?”
“All of it, Mother,” Cat contends, walking in behind me. She’s laying it down and standing up for me. “He’s all of those things and so much more, but you don’t know that because you don’t know a damn thing about any of us. You sit here playing Daddy’s puppet on a goddamned string acting like everything is fine. Nothing is fine. Fine has never existed in this family because you’re the whore and Daddy’s the pimp! And we’re fucking peasants!”
“You need to go,” Durante, Stella’s boyfriend, interjects. Standing up, he walks over to Cat. His fingers tightly cinch around her arm, and I’m done. I pull back and swing, walloping him, as he lands in the middle of my spot at the table.
Slobber swings out of my mouth as I grip his collar and explode, “If you ever touch my sister again, I will kill you! This house is mine! This family is mine! Get the fuck out!”
Dishes clank beneath his weight, and he knocks over a water glass, but dinner remains unharmed. Durante rushes for the door as Stella gets up to follow him. “This family is fucking whacked!”
“Get out of the house, ya damn caco!” Vinny yells.
Knowing I just ended their relationship, I warn, “If you walk out the door, Stella, don’t ever expect to come back. You won’t be welcome here. I will disown you faster than a goddamned banana.”
Cat snickers by my side, lightly brushing my fingers, as she praises, “Thanks for defending me, baby brother.”
My father rises from his chair and applauds with respect as I’ve never experienced. Vinny, Magno, Freddy, and Tony all join in. They go on for about two minutes until he declares, “There is my future and the future of this family! Vinny prepare the paperwork to hand over the other two percent to my son. Open some champagne, Lucilla!” Stella fumes, following Mama. My father toddles around the table, and I realize how old he is getting.
He had been waiting for my balls to drop, to take a stand, and defend the family. The rest of it—doesn’t matter to him—as long as I play by his rules, Iris stays alive. This much I know is true.
“Welcome to the family business, Salvatore.”
I peer down at Cat as we acknowledge the insanity we exist in. Outsiders can’t possibly understand. We’re the misfits, the black sheep, the loners. He embraces me and my eyes shield my soul with tears, somehow justified, but things never stay calm for long around the Raniero household as Cat proudly declares, “By the way Dad, I’m screwing the hooligan.”
“We should invite him over for dinner!”
The discipline we give; the punishments we take.
Emily and Deacon brought the truck over to have Thanksgiving dinner with the family. Mama doctored his wounds and fell in love with Cruz.
She wasn’t the only one.
After the attack, I knew I couldn’t stand the idea of not having either one of my submissives with me. They were my grounding mechanisms for the dark times ahead. I spoke at length with Dom, a genuine, real conversation.
While the open dialogue wasn’t unusual with the only Master I ever honestly had—because he encompassed more than just physical—my request was because I rarely asked for anything. I wanted to keep Deacon, not like at the foot of my bed, but in Boston with me. I eloquently explained my reasons, both personal and professional, and Dom praised my maturity.
I now own fifty-one percent of the Raniero Enterprises.
The thing with my father is it was never about fucking Deacon. He knew it would get under my skin, and I would detonate. He wanted to know if I could make a point and fight for what I believed in with conviction.
Well played, Dad.
My father wasn’t without his list of stipulations, and he pointed those out after dinner in his library. We sipped cognac and smoked cigarillos for the first time. The time was an initiation into his world. My grown man felt his respect, but as my finger rubbed over the wood grain of his desk, the child remembered.
When we were little, we we
ren’t even permitted in my father’s office unless we were in trouble. At which point, the belt (or whatever punishing implement he’d chosen) would come out, and we’d bend over the desk (or coffee table, if we weren’t tall enough) and take his rounds. My father was a domineering man, set in his ways, and beholden to the crime world. I understand childhood abuse patterns can be cyclical, but in his case, it wasn’t. Old Poppa would never have raised a hand to a family member—ever.
His mother, Viola, was another story. I never experienced her cruel ways, but the sisters had heard rumors, and therefore, I knew. She was legitimately schizophrenic with psychotic flares that led to her starving the children for days or wandering off in only her bloomers. And Viola’s “condition” was also the reason my grandfather Luca Raniero never divorced to be with his mistress, Anna Ford. He feared for the children and his wife. Supposedly, my sister Gaby is almost identical to Grandmother Raniero.
The older I get; the more things make sense.
“I’m going to ask you one thing,” Cesario says, relaxing in his well-worn leather chair. “You give me the answer, and I’ll make it happen.”
Puffing on the cigarillo, I reply, “Okay.”
When evil pried into my soul, I never blinked. My shooting trainer, Canary, said it was one of my greatest attributes—the poker face of emotion I could turn off or on. And admittedly, there had been certain instances when it did benefit.
“Anna or Iris.”
Without even taking a breath, I respond, “Anna.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
With a nod, I politely reply, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He lifts a brow and gives the nod. “And since you didn’t act like a brat, I’ll tell you. Iris will remain safe as long as you keep playing by the rules.”
I know.
“I figured,” I say with a snarl. “I’ll do what is necessary, Sir.”
Oh, yeah—I was laying it on good and thick, all for my girl.
“She’s somewhere safe,” he informs. “I’m not a fool, I know you’ll look for her. You certainly possess the skills to do such, but you won’t find her. And if you search, I will no longer be able to guarantee her safety.”
“Are you guaranteeing it now?”
“Let’s say, Iris, isn’t under any duress. She can come and go as she pleases. She is living her life, and I suggest you do the same. Forget being with her, son. You should never have been in the same room together, and for that, I blame Anna. So, consider yourself lucky, but I’d suggest staying out of Texas.”
“I’ll do my best.”
He rises to leave, reaches the door, and turns around to assess me. “I know the demons. Keep fighting.”
With a slight confusion, I furrow my brow and walk towards him, like I am four-years-old and still pure. “Thank you, Dad,” I whisper, crying and hugging him. “Thank you.”
“Everything I did was for you, and I know you may not understand that, but one day you will. You’ll know how hard it is,” he says, sighing. “I did the best for you that I could. Love you, Salvatore.”
Two words are the most I will ever get from my father.
And they will have to be enough.
70
Manifesto
Over the weekend, Deacon and Cat clean Nonna’s house, and without a doubt, fuck in the rubble. I have an adoring, sweet blonde thing making me dinner. I should mention Freddy and Tony came to clean up the remains of Peter. It was bad. Apparently, I have a bit of a violent streak. Smirks.
“Damn it!” Emily curses from the kitchen. “I forgot to get mushrooms!”
“I’ll go,” I insist, kissing her on the cheek. “Be right back.”
“I love you!” she yells as I walk out, feeling like the asshole who can’t return the sentiment. I can’t even dull it down to love you since being with Iris at Juliet.
I’m not the same.
Sex is sex. Love is love.
It no longer applies to me.
I’m broken in love and sex because they crashed.
I hop in the truck and drive to the store. I grab the mushrooms. I walk into the parking lot and see a woman dressed in professional Dominatrix gear with her collared submissive. They must be going to a party. All of my blood rushes to my cock as I hurry back into the cab and have a panic attack. I’m unable to move or breathe or feel.
Opening the center console to grab a pack of smokes, I spot the razor blade. I pull the box out and try to forget about it. I smoke three cigarettes, but I cannot get past the glimmer of the sharp edge. It would sedate the pain of losing Iris and giving up my sadistic tendencies, which I refuse to impart on the flesh of Emily.
“I don’t need the pain,” I mumble, cracking my knuckles and rocking, as I lie. “I don’t need it.” I close my eyes to calm. “Fuck it.” I roll my sleeves, grab the blade, and etch a quick line.
Pain is good.
So good.
The blood drips onto my jeans, but I don’t care. I set the blade down in the cup holder and aimlessly drive for the next half hour. Emily calls. Cat texts. Deacon calls. Dom sends a long text. I turn off my phone and toss it in the glove box as I wind up across the street from the seedy downtown club where I used to haunt as a teenager. There is a line out the door, and everyone is dressed in BDSM attire.
I contemplate my ability to say no. I’ll refuse the sordid and walk away. I’ll be the light in my darkness—just a quick dance with the demon. I am a vampire, after all, stealing life and running with blood smeared on my lips.
I park the truck and draw another line.
Rolling my sleeves down, I look in the backpack laying on the floorboard. I pull a tank top and my Downbelow hoodie from the backpack. I hastily change in the truck.
Stashing the blade in the console, I turn off the truck, grab my wallet, and find my JULIET ball cap. Nothing screams—I’m into kink like a sexhat. These people will sniff me out. They will provide. I’ll have a sub on her knees for a short scene.
Just a little taste…
Then I’ll take home the mushroom.
Waiting in line, I finally make it to the entrance. I pay my twenty bucks as the snow starts to fall. I’m fucking sweating buckets. Withdraws are real as I crack my neck at the gloriously wrapped ass in front of me. The black thong displays a perfect fruit, and the sheer black skirt leaves little to the imagination. She spins, accidentally running into me. “I’m sorry!”
“It’s alright!”
I keep going deeper into the club with the pulsing rhythms and the pounding lights. The overheated computer in my brain calms with the only coolant I have ever known.
Girls in red latex walk past as a guy in a horse head chased after them. Dancers perform on the caged platforms, tantalizing the audience with degenerated acts. I’ve never been so at home in my wonderful, unconventional world.
Shuffling up to the bar, I shout to the waitress in the sparkling cat ears. “Quad Whiskey, Neat.”
“Brand?”
“I don’t fucking care.”
“You got it, baby,” she flirts, pouring my drink. “Are you new here?”
“I haven’t been here in a long time.”
“We’ve got live booths in the back if you want to watch, Sir.”
My cock swells at the very word. I leave her a hundred and walk towards the back, through more of the beautiful chaos that is my crazy.
I hit the dance floor, shaking my ass across with bodies sweating, grinding, and moving. One young sub in a thick silver choker passes by and kisses me—tongue down my throat, groping my dick, and offering me a ride.
“You interested?”
“Maybe in a few,” I say, wanting to see the real live action.
“I’ll be at the bar.” She winks.
In the back, the darkened area is like a zoo with angled, glass walls showing all I need to submerge and savor the good hit.
Whips fly. Cuffs restrain. Riding crops pop.
I’m scintillating when I make my wa
y to the other side and see the two-dozen individual private booths rotating like a carousel around one performance in the center.
Jack-off booths.
I’m getting buried alive in my addiction.
“I’ve hit a new low,” I mumble, pulling off my jacket and tying it around my waist. “No way.”
Behind me, hands skim up my biceps as I recognize the heady rose scent of perfume. I’m going to pass out with an insane smirk on my ugly mug. Draping her arms on my shoulders, she skids her fingers around and grabs my dick. I’m so fucking hard as Amber whispers, “You wanna play?”
“How long have you been here?”
“I’ve been following you for weeks, Raniero.”
My eyes scan over her boobs in the red corset with black ties, black leather boy shorts, and ridiculously high, red and black thigh-high platforms.
God, I want to unwrap that package.
“We can get a room.”
“I’m so angry with you,” I mutter as she rubs my cock. “What you did…”
Licking her lips, Amber blinks up with her innocent long-lashed doe-eyes and seduces, “Discipline me, Master.”
That was all I needed to trigger back into the hideous craving. I duck down and toss her up on my shoulder. She doesn’t kick or scream as I drop a few hundred on a room. I set her down in the chair.
“Curtains open or closed?”
“You decide,” she says, sitting proper. “But remember who you are.”
Pulling the cord, I open the curtains as people gather outside the glass. I stalk along the edge, taking in all of their eager faces, as I drop my jacket and rip my shirt off. They hoot and holler, waving their hands about wildly. I glance at Amber, and she winsomely smiles.
I love performing.
I examine the vending machine of tools and select a sweet whip, nowhere near the quality I’m accustomed, but it will do. I swipe my credit card and retrieve the plastic bag. After unwrapping it, I crack it against the floor and continue to peruse the cabinet. I purchase a wooden paddle and a pair of nipple clamps because Amber has amazingly full nubs.
Famous Last Words (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 2) Page 57