Every Minute I Love You (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 3)

by Kailee Reese Samuels

  There will be no bidding on my precious doll as the underground gang serves merely as transport and holding. And as much as I hate to say it, making her disappear is easy, but bringing her back into society—even into her grandfather’s compound is the complicated part. The ideal situation is to implement a tactical garrison from our resources to prevent capture from any opposition.

  From a tiered standpoint, we are a midrange outfit with a growing network of connections. The rebel gang we’re contracting is beneath, one of the many rivals of Lotus longing to make a name for themselves. And Lotus, they are at the pinnacle.

  It is a risky move for The Unholy to make because it may only lead to Lotus targeting us. We kneel and sign that The Chairman and his advisors see our act as the ultimate gift—we are returning Iris safely to her origins. If they don’t see eye-to-eye with us, then this is nothing more than a kamikaze mission.

  And what can I say?

  It’s been a helluva ride.

  Accepting our actions from a logical position proves rudimentary. Emotionally though, my heart sours just thinking about it. What kind of assassin steals his princess using known traffickers to protect her?

  This fucking guy.

  And I am not a good guy but pulling this off attains wise guy letters.

  I feign a cheery resolve, decorating our house in lights. Emily urged us to hire someone for our steep pitched roof, but I insisted on doing it. I’m standing on the edge of the lengthy front porch while she nervously looks on from below.

  In her gray woolen coat, beanie, and pink scarf, she wraps her arms around her body and yips out a worrisome, “Be careful!”

  I roll my eyes. “Babe, I got this. Just toss another bag of clips up.”

  Her first pitch is a loss as the bag lands in the bushes. “Shit!”

  I snicker under my breath. The girl can do many things and even knows how to throw a ball, but loses it all when she’s scared. It’s kind of cute and charming in a way. She wrestles around in the bushes. Directly under me, she yells, “Are you ready yet?”

  “I was ready the first time.” I grin.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she says, swinging up her arm as the bag goes flying. I reach out over the edge as she squeals, fearing my imminent death, and I catch it. “Don’t do that!”

  “What?”

  “Be you!”

  I cackle and resume my future husbandly duty. If nothing else, it’s good practice for Iris. I know, I’m fucked up. I’m kneeling by the corner pitch when I hear my phone buzz on my hip with a clear, distinct tone. “I got to get this.”

  “I’ll go make some hot chocolate.”

  “Alright.” I hear the door shut. “You do that.” I answer the call. “Raniero.”

  “Hello, my Winter Wish…”

  Plopping on my ass, I chuckle. “What do you got for me?”

  “How about this one?” Georgia rhetorically asks. “It’s in your new favorite spot!”

  I’ve been looking for cases to get back into the swing of things, but at this point in my career, I’m kind of picky. I hate kids. Well, I love kids, which is why I hate kid cases. Missing kids are never fun and any challenge the actual case may pose is often obsolete. This is not to say missing persons are fun, but I can separate myself emotionally from those far easier than any child. They tend to wind up dead in remote places, and while that sickens my concentration to hunting down the perp, I down one too many whiskey bottles after looking in the eyes of a dead child.

  “Where?”

  “New Mexico.”

  “No,” I curtly reply, lighting a smoke. “I can’t do New Mexico.”

  I hear her fingers pecking away. “What about Texas?”

  “Georgia Angeline Wills…”

  She giggles. “Fine. What about the Canadian border?”

  “Where at?”

  “Um,” she says, winding a toy. “The entire Canadian border, but there is a centralized focus in PacWest. There has been a string of twenty-something bodies found.”

  I tilt my head back and forth. The gloomy weather is good for unsavory activities. “Send it.”

  “I will send the whole file after the new year. I’m still finding corpses,” she easily says like it’s just another day at the office. “One more thing, I ran the full background on Fumio Hada like you asked.”

  “And?”

  “There are no alarms,” she whispers with a disappointment. “He’s about as clean as Stephen Jones.”

  “Send the file.”

  “On it, Boss,” Georgia somberly replies. “Sal… her name was Ginger Langdon.”

  I run my hand through my hair. “Who?”

  “The woman who raised Iris.”

  “You have her address?”

  “No,” she replies with a rather solemn tone. “She was talking to an agent concerning charges against Angelo Gennaro and killed years ago, prior to his death.”

  “Fuck…” Her silence plagues my mind. “What?”

  “He was never charged but the number one suspect in the case was Lorenzo Gennaro.”

  I close my eyes, uncertain if Dom knew about the hit. “Who was the agent?”

  “Kalisha Ose Gabbard out of the Chicago field office. She quit almost immediately after, this case would’ve made her career.”

  Recognizing the name, I curiously tilt my head. “Where is she now?”

  “Her last known location was South Asia, specifically Thailand,” she reports with an even tone. “She was doing contract work for loss prevention.”

  Those two words—loss and prevention—set off an epic warning sign. “Define that… Give me more…”

  “She was monitoring the human stock.”

  The sirens wail is too late—we’re in a level 7 meltdown.

  Tugging my hair, I rock. “… From which side?”

  “Not ours.”

  My fists involuntarily curl into weapons as the one sent to protect my prized possession is a big fat red question mark. “Look into her involvement with Lotus under Kali Ose.”

  “How do you…never mind…”

  I stretch my fingers. “I need information on all the women my Nonna knew when I was a child. Detrice, Nadi, Caroline, and Sofi. I want to know if Nonna told them anything.”

  “I don’t suppose you have last names?”

  With a sarcastic chuckle, I say, “No.”

  “You need to be careful. You are getting terribly close to the fire,” she implores like Deacon tipped her off, probably when he was banging her more than the tip. “You’re the underdog, babe.”

  “I’m very aware.”

  “You’re entering the ring with vicious champions who won’t care if you’re the only Raniero kid and The Unholy to them is nothing more than a late night snack.”

  “I guess the joke will be on them.” I stare at the sky as the gray clouds build with snow. “Did you ever find anything out about Iris?”

  “Yes, but you don’t want this right now.”

  “Ya, I do,” I insist, cracking each finger with my thumb. “Tell me.”

  “Morpheus was telling you the truth, Angelo Gennaro did it because he was trying to get into the Atlanta scene. It was a botched attempt. My guess is the only reason Morpheus agreed to do business with you was because of Iris.”

  “That’s why Dom told Iris to kill his father.”

  “Yes,” she agrees, sniffling. “Or that can be assumed knowing Dom like we do. There isn’t anyone he won’t eliminate if they hurt Iris. So, when I tell you to be fucking careful…you don’t just need to watch what is in front of you; you need to be watching your back too. If Dom thinks you’re hurting Iris, he will kill you without even thinking twice. If you need me, I’m here.”

  The screen door slams as Emily appears from beneath the porch holding two thermal mugs. “I gotta go. Pray for me.”

  “Godspeed, Salvatore.”

  On New Year’s Eve, we decide to throw a party at our house. My entire family is present—my parents, my four sisters and the
ir dates, my uncle Vinny and Aunt Michelle, their daughter Fran and her boyfriend, my Aunt Tizzy and her new boyfriend of the month, and her daughter Maria and new husband Chris, Deacon, and Swain.

  The champagne flows like a river, but the light atmosphere seems off for a large Italian family gathering, even my father is in a good mood.

  Emily maintains a welcome smile and conquers hostess duties like a seasoned pro. I’m in the kitchen pulling hors d’oeuvres out of the oven when my phone buzzes my ass. I glance over at Deacon who is catering to Cat’s every whim. I shift my gaze to Swain, staying scarce in my study. “I need to take this really quick,” I say, kissing Emily’s cheek. “I’ll be five minutes.”

  “I love you,” she whispers with a smile.

  I nuzzle her hair and kiss the top of her head when I notice my mother glowing. I smile at her and walk into the study. “What’s going on?”

  “Your personal line is going off nonstop with an unknown number,” he replies, handing the phone to me. “You said to text you.”

  “I will be back in a few. Keep an eye on things.”

  Sneaking out the side door, I walk to the driveway where no one can see me. In nothing more than a blue Henley and jeans, I shiver in the cold. I send a text to the number, “Call Me.”

  Immediately, the phone rings. “Happy New Year’s, Angel. I can’t talk long.”

  “Baby,” Iris gushes, crying. “I just wanted to wish you a Happy New Year and tell you how much I love you.”

  “Every minute I love you,” I say as the side door opens and I’m caught red handed. “I have to go. Don’t forget anything, Dandy.”

  With the guilt on my face, I pop my jaw as my tiny, round mother strides closer with a scolding gaze. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing, but you’re wrong. And you’re playing with a loaded gun aimed at your head.”

  “Mama…”

  “No, you hush and listen to me,” she reprimands as I pocket my phone and tuck the tips of my icy fingers into the front of my jeans. I rub my lips together in a petulant manner. I’m pissed—mostly at myself—because I knew better. “If your father finds out you are talking to that girl, he will kill her and you. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And do you understand that you are my son, and it is my job to keep you safe?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I properly reply again, fiercely grinding my jaw. “Do you plan on telling Dad?”

  “Why would I do that?” she asks with an irreverent look like it’s the dumbest question ever. “If I tell your secret, you’re as good as dead. And I’m not living long enough to bury my only son.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But know you’re not alone in your secrets, Lucas.” Her hands reach out and grab my forearms. “Do you have a plan?”

  “I always do.”

  “Then whatever you do, don’t look back. Don’t look down.”

  “I’m not scared of heights.”

  “It’s not you that I’m worried about, honey,” she whispers, tugging my goatee, so I look at her. “It’s everyone you plan on smashing into on your descent.”

  “You assume I won’t fly up.”

  “Does your girl have wings?”

  Showing my teeth, I snarl. “Amazingly beautiful ones that sparkle like onyx diamonds.”

  Her eyes open wide as she warns, “Be careful with fallen angels. Demon spirits possess them.”

  Unable to hold back my wicked grin, I rebuke, “Mama, I gave her the wings.”

  Two Seasons

  There should only be two seasons.

  Summer and winter are for the wretched, the masochists, the weary, the dreamers, and the worn-out travelers beset by joy. Find the lazy in the mundane of two—hot or cold. Cakewalkers ride the climate of the ritual and pace their actions in a marathon to survive.

  Summer and winter pull.

  Fall and spring are for the wicked, the sadists, the takers, the doers, and the drivers ready to steer when necessary to attain happiness. Dodge the storm, embrace the cold snap, adapting to the rotunda of the change. Control freaks bound to fight through every flight and shift the gears to thrive.

  Fall and spring push.

  Fall.

  Spring.

  That will do it for me.

  II

  Call Off Your Hounds

  Part I of 2017

  15

  Here Comes Trouble

  In our finest custom tailored suits, we step off the private jet in Tokyo. With visions of cherry blossoms and mochi dancing in my head, I never imagined I’d be here. My palms are sweating as I smile at Deacon.

  We swagger with a focused determination like we’re on the runways of Paris. But this is pure business, and we are the up-and-comers, the new noisemakers, and the ones to watch.

  We are The Unholy.

  I owe this trip to the man on my right, Deacon Cruz. He put the plan into work almost six months ago, sprouting it from a mere suggestion by his ma, caring for it daily, and now, as we stride across the tarmac, I know we’re going to make it happen.

  Aside from all of that, Deacon looks good enough to eat in his trim gray suit and white sneakers. I’ve never seen him in a suit and neither has my pierced beast. We're both keenly aware of his presence.

  With his sister, Wendy, resurrecting their father’s business, Deacon’s need to find his twin brother Diablo, has never been so great. All of our resources are pressed to locate the missing man.

  Our biggest fear is we don’t know who he is. He could be a mechanic, a professor, or a small time drug dealer, but the unknown is dangerous. For all we know, he may be watching us or he may not even know of our existence. He could have a wife, two point five kids, and a white picket fence or he could be a playah.

  The thin fellow to my left in the bright blue suit and red tie with shoe prints is Nico Cristos. He’s here to make sure things run smoothly, and if they don’t… Well, let’s just say in this one instance, he assures me gender will play no bearing in his many talents.

  I toss a grin and he pounds my fist. “We got this, Nero.”

  His skillset is a valuable asset in our mix, and with his name attached to The Unholy, I’m more confident than ever we will be able to call this meeting a success. Perhaps more than anyone, Nico believes in running his life on his terms. His refusal to bend led to the open attack against The Arrangement by The Four Horsemen with Serene and his new son, Kade. They are hidden at Delarte Cristos’ compound in Florida, and he agreed to secretly go against the arrangement for the love of one grandson.

  The escalating tensions in Chicago with Dominic Gennaro and longtime family rival, Marcello Campanelli, have brought a literal distance to our relationship. Dom’s father made many bad decisions in the past which now affect the future—not only for Dom but for all of us. The time will eventually come for The Unholy to help the struggling Gennaro outfit or let it crumble under Campanelli’s rise.

  On top of his professional struggles, there is another significant noose around Dom’s neck. His longtime girlfriend, Ashley Randall, is as controversial as they come. Despite their engagement, she refuses to marry him and insists on keeping their lovechild, Romeo, with her and amongst society. Dom believes she is acting foolish; Ashley thinks Dom is a fool to believe in the narrative of dead men. In their fights, she has alluded to revealing the truthful whereabouts of his sister, Dr. Mierne Risen. His late night phone calls to me have concerned her ability to be a good match.

  My father, Cesario Raniero, the elder Marcello Campanelli, Wendy Cruz, and the moccasin from the swamps of Louisiana, Gage Boudreaux, now form the upper middle ranked Four Horsemen.

  They are not dead but dormant.

  Each of their independent outfits pose no threat to The Unholy, but together they far exceed our capabilities and reach. In fact, if they get their shit together – which is a big if – they could run against/alongside the top dogs—Lotus of Japan, but includes established franchises throughout Asia and the worl
d, Immortal of Central and South America, and The Commission only Italian from the consortium of many famiglia.

  Immortal, ran by Juarez “Muerte” Herrera, is the only single entity owner among the big three, but I fully expect to add Delarte Cristos’ name to the underworld triumvirate. Proving his loyalty with The Unholy—and even more so, me—Delarte ventured into the hospitality industry and expanded his shipping business to include worldwide ports in Asia, the Middle East, and South America. I predict his respect and worth will earn his place at the top of the food chain which is why I keep him close. I do like the guy, but I also understand riding coattails to forge my name into their roster.

  In a dark blue suit made for a king, Dom Gennaro gives no inkling into his disability beneath the fabric. I know what you’re wondering—I thought you weren’t telling Dom. That flew out the window when I flew to Chicago and we went for pie at his favorite joint.

  “What do you mean you are handling Iris?”

  “I’m having her trafficked, in a not so traditional manner.”

  He leaned back and considered me. I thought for a moment he’d pull his Beretta out and shoot me dead in the head then and there. “Who came up with these shenanigans?”

  “Trudy Diaz originated the idea,” I said, sipping on my beer. “Deacon and I expanded it.”

  He stroked his chin as his eyes scrutinized over me. “It’s fucking brilliant, Boston.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “But if you fuck it up,” he warned with a smirk, “I’m killing you.”

  “I’d expect no less from my Master.”

  “You better fucking take me with you.”

  My goals are two-fold. First, I can offer Delarte Cristos assistance in the dark recesses he currently has no control in—smaller upstarts like The Brethren or MC clubs like Reckless Rebellion or Morpheus and his massive number of minions.

  Delarte is not a people person; he is a businessman.