His Ride must fuck the fruit.
Her submissive would never forget the forbidden.
His Dominant would forgive the outlaw.
And with every pistoning move, I savor the tangy and delicious succulence as I swell in the crook of her devotion—a pillaging sacrament, a testimony of our twisted love, and a unifying, unbreakable bond. She laments as my cupped palm brings out the tempest and unleashes her flood.
“Look at your Master.”
“I am,” she weeps, searching for my hand, as we stare at Sal, pumping his fist. I match his rhythm thrust to stroke as we topple—the fire, the air, and the water—over the edge of ecstasy. “I can’t stop…”
With a loud thunder, his monster roars, “Come nowala!”
Staring at his eruption, I ache within and discharge with short bursts as she wails on me and falls limp in my arms.
And this is how we talk to fucking God.
And this is how we survive.
And how together, we thrive—with the art of Iris.
With a snarl, Sal growls, “I didn’t think you had this in you.”
No one ever does.
Keep your hand low when you play the game.
69
Ladder to the Sky
THE CHILDREN
Stash the important stuff for a rainy day.
“What are you doing, Ma?”
From his view on the living room sofa, G-Man easily spies on the conversation occurring in the bedroom of the small house.
“I’m packing us up, Mer,” Henney mumbles, rushing about and tossing the clothes into a bag. “We’re going somewhere special tomorrow. Go tell your sister to hurry up!”
With his blonde spiked hair, Merritt swaggers past in the living room. “We’re leaving.”
“I’m well aware,” G-Man replies, his heavy English accent slicing through the room. “You’ll be okay.”
“… Are we leaving Europe?” Raine asks, overhearing the brief conversation and licking the chocolate from her fingers. Her intense emerald eyes keep no secret about who she belongs to. With only inheriting the physique of her mother, Raine Raniero is the spitting image of her father.
She acts like Sal.
She talks like Sal.
Raine Raniero is hell on wheels in a tiny form.
Walking to the sink with a slight prance, she stands on the stool and washes her hands.
“We are,” Merritt says, studying his half-sister. “We’re going home to America.”
“I don’t want to go,” she declares, drying her hands. From the kitchen drawer, she removes the utensil holder and hands her brother the gun. “Did you get the other ones?”
“Of course, I did,” Merritt says, rolling his eyes and dropping the clip into his hand. “I’m not dumb.”
G-Man carefully takes both pieces from him. “All of the weapons are removed now, Raine. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she sniffles, gazing up with her big green eyes. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”
With his arms crossed, Merritt chastises, “How many times am I going to have to tell you that you were born in America?”
“I’ve lived in France my whole life,” she declares, stomping her foot. “Therefore, I am French.”
“You’re about as French as spaghetti.”
“Shut up,” she says, walking up the ladder to the loft where they’ve been sleeping. “I’m French. You’re just jealous you are not.”
“Gee, thanks,” Merritt says, following. He plops down and hands her a controller. “I just want to go to Texas.”
They start playing the video game and about ten minutes into the battle, she asks, “What’s it like?”
“I remember it being hot and living in a big house,” he says, wrinkling his nose and winning the round. “But I was little when I left.”
“You know we’re not right,” she says, licking her lips. “We never get out of the house unless we’re on the run.”
“Because we’re special, Raine.”
“If we’re so special, why are we going to a place I don't know?”
“Ma said it was time.”
At that exact moment, G-Man interrupts, “You are very special—both of you. But we aren’t going to Texas. We’re going to the mountains in Colorado.”
“I want to stay in France!” Raine loudly demands, tossing her controller and getting up. “I am French!”
Before she can make her way down the ladder, G-Man wraps his arm around her tiny silhouette and picks her up. “You are not French,” he calmly corrects. “You’re an Italian-American.”
“I’ve never been there,” she announces with a profound resolve. “And I don’t wanna go to Italian-American. I won't do it. I'm French!”
“No, but you are going,” G-Man assures, not looking for a fight and brushing the hair out of her eyes. “And Mer will be with you. Your Daddy has asked for you to be brought home.”
“Who is my Daddy, Uncle G?”
“He’s a very important man,” he informs, sitting on the edge of the bed. With a light rock, she calms in his arms. “You will love him.”
“Giles,” Henney scolds, shaking her head as Raine wedges out from his grasp. Raine blinks, watching their conversation, as Merritt continues playing. “We’ve discussed this.”
“We differ in our opinion, Hen.”
“And I still run this operation,” she reprimands. “You two need to go get bathed. We’re leaving very early in the morning.”
“I want to stay in France!”
“We cannot stay in France any longer.”
With a fury, she bellows, “Why? I want to stay in France! I don't want to go! I don't want to meet my father! I don't care about my father! I care about having Christmas in France and going to see the lights in Paris.”
“There are bad men coming here, Rozzalyn,” G-Man delicately says, squatting low and giving Henney the evil eye. “And you are a precious, magical being that needs to be moved with great care. You are fragile. And your Daddy loves you very much!”
With a harsh stare, she shouts, “If he ever loved me, he would've been here!”
“Go take a bath,” Henney furiously interjects. Despite her tantrum, Raine does as she is told. “Do not say anything else. There will be no more talk of your father in that way.”
“You know,” Merritt mutters, tossing the controller and acting like he wasn’t paying attention. “Eventually you need to tell her the truth.”
Floored by his remark, Henney responds, “And what would that truth be, Mer?”
“That her father is a dangerous killer.”
“So is yours,” G-Man adds with a smirk. Henney smacks him in the arm. “But they had no choice.”
“There is always a choice,” Merritt points out, turning off the game and making a beeline for the ladder. “But my mother fucked them both up. And they fucked us up.”
“Mer,” Henney laments, grabbing onto him. “It wasn’t like that…”
“Let me go,” he huffs, blinking his denim blue eyes. “You think we haven’t seen or heard anything that’s gone on for years, but I know everything. You kidnapped us.”
A look of horror escalates over her face. “I did what was asked of me.”
“You could’ve said no.”
“Merritt,” G-Man eases, standing up and laying his hand on the young man. “You’ll be home soon.”
“As long as we understand one thing.”
Close to tears, Henney asks, “What is that?”
“Raine is my sister. We share the same mother. She is all I know. And I’ll be damned if anyone tries to split us apart—now or ever.”
He heads down as they look on and Henney says, “I hope Sal knows what the fuck he’s doing…”
G-Man envelopes his arms around his wife. “I promise you, he knows exactly what he is doing or I wouldn’t have shown up to marry you a year ago, Hennessey Bindel Kettles.”
“You know I married a gay man to keep these kids safe f
or Sal?”
He laughs. “It’s okay. I married a straight girl for the same reason.”
“More wavy than straight, G-Man.”
“Fair enough.”
A light gurgling cry erupts from the room adjacent. “There’s my Romeo…”
“Do you think his Dad named him that on purpose?” he asks, following her to the nursery. “It’s so ironic with the future of Juliet unknown.”
Picking up the chubby toddler from the crib, she mutters, “Everything Dom Gennaro does is intentional, including naming his son Romeo Salvatore Gennaro.”
Stash the important stuff for a rainy day.
70
Samurai in the Snow
CATARINA RANIERO
Look in the damn mirror before pointing a finger.
“You look so beautiful,” Stella boasts as Emily spins in the white fairytale wedding gown for her final fitting. “You’re going to be such a beautiful bride. Don’t you think, Cat?”
My sister nudges my arm as I glance up from the long play by play text message I’m sending my brother. “She looks amazing,” I say, offering a fake smile, as the phone rings. “I have to take this call. It’s work—urgent. Excuse me.”
Snatching a glass of champagne, I walk from the private dressing room out into the main area of the bridal boutique where hundreds of dresses line the walls. “If you are calling to get pictures, you are sadly mistaken. You do not need any bad luck.”
“How is she doing?” Sal asks, exhaling. “Be honest.”
“If you were looking for the perfect little bride on top of the wedding cake, you won the damn lottery.”
He sighs. “It looks like it may rain.”
“Are you outside?”
“Yeah, I’m walking around the parking garage,” he says, taking another drag on the cigarette I wish I had. “I really hate all of this.”
“I know,” I reply, stepping outside. “But what do you really want to do?”
“Being in Texas sounds a lot better right now.”
“She offered to get married at Juliet,” I point out, digging through my purse and finding a smoke. I locate an empty bench in front of the gourmet hot dog restaurant next door and sit down.
“Don’t even. It’s sacred.”
Slamming back the glass of champagne, I rummage through my purse and locate a lighter in the bottom. I flick the flame, inhale, and close my eyes. The stress of his impending nuptials is enough to drive this bitch insane. “Maybe you should’ve done it.”
“… Had the wedding in Texas?”
“Yeah.”
“So, I can look into the pews and see the damage we’ve caused?”
“You know as well as I do The Unholy had nothing to do with what happened.”
“Are you aware I spent three months looking for Jaid?”
“I know,” I whisper as my eyes fill with tears. “You did the best you could.”
“It wasn’t enough, Cat,” he mutters with a somber guilt I’m unaccustomed to hearing. “Nothing will ever be enough this way.”
Taking a drag, I bravely counter, “Call off the wedding. The whole thing. You can do it. Say you aren’t ready. Say it’s too soon.”
“We’ve been together three years, Cat. How much longer do you think Dad is honestly going to give me?”
I lick my lips, knowing how right he is. “How close are you to signing a deal with Lotus?”
“Not close enough. The Chairman shook on it, but I have no absolute guarantee. I don’t know if that’s even a possibility.”
“When was the last time you talked to her?”
“Thanksgiving,” he confesses.
“You are getting married in nineteen days. Christmas Day, Salvatore. Nineteen days you have to change things,” I whisper, covering my mouth and keeping my harsh scolding as low as possible. “You don’t love this girl like you love Iris and we both know it. Change the trajectory.”
“I am working on it.”
“How?” I shout, frustrated. I get up and start walking for fear of one of the witches bursting out of the boutique and hearing our debate. “You need to do something quickly. The rehearsal dinner is on Christmas Eve. People are coming in from all over the world to see the Kid of the Boston mafia marry a girl he doesn’t love.”
“I love her,” he contends, begrudgingly. “I’m just not in love with her.”
“Okay,” I say, crossing the street and picking up my pace. “But you have to do something. It’s not fair to her or you.”
“Shit is just going to hell in a hand basket.”
“Did you think running your own business would be easy?” I ask, striding the four blocks to the RE offices in downtown Boston. “Come on, think about what you are saying here. You have three weeks to do something, so do it.” I glance up at the parking garage to see my brother sitting on the rails of the fourth floor. “Do not fucking jump.”
He grins that smile at me. “Would I do that?”
“I hate when you do this.” He waves his knees to the sides and sticks out his tongue. “You are trouble.”
“How did Ma feel about you coming to the morning meeting in ripped jeans and a ball cap?”
“Do I fucking care?” he angrily mutters. “I just came to pack my shit.”
“Do you realize who you are?” I ask, not expecting him to answer. “And how is this going to work?”
“Dad doesn’t know,” he says, grunting. “He’s in Spain with Cristos.”
After twisting his hat on backwards, he puts the ear piece in and pockets his phone. Carefully, he stands up and scoots closer to the decorative blocks. They alternate in a pattern resembling a ladder with one spot filled with a brick and the other open. He swings out and scurries down with a gymnast’s agility.
“Jesus Christ, you are going to start a war right before your wedding.”
“Whatever it takes.”
I breathe, crossing my arms, as I prepare to call 9-1-1. “I hate it when you’ve been away, and I get a glimpse of who you really are…”
“A fucking monkey?” he questions, jumping the final six feet to land on the ground. He turns to beam a white, priceless snarl as he prods, “You love me!”
“More than you know,” I say as he runs across the street to me. I hang up the phone. “Do something different,” I encourage, moving closer to him. “Because sitting in an office isn’t who you are.”
“You want me to preemptively break everyone’s heart?”
We walk to the end of the block, and he takes a seat against the building. “I want you to think about how to get the fuck out of this marriage and get us the hell out of Boston.”
He lights a small joint and hands it to me. “Us? Are you coming with me?”
“It’s ten o’clock in the morning,” I remind, taking a hit. “I’m sure this goes against Raniero office policy.”
“I no longer work for Raniero,” he says. “We are medicating.”
“Your version of medicating includes nightly bottles of whiskey, too.”
He extends his hand to get his precious dose back. I take another puff. “… Is this pick on Sal day?”
“Maybe,” I say, exhaling. “But you got to do something. We gotta do something.”
“I’m open to your suggestions.”
“And hell yes,” I contend, staring at him. “I’m coming with you. There has never even been a choice. I’m going wherever you are, baby bro.”
“I always have a plan.” He winks.
“Just tell me Cruz isn’t flying solo to this shindig.”
Sal shakes his head. “No, he’s bringing a date.”
“Thank the devil for small favors.”
Look in the damn mirror before pointing a finger.
71
Hello Hello
ZOE HESS
Be present when they count.
Awaking slowly, I open one eye as I lay against the wooden floor of the rental cabin. The blurry haze shows the reality of the events—glass scatters over the
floor, tables tip on their sides, and pillows rest in the middle of it all.
The cabin is destroyed.
And so am I.
I take a breath, close my eyes, and listen for sounds of the intruders. They’re gone, but the evidence is everywhere. My mind rushes with the absolutes of the assault, but in an instant, my training kicks in.
I know, I need help.
I spot my jeans laying near the front door and crawl through the broken furniture and shards of glass to get to them. I pray my phone stayed in the back pocket. I lunge towards it, knowing my legs and palms are bleeding. I turn the denim over and give a relieved sigh. I wipe my finger on the fabric and open my phone. I dial the number as the blood drips onto the screen.
“Pick up,” I mutter, easing towards the wall and sitting against it. I need the support from the agony in my entire body. Tears flutter in my eyes as I beg, “Pick up, please.”
After several rings, the line goes to voicemail. I hang up, defeated. Trying to decide who to call next, I feel the phone vibrate in my hand as I look at the caller ID. I accept the call. “Hello?”
“What’s up?” His soothing, deep voice fills the line. “Sorry I couldn’t answer, I’ve been busy packing.”
I try to speak but the words won’t come.
“… Babe?” He knows something is wrong. I’m never quiet, not like this. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“They got me.” A pause looms—and he knows exactly what I’m saying. “I’ll get a team to you ASAP. You know what to do. Don’t move. Don’t piss. Don’t do anything. I can have someone to you in less than an hour.” I hear him rummaging about and the sound of the booting up of his computer. “Do you know who it was?”
“I do,” I confide, feeling the warm tears trickling over my cheeks. “Oh God, how could I be so stupid?”
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