A Dark Place (a Tomb of Ashen Tears Book 5) Read online

  So much laughter.

  The older I get, the more distant my happiness becomes. No matter where I look or where I go, I can never seem to find it for more than a few fleeting seconds, unlike little Soleil Herrera, granddaughter of Muerte, who was the princess of the party.

  I was an attendant—a Queen in the nightmare—about to destroy every memory she had of her fourth birthday. A callous, cruel bitch protecting my spawn, even from virtuous babies that will grow into vultures feasting their ravenous eyes upon my own. Not this time. Not this round.

  I am a mother.

  I win.

  But at what cost?

  I glance around at the remnants of the festivity. Empty champagne bottles and glasses tumbled to the ground as swaths of rapid gunfire filled the air. Presents destroyed, and the pretty pink cake smashed. We did it.

  We did it all.

  We won.

  “I killed…” I stop, unable to say the name. My hands tremble. My head shakes in disbelief. “I’ll never be forgiven…” I hysterically cry with tears streaming down my cheeks like a spring storm, and I wobble, threatening to fall to my knees. My eternal savior rushes to catch me. “What did I do?” I clutch his arms, digging my fingers into his hoodie. “What did I do?”

  “We need to get you out of here.”

  “But I…fired…the gun…”

  “Yeah, you did,” he says with no remorse. “Choices were made. But this is over. This is the end, and now we must proceed. We need to think about our next move.”

  Patrolling echo of skeletons.

  I am not of them. I can’t be. Please.

  “There is no thinking left to do!” I scream. “This was impulsive and stupid!”

  “Killing is necessary.”

  I deliberately steer clear of his steady gaze as I tilt my head, revealing the filthy facts and haggard horrors. The Queen fell from grace. The Lotus toppled upside down into the shit-infested cesspool of disintegration. My legs flail as I need to be uprighted—but not by him.

  Not by him.

  With my hand on my belly—the future meal of Immortal—I bravely take a step over the only corpse that matters—one of our own. My bare foot stumbles beneath a limp limb, and he catches my trip. I glance up to the tranquil blue eyes staring back at me, and I pass with safety in silence, unable to read his thoughts. He says nothing because there is nothing to say. I am not unsullied. I am not an angel. And he is no Saint.

  Accidents happen.

  People flip sides.

  The reaper guides our path.

  We make calculated moves based on perceived judgements of how the future will roll out. And we may be wrong. The death of our own may be in vain, but at this moment…in this minute…it feels good. It feels right.

  But it doesn’t mean he will forgive me.

  With the conflict of right and wrong buzzing in my brain, I trudge toward the decimated tables, scanning over the mess, as the reality hits with a violent roar from my lungs. His hands grasp my shoulders to keep me from going down. “I cannot believe what I just did…”

  His nose brushes against my hair, inhaling my scent, and he kisses my head before placing his ball cap on me. “You’re okay. You got this.”

  “No, I don’t think I am,” I muster out as the heavy sobs swallow the sounds of my words, and his arms tightly clasped around me. “You followed me to Brazil. You were never supposed to be here. What if I had shot you?”

  “I will follow you anywhere.”

  “But you don’t love me enough!”

  He spins me around. “You want to say that to my face, baby?”

  “No!” I bellow as I lay my head against his chest. “I hurt him, Deacon. I hurt him!”

  “And we will pick up the mess and make the best of this,” he confidently reassures. “I promise you, I am not leaving you.”

  “Because you promised him that!” I yell, waving my hands to the clearing. “You would never say it on your own volition.”

  He jaw tightens to a sharp right angle as his blonde hair blows in the breeze. I glance out to the ocean—the waters calling my name—and cry. He leans slightly, dipping his fingers in the cake, and offering it to me.

  “Lick it,” he commands with authority. “And do not bite me.”

  “There is a body in the yard. This house is wrecked. And you want me to eat cake from your hands?”

  A snarl curls on his lips. “Yeah, I do.”

  I run my tongue along the edge of his fingers and suck them into my mouth. My eyes melt with his as I lean closer. I feel his body against me, but I make no sudden movements to indicate interest. His eyes prowl over the destroyed landscape, and his predatory gaze lands on me. His innate desire to repair the damage is evident, but I…I am not asking for his hands with fine-tuned motor skills to rebuild me.

  But I may not have a choice.

  He picks me up, setting me on the table, as I argue, “We are not doing this.”

  “Oh, we are,” he contends. He smears another glob of cake onto my lips and inches closer, trailing his tongue through the sweetness, savoring the deliciousness. “You are getting my love, whether you want it or not.”

  “Mmm, icing,” I whisper as our mouths collide into a kiss. “No cake.”

  Sugar is good; Saint is better.

  He spreads my thighs, settling between them, and then he grabs a handful of the gooey mess. Like a good little girl, I lap it up from his palm as I instinctively grind against him. This is what I am trained and tested to do.

  I forget everything—the dead body, the crazy chaos, the terrorizing agony, and how many defeats it took to win one fucking time.

  One fucking time.

  The losses won’t go uncredited, marring our thick skins and scarring our torrid hearts, but they were never ours until now. We remember because it is impossible to forget. The victims of the war aren’t holy or unholy, but set in the stones of a suffering purgatory no one wishes to visit. The bodies unfit for the landfill with noxious poisons invading our system and contaminating the air we breathe. The stench is putrid—trash, decay, and death—and the stain reeks on our souls, weeping with the heinous crimes of these hands.

  On the same hand, I eat mashed cake.

  His hands…my hands…

  …run along his belt…

  My fingers wrangle beneath his shirt, and I touch his skin. Scooting to the edge of the table, I wrap my legs around his torso and cry on his shoulder. I gasp at the strength in unwavering love.

  “Iris,” he moans low. The gravel in his voice strikes my blackened heart. He will protect the unborn child at all costs. “Baby…”

  “Love me, Cruz.”

  If we ask what matters, the answer is always the same—survival. Kill or be killed. We’re no better than our fathers before us. We’re sculpted in their image, and the only difference between them and us is we bury the wounds, welcoming their replication until such time we launch on an all-out attack on those who have harmed.

  We don’t drive-by; we detonate.

  We decimate landscapes and lives without blinking.

  And my children will do more.

  And their children will do better.

  The vicious cycle will never cease because we won’t ever agree, and no one dares ever to ask—what if we weren’t intended for contentment? What if, beyond it all, this is nothing more than a cruel joke, and we are nothing more than pawns on a board in someone else’s game? What if, we’re mere savages—like tigers stalking their prey, wild hyenas, or vultures—picking entrails from the crime scene?

  Tear the corpse apart, loot what you can, and run like the wind.

  Even now, as I grind against Saint’s sleeping cock trapped in denim, I consider the things I need to take from the dead body in the grass…grab the gun, the personal documents, the phone, the jewelry, remove the tracking device from the skin…call the crew, make the apologies, send fucking flowers.

  Goddamned gladiolas towering in a crystal fucking vase!

  L
ike it could make it all better…

  Like it could bring life back…

  Like we can forgive our sins…

  Like we can right the wrongs…

  Have an expensive cake—again—because we are allowed for one more day to breathe in his world, and it isn’t me out in the yard. It’s not my body and the baby in my belly laying face down in the sticky crimson slime.

  I get to keep my slime.

  One more day…one more day…

  “Stop thinking,” Cruz mumbles as the sky and grass merge into a blurry haze. My head tilts back, and I shut my eyes to the memory of being on his arm. He was in a black tux, and I was in white, and they mistakenly bet upon my faltering. They didn’t comprehend that I was not a meek, demure trophy prize, but a bitch set on revenge.

  Their losses are significant because I’m as ruthless as any dick in this club.

  I’ll wear the suit, smoke the cigar, and stroke her cheek before she kneels in servitude. And there isn’t a goddamned thing anyone can do to stop me. Not now.

  I eliminated the threat, severed them in two, and laughed at the irony.

  Little Soleil was laughing…and smiling…and running…chasing bubbles in the sky. And she’ll never forget the day her parents died. I cut the fucking cord. I ordered the hit.

  Years ago, a little Anglo-Asian doll was kneeling on the floor and wanting to learn how to pray when men seized her home.

  Sitting on the lap of one, that little girl cried, listening to the screams pouring from the other room as they stole precious, rare things.

  Like Baba’s soul…

  And my life.

  My countermeasure amputates my ties to the daegos and declares a bloody war in the dregs. Yet, the King of the Swamp is here, bumping against my pussy in broken presents and crumbled cake because I seduced him. Like everything, it is temporary. He is temporary. He will boomerang back—to the one—who matters most.

  “How do I stop?” I ask, feeling the blood rush to the organ assaulting my equilibrium. I am a glutton for punishment and welcome his erection. I invite his onslaught of emotions because he needs me. I provide. I submit. I kneel. And it makes no sense. “How do I forgive this?”

  His head tilts as those blue eyes weaken my resolve. “The real question is, how do you forgive yourself?”

  “We cannot resurrect the dead,” I whimper. “It’s over. We’re nothing more than a citation in an aged parchment.”

  “The punishment must fit the crime, or we are no better.”

  “… And did it?”

  “You’re still breathing, Lotus.”

  “But the blood is on my hands,” I wail with free-flowing tears. “This cut is on me.”

  “And I am the stitches for the weary and ragged ones.” His hand slides from my cheek to my shoulder. “Just let me love you.”

  “You are only here because of him.”

  “I am here,” he warns, gripping the nape of my neck tighter. “Because you will not drown in a sea of blood. Not on my watch. Not on my time.”

  “You chose between him and me, Cruz!”

  “Mr. And Mrs.,” he contends, forcing the truths I’m blind to. “I have no regrets. The final answer to every question is always the same, and I vow loyalty to the kingdom until my last breath. It is my oath, my duty, and my sworn sacrament. My marital promise is to dual-role, and I will not fail.”

  I peer over his shoulder to the body. “And I will not be crossed by anyone.”

  “As your best friend and spiritual advisor, I strongly recommend surrendering now,” he encourages, placing his hand on my belly. “Raise the white flag and pledge allegiance to the devout before his darkness surrounds everything you hold dear. Because he is coming after you, Mama.”

  “… Nowala?” I cackle, knowing the premeditated recon mission by Deacon Cruz was constructed with the sole purpose of bringing me home. More than anything, my nemesis—my glorious and magnificent husband—is an architect. His control is so easy and fluid, a natural Dominant and a master manipulator. I hate his effortless command, his superior stance turning my mind and body to mush.

  He is the sculptor; my body, his clay.

  He is the artist; my blood, his paint.

  He is the Capo; my wretched, his wife.

  “Right fucking nowala.”

  2

  Hitting the Zodiac

  His Ride

  “Do you believe in fate?” she asks as I carefully remove the dress from her body in the palatial shower at the Montesino mansion. I have to clean her up before we can go anywhere. She is still the Lotus. I am her handler—for lack of a better word—and she will not be seen anywhere covered in blood. “Do you think it all happened for some greater purpose?”

  “I believe in spirits guiding us,” I answer, turning on the water. “I don’t think you ended up in Brazil by accident.”

  The warm water runs over her flesh as I watch the red-tinge wash down the drain once again. “Is the crew here?”

  “Moses and Jas are here,” I inform. “The body will be bagged, boxed, and boarded onto a jet bound for Texas where we’ll have the funeral.”

  She laughs and cries, no doubt at the irony. Sal sent Moses Hollister, the brother of her best friend from high school, and someone she trusts. And Jas Torrente, the estranged son of the former New York mob boss, Carlo Torrente. There couldn’t have been a better pair to make an impactful statement concerning how he feels.

  “… A funeral,” she whispers as if the idea hadn’t crossed her mind. “Oh, my God…another one.”

  “Yes,” I console, staring at the enormity of her womb. “You had a choice. You made it. Two roads…”

  “Two roads lead to a fork in the road, and each of those paths had roundabouts each with six directions. I chose what was best for my baby.”

  I prop against the counter and light a smoke, but my eyes never leave her. “You chose what was best for you. Many people would disagree with the decision if they knew the whole truth, but that’s the thing, Iris…they won’t ever know. They’ll blame those in the helicopter. Not you. And we’re going to make damn sure of that.”

  “He’ll know.”

  I nod. “He already does. And you should consider talking to your husband.”

  “I haven’t talked to him in months!” she hisses, running her hands over her belly. “Why would I?”

  “Because everything you did today was because you love him. You made a choice. You fired the gun. You killed to protect Salvatore. And no matter what you say or do, nothing is going to change that. Your actions speak far louder than any words.”

  Under the water, she closes her eyes and runs her hands over her hair before bellowing, “I want a normal life!”

  Thank God, everyone vacated the mansion on the first shots.

  Her eyes spring open as my hands ease onto her scalp, lathering up the shampoo. “And you are never going to have one. Regardless of what you do with Sal, you cannot quit being the Lotus.”

  “Are you sure?” she questions, peering at my bare feet and soaked jeans. “I can’t just abandon my throne and hideaway in the countryside somewhere?”

  “No,” I say, gently scrubbing her body. “You cannot, especially now. Masa needs you. Sal needs you. And more than all of that, Anna Ford needs you.”

  She wails, “Oh, God!”

  “Stop crying,” I urge, rubbing her belly. “You’re going to upset the little pumpkin.” The baby kicks my hand, and I excitedly blink to Iris. “Holy crap!”

  “Goblin doesn’t like being referred to as a little pumpkin,” she admonishes. “My belly is as big as an award-winning state fair pumpkin.”

  “Seriously,” I tease with a straight face. “There must be quadruplets in there.”

  “I am going to hit you.” My broad grin reassures her fledgling sanity that everything will be all right. “Which one of us is crazy? The pregnant girl or the fully dressed biker in the shower?”

  “I’m cute in wet t-shirts.”

 
“Is that what Sal tells you?”

  I snarl, tossing off the shirt, and lowering to my knees. I wash her legs, feet, and between her toes before twirling my finger. She spins, knowing the routine. She presses her hands to the tiles and bends slightly at the hips. I wash her back and ass cheeks. “Sal tells me many things, mostly involving your sweet butt.”

  “I do not have a sweet butt.”

  I softly nip at her ass cheek, and she squirms. “Yeah, you do, cupcake.”

  “You came,” she whispers, turning around and lowering to her knees. My fingers lock with hers as she leans into me. “You really came.”

  “I will always come for you.”

  “Because you’re Sal’s Mistress, Deacon.”

  Stroking my beard, I snicker, “I either resent that or have never had such a massive compliment, but I believe it’s the latter.”

  “Where am I going?”

  “Where do you want to have this baby?”

  She glances over my shoulder. “I can’t go home, Deacon.”

  “You mean, you can’t face Sal…”

  “Is he in Texas?”

  “He will be,” I volunteer. “I am going to pick him up after we decide where you are going.”

  A muffled giggle erupts from her mouth. “You’re going to pick him up in Europe?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is he so bad off that he cannot get on a plane by himself?”

  “He’s got some baggage,” I sternly warn, protecting what is mine. I detect a note of resentment in her voice. “And I made a promise to get you someplace safe of your choosing and pluck his fine ass out of the hell he is in.”

  “You’re using your pull in Sanctum…”

  “I will do whatever is necessary,” I confidently assert. “Sal Raniero is getting on a plane, one way or another, with me.”

  “Where are you going?”

  I glance down at our fingers still laced together. “To claim what was always his.”