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

  “Yeah, but what are we going to do?”

  “For the moment, nothing. Anna Ford is far from over,” he insists, slugging back some form of liquid. “… Is my girl safe?”

  “Yeah, but…we got issues. I played douche for you, and you were right, Iris is moving people around. “

  The slam of the whiskey bottle echoes in my ear. I’ve been on the phone with him enough recently to recognize the sound. The news of Iris’ agenda isn’t surprising. We’ve long suspected she will do what Sal suggests along with what she wants. He says it’s part of her impromptu fun machine.

  “Fuck!”

  “I expected you’d say as much,” I state, shaking my head. “What do you want to do?”

  His heavy breathing reveals his anger over the situation. Iris is a spitfire with a mind of her own. She’s great, but this strategy conflicts with her Dominant. And that is a problem. I understand why we brought on the girls we did—they’re smart, self-starters, and fearless—and sometimes, I want to pick their side.

  Iris is one-hundred percent accurate in using her resources, too.

  Of course, I cannot say that to Sal. He won’t listen. And who am I to correct him? He’s the one looking at the gates of prison for the next three years, not me.

  “Who was there?”

  “The ones we anticipated: Terry, Dale, Dev, Fink, Mack, Jack, Tank, and Uncle Joe.”

  There is a distinct pause, a moment of silence, and I know he knows. “You know, I can count, asshole. Who was number nine?”

  Twisting my fingers together, I whisper, “Salvatore…”

  “Who was number nine, Cruz?” His voice rises and deepens with a serious tone. “Cruz…who was number nine?”

  Lighting a smoke, I pace around and pretend I didn’t see the 72 Bronco parked outside the dungeon. The betrayal will sting like a thousand hornets. “Dominic Gennaro.”

  “He’s fucking me over…”

  “At the very least, he fucked your girl.”

  With barely a whisper, he stutters out, “He knows I need him to get Iris out of here. I’m fucking stuck.”

  “I’m sure he was only there to keep things in line.”

  “Don’t make excuses for him,” Sal hastily mentions. “He’s been drooling over Iris for years. He used me to get her here. He’s going to play the Mierne card and make a run for Chicago.”

  I understand his use of the word isn’t Iris’ code name; he believes Dom may have his focus on his father’s chair. “Sal, think about what you’re saying…”

  “I’m saying he’s going to split Campanelli and Gennaro in half, take what is his, rebuild it into the force Angelo Gennaro once had, and finagle Iris away from me.”

  I shuffle my feet in a puddle of rain. “We’ve considered that.”

  “And when that war in Chicago is over, he is coming after me, but it is so much more than that.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I mean, I need you to do something for me.”

  I step into the deepest part of the water and soak the canvas of my shoe. “Why does this sound like something on the side?”

  “Because it is,” he says, setting down the bottle. “But I need you to be silent.”

  With both feet submerged in the water, I restate my position, “Whatever you need, Nero. Whatever. Name it, and it is yours.”

  “I need you to work on moving Iris between locations.”

  “There are three,” I reiterate, feeling the water crawl up my socks and soak through my jeans.

  “No,” he mutters smoking. “There are forty-six.”

  “Oh, shit…” I mutter, trying to keep my emotions in check. “Henney gave you the list of logs.”

  “Ya, and I promised not to go digging up any skeletons until my father was eliminated.”

  I crouch to lay in the water as I stare at the stars and pray for a better solution.

  “And you need to keep an eye on my girls.”

  “I promise you,” I vow, soaking my hair in the filthy water—the water of The Unholy. “You keep your focus; I will do the same.”

  4

  Sobriety Hurts

  4 AM

  Kneeling.

  In prayer.

  Submission.

  Kneeling.

  In forgiveness.

  In rage.

  until

  Surrender.

  The heat radiates up from the pavement in the hot Texas sun like invisible waves begging for relief. Even the heat needs a cold drink of water or a splash in the pool, but there are some things–unseen things–which have to suffer.

  Not everyone is a winner.

  Not everyone winds up on top.

  No one lives forever, and whoever said only the good die young was a fool. Sometimes, the bad die young. Or the good ol’ boys die safe within their domain. There is no rhyme or reason, fortune cookie, bohemian witch, or ancient codex to predict or know the outcome. Kiss the dice and roll, baby.

  Some you win.

  Some you lose.

  Fate plays a part in the grid, mapping the topography of our lives, but people like to tempt, poke, and ruffle her feathers. The trajectory of being the best human possible isn’t always a straight line. Fate loves curve balls almost as much as cruel jokes.

  Invisible.

  Game.

  Better duck.

  Go stealth.

  And kneel.

  5

  Original Boston Sin

  June 21

  After the wedding of Terry and Shelby, I sent a one-word text message to Dom on the way to La Chiesa - Boston - the code word to get me the fuck off the playing field. I did it because I was tired. So tired.

  Fucking exhausted.

  Absolutely depleted.

  I have been tired since January 1, 2011. The day my wife died.

  I had privately threatened to pull the plug on my involvement—with everything—for four years. Dom hoped Deacon would distract my thoughts, and he did, temporarily. But every time I moved two steps forward, I was catapulted fifteen back in a never-ending, uphill treadmill.

  Between my work with Sibyl, the mafia ties digging into my wrists, helping Anna with Juliet, keeping what family I chose to have in The Unholy, and trying to have relationships—male or female, I’m spent. Hell, even my precious dachshund, Daisicle, suffers.

  The ongoing joke is that I can disappear into the mountains and become a gay lumberjack. I don’t want the pretty little things—girls—anymore. The sweet smell and delicious nuances are my end-all. It doesn’t matter if I fuck them or not.

  My dick plays zero role in this.

  Some damsel in distress calls—can you do this for me?—and I don’t understand how to say no.

  Two letters.

  Easy, right?

  Not quite.

  One thing I do know about myself is how prone I am to make mistakes when rock bottom hits my nose. I did that once in 2013, and I’ve got the scar on my chest to prove it. I’m too well acquainted with rock bottom.

  Accidents happen when I’m worn out. Bad things sneak into my mind and take root. I can’t let that happen. I can’t risk my girl. I sent the message to Dom to instigate a plan to remove us from the fray.

  And it worked…sort of.

  Dom wasn’t without his price.

  He wanted Iris taken—handled—by all three schools—L’Académie in France, Highlandale Hawthorne in England, and Thread in Japan. In my heart, I feared what he wanted—to be the new King of the Chicago mafia with Iris Kettles by his side. She was trained by his father, and it only made sense, but I didn’t want to think about Dom having the balls to deceive me like that. And if I’m right, that shit will hurt.

  I paced. I panicked. I yelled. I ran miles and worked out like I was training for a goddamned triathlon. Pissed off was the understatement.

  Moving Iris around would be a challenge, but Dom promised to take care of my submissive. She would be trained and remain hidden at the same time.

  I
t is simply brilliant.

  But I’m not a fool.

  We have some idea how long it will take to do what we want to do. Three years is the bare minimum to instigate and implement the plan to dismantle The Four Horsemen.

  While my primary concern is my father, I understand the fallout will be widespread, and the likelihood of the Gennaro/Campanelli operation getting hit is high. Dom knows this as well. He says it’s okay (enter my dark voice that says because he wants to rebuild it as his outfit), but I’m not sure I have his confidence.

  The efforts to get my ass removed proved far more complicated, and despite how I don’t want to be incarcerated, it is the best choice. Quite honestly, it is the only choice. Being out in the world, I have a guaranteed, rapidly expanding target on my back.

  Not that I don’t already—but there are varying degrees of risk versus reward and prices for a hit.

  With the acquisition of Iris Kettles, the price for my head quadrupled in less than twelve hours. Death by association. In eliminating me, the hope would be to find Iris in a weakened state and close to surrendering. The triggered intel in her is worth the GDP of a small country to the right bidder.

  In the lucrative mental real estate of the woman I love, encrypted intel took up space where it had no place ever being.

  My dead wife was a fucking terrorist. There I said it. I said it, and I meant it. Only she wasn’t toting an AK-47 around leveling out the innocent but seizing highly valued mental property—my diabolical mind and my future wife’s bustling brain.

  Trying to regain control, I had no clue how fast time would fly or that I would be arrested the next morning in front of La Chiesa. We planned on a July arrest, not June 21.

  I’m naked and struggling against the big boys in blue. They’re huge—well over six feet and built like damn tanks. Compared to them, I’m small. Probably a lot faster, but that doesn’t count for much when they’ve got my ass pinned to the old stone wall of the mission.

  I’m not used to being caught. Sitting in the back of the black SUV with the cuffs on my wrists in front of me, I can’t help but remember being in the backseat, tied up, and hooded when Kaci had me abducted from New Orleans. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was being recruited—trained—to be a killer.

  Six years ago, I puked in a burlap sack.

  Six years ago, I didn’t know Iris existed.

  Six years ago, I didn’t know what was on the line.

  Not this time.

  I’m not a grunt anymore.

  “It’s a beautiful day,” I repeat with a snicker. “And this isn’t fucking over…”

  “Do you understand the charges that are being brought against you?”

  I mumble out, “I do.”

  The dust floats in the light, shining like golden flecks. The blue sky sails on forever as I await traveling to an unknown location. I’m being arrested for the murder of Lydia Kettles.

  Those important to me understand I didn’t fucking touch Lydia Kettles. But she is dead, and that alone is a good enough reason to duck my ass into the safety of a cell. I have no fucking idea who offed her or why.

  But none of this would have ever happened if Amber hadn’t gone all rhinestone renegade and tried to kill Virginia Archer—baby snatcher and Dale’s mother. I beat her to it, fired the fatal shot, and now, I’m in grave danger.

  Why?

  Money.

  Virginia Archer was the biggest baby dealer in the South. She bought, sold, and traded more babies than we’ll ever know. The foolish part is she was right there under a lot of people’s noses, and they all turned the other cheek. Official people—The Feds, Sheriffs, Sibyl agents, they all knew and guys like my father paid them off.

  People could’ve stopped it, but no one ever did. No one had the courage to stand up to the machine and threaten them to cease. The answer was the same one it always was—money.

  The situation pissed me off. It wasn’t my jurisdiction. It wasn’t my gig. I worked on sex trafficking cases—two keywords: sex and trafficking.

  Not babies. Not bottles. Not binkies.

  True, those babies might grow up to be bought, sold, and traded (trafficked for sex), but that time comes past diapers. Then, they’re my problem. Our youngest case can walk, talk, and identify. I’m not saying the shit didn’t happen at a baby age, but it is rare. Most are pre-teen to young adult.

  Through our investigation into Jerry “Pock” Allen, we discovered the unthinkable—Sarah Olsman was Amber’s real mother. Sarah’s Bible-beating parents sent her off to a halfway house – owned by Virginia Archer – where baby Amber was sold off to a junkie of a mom, courtesy of Pock. Yes, her father repurchased her just to give her away to one of his whores.

  But none of that was what concerned me. What got under my skin wasn’t the past of Amber, but the documents we found concerning a baby Virginia coined Diablo. He was Deacon Cruz’s twin brother and the loose thread to unravel us all.

  Diablo Cruz.

  What Jaid and I know that no one else does is—Diablo was sold to a Mexican cartel known as Immortal. His adopted father is Juarez “Muerte” Herrera, the leader of Immortal. He is one nasty son-of-a-bitch. And the terrifying part is Muerte isn’t that different from my father.

  I hate having Raniero blood running in my veins. Knowing the pain the Kings inflict, I consider my options many times. I spent a countless amount of time after Kaci’s death working cases and staying fucked up beyond comprehension. It was easier that way. Easier than knowing my fucking father was part of the problem and part of Amber’s, and now, Deacon’s pain.

  I drilled Deacon’s mother, Trudy Diaz, for hours. Sure, we might have been naked, but the doll trusted me. Trudy handed over everything she knew as she strode atop me. I spent weeks making notes and letting her have a complete all-access pass to the Raniero prize package.

  It was a win-win.

  I was fucking my best friend’s mother, giving me more insight into the inner workings of Delirium, Reckless Rebellion, and Cinco than any amount of footwork would’ve produced. With Trudy, I learned the lessons I refused to hear from my father.

  When he was attempting to teach my ass how to run the books and make the deals, I had a low hum in my ears. I didn’t want any of his lessons because I never thought I’d need them. I never planned on actually becoming the machine Kaci created to take down their hell, but somehow, I had. And their end started with me going behind bars. I came up with the convoluted strategy to send me to prison.

  Good ideas are sometimes only good on paper.

  Fuck.

  In the back of a squad car naked, I wait. I’ll be booked in like a convicted murderer and sent…well, shit. I don’t know where. If they put me in the general population, I may end up toast. After all, I am Cesario Raniero’s son.

  My relationship with my father is somewhere between his wanting to kiss my cheeks or kill me. It’s bipolar, full of sporadic highs and lows, which come with no warning signs.

  A simple retribution hit could easily send my father spiraling out of control because for reasons I will never understand, he still thinks I will one day take the seat upon my rightful throne. Or, sit my ass in his Italian leather chair behind his custom mahogany desk. He wholeheartedly believes I will do this with every molecule of his being, all the while—at the same damn time—threatening to kill me. I know this from talking to Mama and hearing the rumblings of my sisters.

  Like I said, bipolar.

  Nothing could be further from my destination.

  Course I never planned on being arrested today, either.

  Watching the specks of sand scatter in the air like gold dust, Iris disappears. I hate what we are being forced to become, but we don’t have any other safe choice.

  The love of my life—Iris Amarie Nakamura Kettles—will go one direction and I will go to…hell. All we can do is hold onto the hope that we will recover.

  Closing my eyes, I hide their dampening and pretend separation doesn’t sting.

 
; Losing her hurts like fuck.

  I scratch my balls and assess two of the ten blue boys sent to arrest me. Why they sent so many to arrest little old me is befuddling. It’s not like I’ve got a gang…maybe an entourage.

  Gang conjures thoughts of bandannas and shady deals, not sex hats and agreements sealed in bodily fluids. The two appear legit, which is good and arguably, bad. The older one walks up and drapes his arm over the roof. I don’t know him.

  “Sit back.” Without hesitation, I do, and in less than five-seconds, he takes the cuffs off of me. “You gonna be alright?”

  “Ya, man,” I say, squinting up as he ducks his head down and offers his handkerchief to me. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Name is Malcolm Martinez,” he says, extending his hand. I note the ink, peeking out from beneath his sleeve. “Cinco Proud.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. Dom assured me there would be plenty of protection. I didn’t know he meant it would be coming in the form of Sheriff Martinez.

  “Sal.” I shake his hand as the covert bond forms between us.

  His eyes scan over my birthday suit, and he snarls. “Let me get you something.” He disappears to the trunk and brings not only a blanket but a pair of joggers, hoodie, and a water bottle. “I know you didn’t do it.”

  “Thank you,” I say, wedging into the pants. “How do you know?”

  “Because we have an idea who did…” he pauses as his radio goes off. “You need anything from inside?”

  Pulling the hoodie on, I answer, “Wallet. Watch. Rosary. Shoes.”

  “Done,” he replies, patting me on the shoulder. “I’ll make sure I lock up and send a team out to check it periodically. You sit tight.”

  “Not going anywhere.”

  He squats down. “If you get in trouble before I get back, stay down, and don’t get yourself killed. Okay?”

  “How much is Cinco making off of protecting me?”