Brooklyn Sinners 3 -A Sinner Born (8 page)

The rest and relaxation of his weekend in Costa Rica was done and now Syren sat in the living room of a mansion on steroids in the hills of Culiacán, Mexico, with his boss, waiting on Antonio Nieto to put in an appearance. The man was notoriously late, always making people wait.

Syren tugged the coral-colored shirt he wore from his skin. The heat had him melting and his clothes sticking to his skin. He wasn’t a fan of all that heat, too stifling. A pitcher of what looked like lemonade sat atop a small table in the far corner of the room and damn if Syren was going to walk all the way over there.

The Nietos were getting on his nerves and Syren decided this was the last nail in their coffin. He’d had enough. Those young bucks were going down along with Delatorre.

This was a courtesy visit, set up last minute when Delatorre’s weapons shipment disappeared en route to buyers. They had no proof, at least none concrete, that the Nietos were responsible, but Delatorre had no doubts they were behind it. And Syren didn’t feel like voicing objections when Ricardo insisted on stopping in Mexico before continuing on to Los Angeles.

Since moving their base of operations from Juarez to Culiacán, the Nietos were in fact responsible for hijacking Delatorre’s weapons and the past two shipments of drugs that went missing. The ones Syren didn’t tell Ricardo about. Both sides fit into to a larger picture and had roles to play.

“Delatorre.” Antonio Nieto appeared at the top of a sweeping staircase, flanked by two huge men in bulletproof vests carrying Bushmasters. Nice.
The corners of Syren’s mouth curved as Antonio took his time descending the stairs. For a straight man, that fucker was all about the dramatics. Antonio was dressed in cool colors, in deference to Culiacán’s heat, a lightweight shirt the color of ripe mangoes and a pair of white pants with sandals.
Syren frowned at that. He wasn’t a fan of sandals on a grown man.
Antonio didn’t walk over to them. No. He headed to the opposite side of the room and leaned against the wall, a thumb tracing the slim moustache framing his thin lips. “What can I do for you, Delatorre?”
Ricardo didn’t speak, instead jerking his gaze to Syren with a raised eyebrow.
In his mind, Syren rolled his eyes. “Mr. Delatorre wants to discuss a truce with the Nietos.”
Antonio’s eyes widened. Again with the drama. “A truce?” He looked from Syren to Ricardo. “I wasn’t aware we were at war?”
My ass.
Ricardo tensed but didn’t speak. Nope. Apparently that too was Syren’s job.
“We have it on good authority you were responsible for our recent merchandise mishaps.” Syren rose to his feet, slowly, but guns cocked all the same, the sound echoing in the large room. “We know you took what belongs to us. We’re not asking for it back, even though we have that right.”
Antonio’s nostrils flared.
“What we want is to come to an understanding, one that’s beneficial to both parties.”
Antonio shook his head. “My brother and I have no interest in anything Delatorre has.”
“Because you already took what you wanted?” Ricardo accused in rapid-fire Portuguese.
“Huh?” Antonio turned to him. “Speak so I can understand you,
pendejo
.”
Ricardo surged to his feet. The gunmen surrounding them eased closer and Syren held up his hand.
“Gentlemen, there’s no cause for hostilities.” At least not yet.
“What, this?” Antonio looked around at his men. “That isn’t hostile. We haven’t reached hostile territory yet, but we’re rapidly approaching.” He winked at Ricardo. “I almost admire your nerve, to transport your shit through Nieto territory and think we wouldn’t find out. Wouldn’t act.”
The storm clouds banked in Ricardo’s eyes, turning them from brown to black. Ricardo opened his mouth but Syren beat him to the punch.
“Delatorre has been using this mode for years.” He allowed the cool smile playing at the edges of his mouth to spread. “We will continue to use it and you never know, the next time the Nietos decide to intervene, the outcome could be different.”
Antonio stared him down, understanding in his eyes and on his face. “I would definitely advise against such a move.” He pushed off the wall and took a few steps forward. “This is ours.” He held his arms wide and spun in a circle. “This place, this is ours. Culiacán. Sinaloa. We run it. We own it, and the loyalty of our people can’t be measured.” He paused and looked Ricardo dead in the eye. “You should think about that before you get yourself into waters too deep for you to ever swim free, old man.”
Oh low blow. Old man. Ha.
Ricardo stepped forward then stopped. Probably thinking about the dozen or so assault rifles trained on him. Death scared him. Ricardo wasn’t a fan of the unknown.
“You’re lucky you found me,” Antonio said, “and not my brother.” He grinned, a quick flash of straight, white teeth and dimples. “My older brother has no sense of etiquette, he likely would have had you taken out the instant you hit the airport. Without ever hearing what you had to say.” He shook his head in feigned sadness. “I take time out of my busy schedule to meet with you and you turn around and insult me.”
“No one is insulting anyone,” Syren objected. “We are simply here to—”
“Threaten then?” Antonio raised an eyebrow. “I did say I had no idea what happened to your drugs, didn’t I?”
Syren chuckled. “You did, but we never said what merchandise went missing.”
“You fuck with me again and I will hit back.” Ricardo turned toward the door. “Maybe then you’ll see how old men deal with children like you.”
Oh. Nice one.
Syren grinned until his cheeks hurt. “So…good talk.” He walked out the mansion side by side with Ricardo, the itch between his shoulder blades never letting up until they were back inside the plane and in the air.
Ricardo’s anger was a living thing in the small confines of the plane and Syren’s skin crawled. He knew what was to come and bile rose, bitter. Burning his throat. This was how Delatorre dealt with his anger, and how Syren paid off the debt he’d incurred, but now he wished there was another way.
Lucky for him when Ricardo unbuckled his belt and motioned for him to take off his shirt, they were the only ones around. He was thankful for that once the first blow landed and he bit down on the leather seat to stifle his cries. He quickly transported himself to another place, thinking of Kane and if he’d ever give him a chance. Of the explanations he had to give, explanations he didn’t know if he’d ever find the words for.
He wasn’t aware when Ricardo let up on the whipping, but he came back to himself as the planed jerked to a stop. Place and time drifted in and out. They walked to the car with Ricardo’s hand on his shoulder, a shoulder that hurt, but he had his shirt back on.
Was he bleeding?
Ricardo pushed him into the limo and Thiago was there. One look in his eyes and Syren saw the anger on his behalf. Wasn’t that special?
“Papa, what did you do to him?” Thiago didn’t contain his fury.
Syren rolled to his side on the limo seat and sighed as the pain eased only a little. He closed his eyes and thought again of the bargain he’d made. He’d given his word and he had to keep it. The alternative wasn’t acceptable.
“Take him to his place, Thiago.” Ricardo spoke to his son in Portuguese, but Thiago stubbornly stuck to English.
“I told you not to hit him again.” The tremble in his soft tone cracked one of Syren’s eyelids.
Thiago sat next to him, a possessive hand on Syren’s knee while he glared at his father seated opposite them. Ricardo ignored his son as he punched numbers into his phone.
Thiago knocked the phone out of his father’s hand.
Syren’s mouth opened in an “Oh”.
“Do not hit him again.” The younger Delatorre spoke as though through gritted teeth. “He is mine and I will not allow it.”
What the hell?
Ricardo met his son’s gaze without a flinch. “I own him and I will do whatever I want with him.” He patted Thiago’s cheek in a fatherly gesture. “The sooner you get that, the sooner you’ll get over this silly crush and give your mother grandbabies.” He waved a hand. “Now go, take him home.”
Thiago didn’t speak again, but something told Syren the young man wasn’t finished defending his honor. He’d have to put a stop to that, let Thiago know he wasn’t going to get lucky. Ever.
Whether or not Kane decided to give him a chance after Syren came clean didn’t matter. There would be no one else. Now all he had to do was heal up long enough to take that first step.

He didn’t get to leave LA for three more days, the latest swelling on his back refusing to abate for two days and when he called Kane the marshal was on assignment. Thiago listened to him when Syren explained they could never be together, but he didn’t think the young man fully got it. Still, he breathed a sigh when Ricardo took Thiago back to Brazil with him to celebrate his mother’s birthday.

That gave Syren more than enough breathing room. He took care of some business and placed his regular morning call to Costa Rica. As soon as he hung up, his phone rang again, this time it was Billy with the information Syren had requested from Pablo Castillo. Syren took one look at the information and placed a call to North Carolina.

Syren worried about Castillo. His head was in another zone after his best friend up and left him with a gang to lead and a business to run. He’d seen cold in his line of work, but Pablo Castillo was a cold bastard. Syren liked him, he liked bantering with Castillo, but there was a “fuck off” attitude Castillo cultivated that Syren didn’t think anyone could breach.

He muted his TV, barely registering the crawl underneath that lamented another cop’s death in Brooklyn, this one blown up by a car bomb. What? The bad guys were ignoring guns now? He dialed Pablo’s number as he sat naked on the floor of his living room, a lit cigarette in the ashtray at his elbow.

Syren grinned. Yep, that was Pablo Castillo. “Tsk. Tsk. Is that the way you normally answer the phone, Mr. Castillo, or is it just for me?”
“Make your fucking self known next time and I won’t have to bark on your ass.”
That must be in reference to his “unknown number” status. Syren picked up his cigarette. “Hmm. Maybe I like your bark, although,” he took a drag and blew out the smoke, “I think the bites have it.”
Pablo’s grin reverberated in his voice when he asked, “Did you call just to get my dick hard or do you have news for me?”
“Both.” Syren chuckled. This was why he liked Pablo. He was an honest guy, considering, and he was great on Syren’s ego. “I emailed you a file, should be in your inbox by now.”
He listened as Pablo moved about and computer keys clicked.
“All right. I have it.”
“I’ve been ordered to tell you to watch your fucking back.” Syren quit with the jovial bullshit quickly. From what he’d read, Pablo needed to be extra careful. “And I second that, watch your fucking back.”
Pablo’s laugh sounded forced. Probably not used to people caring about his wellbeing. After the conversation he had with Rafe Soto, Syren could see why.
“Come on now, I’m a big boy. I’m an old veteran at this.”
“Yeah?” Syren let his voice dip, an attempt to dispel the seriousness of their conversation. “That means you’ve learned a few moves, right?”
This time the bark of laughter in Syren’s ear was genuine and he couldn’t help the answering smile.
“Trust me,” Pablo said, “you don’t want none of this.”
Syren fired a parting shot. “Don’t I though?” He hung up before Pablo could call his bluff. He could flirt and laugh and smile with the best of them, but he’d been lucky so far. No one called him on it. The conversation with Pablo was a familiar one, they’d somehow fallen into a pattern of barely concealed sexual banter, but Pablo had never pushed for more and Syren didn’t think he ever would.
He’d been hurt badly, that Pablo, and he seemed hell-bent on wallowing in it indefinitely. Not that Syren was in the position to throw stones. He’d walked into a prison of his own making too, intent on revenge, the two graves already dug.
Now he had to get up, get dressed and go to Connecticut to explain his actions to the one man he hoped would understand. Maybe on his way there, Syren could come to grips with why all the things that appeared to make so much sense at the beginning no longer did.
He took the private plane to an airfield outside of Fairfield, Connecticut, and had a rental car with driver waiting when he disembarked. The summer sun was still a ways from setting, but he felt chilled to the bone. He hugged himself tight and rocked back and forth in the back of the car. So long since he’d revisited those memories and now they were right there, hitting him hard. He took a deep breath and did what he always did. He distracted himself.
He thought about Costa Rica, his favorite place and who waited for him there. He thought of the bargains he’d made, the deals he’d cut to keep her safe and untouched and he thought about Kane and how he’d react if he knew about her. If he’d understand why Syren made the choices he’d made for her. Would Kane want to be with him knowing she was in the picture? Would Syren have to choose?
Before he could reject that thought, he’d arrived in front of Kane’s house, a twostory Colonial Revival painted white and a dusky blue-gray. A home clearly meant for a family. Not for the lone man who resided within. He’d lived there with his dead lover, they’d likely planned for a future with kids and pets when they bought the house and now, Kane lived in it all alone.
Syren’s heart ached for him. For that kind of pain. He’d been through his share, but it was mostly physical. He couldn’t imagine loving someone the way Kane obviously loved Bailey Shannan then living without that person, knowing they’d never come home again, yet waiting nevertheless.
But Syren couldn’t help the jealousy as he stared at the house. Kane had loved someone completely. Bailey had him, Bailey got to sleep beside him and feel his kisses, his touch, his heat. Bailey earned Kane’s remembrance, his memory.
Syren wanted that same place in Kane’s heart. In his memories. Surely there was room enough for two?
He forced his legs to move and got out the car. The tremors were coming fast, intent on taking him under. He wanted to run but he couldn’t, he owed the man waiting for him. He owed Kane. And the selfish part of himself that he readily owned wanted to erase the picture Kane had of him.
Paint something new. Something real.
He walked up to the door and knocked. A simple rap of his knuckles before he noticed the doorbell to his right. He reached out to press that, but the door jerked open and Kane was there, framed by light, a drink clutched tightly in hand, his gaze too intense to dodge.
“Faro.”
Syren shook his head and held out a hand. “My name—” He cleared his throat. “My name is Marcos Inácio de Melo.” He didn’t see the glass slip from Kane’s fingers, he didn’t hear it shatter, but he felt the liquor as it splashed against his pant leg and soaked through.
Kane grasped his hand and yanked him close as he brushed fingers across Syren’s cheek and that was how he realized the tears had begun. Syren circled Kane’s waist and held on tight, burying his face in the other man’s chest as he fought for composure. They stood in Kane’s doorway where anyone could see. They had to move.
He’d only started to allow the hurt back in. The fear. The pain. The cold and the darkness. They’d only just crept up and he needed to speak before they swamped him and took over.
Kane must’ve read his mind. “Come inside.”
Syren lifted his head, but Kane’s gaze was on the door. He moved away, leaving the comfort of Kane’s heat and walked into the house.
The front door slammed behind him. Syren flinched.
“To your left.”
He followed Kane’s direction and ended up at a locked door. He went to open it but Kane was there, behind him, warming him again, as he unlocked the door and waved Syren in.
Syren entered the dimly lit room first and dropped onto the first thing he saw, an Lshaped sky-blue banquette next to a large window overlooking Kane’s backyard and pool. Tree branches brushed the windowpane as the wind rustled and shook the leaves. Syren sighed and sat back, eyes closed, throat already raw.
“Here.”
He opened his eyes. Kane loomed over him, his large frame appearing menacing, cloaked in a dark t-shirt and jeans, even though he’d turned on the overhead light. “Take it.” He indicated the glass of liquor he held, bourbon if Syren’s nose was any indication.
Syren shook his head. “I don’t drink.”
“Then you’re a better man than me.” Kane downed the drink in one swallow with his head thrown back. The smooth movement of his throat was the sexiest thing Syren had ever seen.
Drink consumed, Kane sat next to him on the banquette, legs stretched out, feet bare as he regarded Syren with eyelids riding dangerously low. “Care to tell me why speaking your own name brings you to tears?”
Syren shrugged. “‘Probably because I haven’t spoken that name out loud in twenty years.”
Lines appeared on Kane’s forehead. “Why now?”
“Because of you.” Syren barked a laugh, a rough sound that illustrated his selfishness and false bravado. “Because for years I was fine being someone else, dealing in secrets, lies and barely keeping myself from giving in to the darkness, then the one man I considered a friend fell in love with your brother.”
Kane shifted. “I don’t understand. What do Rafe and Gabe have to do with this?” He waved a hand, confusion stark on his face. “With you and me?”
You and me.
“I watched out for Gabe while Rafe was locked up. Made sure none of his enemies knew about Gabe and I watched him with you. You took care of him and comforted him and were just…there for him.”
“That’s what siblings do.”
“Yes.” Syren nodded. “I had to know who you were and I dug. I knew about your loss, your job, your everything.”
“Then why didn’t you—”
“It wasn’t a chance I could ever take, approaching you. I knew that. So I kept my distance. Went about my business. I tucked you away in that place where no one but me could reach whenever I needed to.”
Kane leaned closer and grasped Syren’s chin, eyes peering into his soul when he asked, “And have you ever needed to?”
Syren lowered his lashes and swallowed. “Yes,” he whispered. “Many times. Too many to count.” His voice broke and Kane caressed him, fingers idly stroking Syren’s jawline.
“Tell me about him,” Kane said softly. “Tell me about Marcos.”
A gap eased open in Syren’s chest. He choked back a sob. Still too early in the game to fall apart. Outwardly at least. “Marcos watched his family die. He watched the gunmen kill first his older brother Fabio, then his mama and then his papa. And even though they let him live, Marcos died with them that day.” His eyes burned and even though Syren didn’t open them, Kane was there, wiping the tears as they fell.
“How old was Marcos?” Kane asked. “Why was his life spared?”
Now Syren laughed. He opened his eyes and watched Kane’s irises contract. “Because Marcos was pretty.” He spat the word out between them. “And what do we do with pretty boys?” He asked the last part in a singsong voice. The very same question many had taunted him with in the early years.
“No.” Kane dropped his hand and shrank back onto the banquette, away from Syren. That retreat sent him back to trembling.
“Yes.” Syren pulled his legs under him and wrapped his arms around his middle. “I was sold. At ten years old, I had to learn how to be what they wanted me to be. I had to learn to take all they dished out and survive.”
Kane dropped to his knees on the floor in front of Syren. “I’m so sorry.” His eyes were red and wet, filled with horror and pain for who, Syren or Marcos?
“Why are you sorry?” Syren cupped Kane’s cheek. “You weren’t there. You had no part to play. You didn’t order my family killed. No.” He shook his head. “That was all Ricardo Delatorre’s doing, not yours.”
Kane froze. “Delatorre? Your boss, Delatorre?”
“Sick right?” Syren released Kane and flung off his jacket then unbuttoned his shirt. “Sick that I’d allow myself to work for him, to be near him, to let him do this.” He stood and yanked the shirt down.
He literally felt Kane stop breathing.
“Son of a bitch!” Kane grabbed him and turned him around. Syren blinked at the furor on the other man’s face. “Why? Why would you allow him to do this to you? Why work for him? What is this?”
“This is who I am now.” Syren tapped his chest. “Marcos no longer exists, he’s gone. And now I’m Syren Rua. It’s my real name. Now. And I’m with the FBI.”
Kane obviously didn’t believe him. He stared at Syren with wide eyes, mouth hanging open. “Wha-what?”
“You won’t find me on the books, you won’t find anyone willing to acknowledge this.” Syren took Kane’s limp hand in his and brushed his thumb across his palm. “Very few people, five at the most, know about me and what I’m doing.”
Kane narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Taking down Delatorre. Dismantling his entire operation from the inside out.” He walked back to the banquette with Kane and sat. Kane hovered over him for a second then sank to the floor at his feet. “Look at me, Marshal.”
Kane tilted his head and met Syren’s gaze. The confusion was still there.
“I’m not an official FBI agent.” He cracked a smile. “Don’t want to be one, but I offered them a deal and they took it. I take down Delatorre, give them the Nietos and any others in the process and they bankroll it.”
“Just like that?”
“Definitely not just like that.” Not by a long shot. “I had to jump through hoops for those bastards. They let me handle the human trafficking part of Delatorre’s organization all by myself. As proof that I was on the up and up.”
Kane grasped his knee. “Delatorre doesn’t do trafficking anymore?”
“Insiders know he doesn’t, but not other traffickers.” Syren grimaced. “Every now and again we’ll get someone who wants to sell or buy and I handle it, set up a sting with the Feds and they take care of it.”
“How?” Kane rose on his knees, fingers painful on Syren’s thigh. “How did you manage that?”
Syren forced a smile. “The whippings are part of it.” A small part. “The price I have to pay for that. The Feds and the Brazilian government set up a sting and target all the players Delatorre normally dealt with. That put pressure on him. It really wasn’t that hard to whisper in his ear. Make him rethink it.”
And offered myself up to sweeten the pot.
This was perfect opportunity to bring Càtia up, but Syren couldn’t make himself do it.
“How long have you been doing this?” Kane demanded. “Living inside the lion’s den and playing for both sides?”
Syren shrugged. “The years have long blended together. Too long. That’s how long it’s been.”
“And Rafe knows.”
“He does.”
“You’re telling me this why? I didn’t have to know.”
Syren grabbed Kane’s hand on his thigh and twisted their fingers together. “I couldn’t keep it from you. I’ve been around a lot of people since I was rescued at fifteen, men and women. I’ve never wanted any of them to touch me. Hold me. I’ve never dreamed of any of them.” He lifted his head, searched Kane’s gaze. “You are everywhere. In my head, in my dreams. You are who I want. You make me feel and I— sometimes I like it, sometimes I don’t, but you make me feel and after twenty years, that alone is enough for me to want things. Unattainable things. With you. From you.”