Brooklyn Sinners 3 -A Sinner Born (21 page)

Destroyed once again.
“Someone did something to him.” He barely recognized the ragged whisper that fell from his lips. “How did anyone know where he was?”
“Don’t panic.”
Ha. Too late. A laugh bubbled up in his throat.
“Okay. Enough.” Kane pulled away and captured his face in his hands. His eyes bored into Syren. “Listen to me,” he said slowly. “Are you listening?”
Syren swallowed and nodded. “Yeah. I think so.”
“You don’t know what’s happening. You can’t jump to conclusions like that.” His gaze roamed Syren’s face, so tender. “You’ll make yourself sick and I’m not the best of nursemaids.”
That coaxed a reluctant smile from Syren as he pictured Kane all decked out in a nurse’s outfit. “You’d look hot in one of those tiny white uniforms.” He giggled. “Topped off with the hat.”
Kane laughed with him. “Don’t think so, but I’m glad I can make you laugh.” He kissed the corner of Syren’s mouth. “We’re a couple blocks away from Castillo’s place, what do you want to do?”
“I’d love to tell Castillo Delatorre is out of his hair, but I can’t. Not right now.”
“All right. What do you want to do next?”
Syren held Kane’s gaze, willing him to understand as he said, “I need to go to LA.”
“Okay.” Kane pursed his lips. “Want me to take you to the airport?”
Syren shook his head. “No I— Come with me.”
“Huh?” Kane frowned at him. “Come where, to LA?”
“Yes, please.” He grabbed Kane’s arm and held on. “Come with me. I need you there with me.”
“All right.” Kane stared out the windshield then nodded once. “Yeah, let’s do it.”
“Thank you.” Syren breathed a sigh and clutched his phone. “I’ll call the pilot.”
Kane massaged his shoulders as Syren spoke to the pilot. The man was at his home in Texas and would be there in a few hours. Syren hung up and turned to Kane. “We’ve got a few hours to wait.”
“Okay. You’re wound tight, you need to get some relaxation.” Kane started the car. “Do you want to get us a hotel room for a couple hours? That way you can lie down for a few.”
“I can do you one better.” Syren grinned. “Do you know how to get to Coney Island from here?”

The code to the security gate was the same Rafe said it’d be. Syren had to explain to Kane that the abandoned building smack dab in the middle of Coney Island belonged to Rafe and yes, he had permission to enter. At anytime.

He didn’t have to pick the lock to the apartment, for which Kane appeared exceptionally grateful. Syren used the key he’d forgotten he had, the one Rafe gave him the last time they saw each other face-to-face. Rafe had offered up use of the place with a cryptic, “If you ever need it, it’s there.”

It was dark when they let themselves in, remedied quickly with a flick of a switch. The faint hint of dust and something else reached Syren’s nose and he sniffed. He turned around to make sure the door had locked behind them and found himself pushed face-first into it.

“I think you need to relieve some stress,” Kane growled in his ear. “Let me help with that.”
How much did he fucking love this guy? Syren slapped both hands flat onto the smooth surface. “Manhandling me again, Marshal? Thought I warned you about that?”
“You love it.” Kane bit his shoulder, right through his shirt. Syren bumped against the cock riding his ass.
“Damn right.” He did love it.
Kane reached in front and unbuckled Syren’s belt, kissing down his spine through his shirt. Syren stayed on his feet, barely, as Kane dropped to his knees, taking Syren’s pants with him. Kane directed him to lift first one foot then the other before he freed the piece of clothing and flung it away.
He palmed Syren’s panty-covered ass, squeezing him. “I can’t get over how gorgeous you look in these. Fucking sexy.” He pulled the panties to the side and flicked his tongue down Syren’s crack.
His knees buckled. “Shit.” His nails scraped the door, dark-brown paint flecks peeling off under his fingers.
Kane pushed two fingers inside him, pumping around the tongue he had toying at Syren’s entrance, teasing, testing him. A moan rumbled in Syren’s chest and he pushed back on those fingers, on Kane’s tongue, but they disappeared.
“Kane.”
“Right here.” Clothes rustled and Kane was once more at his ear. “Right here.” A hand on Syren’s shoulder turned him around.
Kane was shirtless, his jeans opened and plum-colored cock hanging out, twitching. In his right hand Kane held up Syren’s belt, in his left a small tube of lube. Syren made a mental note to remember to ask about the lube later.
“Give me your wrists,” Kane bit out.
Hell yeah. Syren offered them up and Kane wrapped the belt around his wrists, tight, buckling it even tighter. Before Syren could utter a word, Kane pushed him back into the door. His forehead banged against it and Syren winced.
That’s gonna leave a mark.
Slick fingers sank into him, deep, with purpose. Syren lifted his bound hands, resting his chin on them as he pushed back, filling the room with his grunts. Kane breathed in his ear, loud pants as he worked him over, digging deeper, knuckles pressing on his knot.
Syren yelped. “God.” Sweat tickled his scalp and dampened his shirt. “Please.”
“Beg me for it.” Kane caught his earlobe and bit down. “Beg.” He nestled his erection along the crack of Syren’s ass and rocked into him.
Syren’s saliva dried up. Damn it. How was he supposed to speak? “Kane.” A sob spilled from his lips. “Please. Please. Put it—”
Kane traced his entrance with his wet cock head.
“Yes,” Syren hissed. “Put it in.”
“Like this?” Kane dipped inside then retreated. “Huh?”
That son a bitch was itching for a punch in the face. When Syren wasn’t aching to get fucked. “Do it, goddamn you!” He arched.
Kane plunged in.
Syren bucked. His teeth nicked his tongue and he tasted blood. Fuck that. He swallowed it. “More.” Shivers raced through him, sparks that made him want to jump out of his skin. “More.”
Kane pulled out, all the way, until only the barest hint of him remained then he plunged in again. Syren went frantic under him, arching back, tipping his ass higher. A silent plea for more.
Deeper.
Harder.
Kane gave. He unleashed whatever he’d been holding back, pounding away at Syren with one hand at his nape, the other on his hip. His mouth at Syren’s ear, talking to him. Dirty words. The sexiest words. Syren loved those words.
He clenched around Kane. Muscles rippling, grasping at him.
“I can feel you working me all the way to my toes,” Kane rasped. “I can taste you on the tip of my tongue.” His fingers pressed into Syren’s skin. Marks. More marks to proclaim his possession.
That worked for Syren.
“I want this always.” Kane yanked on his hair. “I want to own this, always.”
Done and fucking done, but somehow Syren’s tongue wasn’t cooperating so he used his body instead, rocking back on his heels, rising on his tiptoes, riding the cock pistoning into him.
His teeth rattled at the rough handling that reverberated in his bones. His ass flamed, but in the most delicious way. The arousal fever burned through his blood, eviscerating breath and thought. All he had and all he knew was sound.
The slap of Kane’s flesh against his. His cries as they rang out. Kane‘s words, incoherent but there on his skin, in his ear, melting him to a puddle. The rattle of the belt buckle every time Kane sank deep. They surrounded him and pushed him closer, ever closer to the edge.
Kane angled his hips and this time every time he drove in his head bumped Syren’s prostate, sending him out of his mind. His cries ratcheted higher, Kane’s growls grew deeper. He placed his lips to Syren’s ear, flicked his tongue over the shell and Syren went over. His orgasm shot from his own cock, untouched. His legs gave out and he feel to his knees, but Kane was there, racing to his own climax.
Heat flooded Syren’s channel, a feeling he didn’t know how to describe so he didn’t try, but the meaning yanked a sob from him and he buried his face in his bound hands. Kane eased out of him. Moist lips brushed the base of his spine then climbed higher as his lover paid homage to his scars, kissing and licking every one. Syren didn’t turn away this time. He didn’t fight Kane in this. He had a man who accepted all his scars, both seen and unseen.
Nothing else mattered. Nothing.
Kane covered his back with his front. Syren tensed and waited for the panic attack to hit. His breath quickened and his heart raced, but he was still coming down off his orgasmic high. He remained otherwise unaffected. He hadn’t been magically cured, hell, he might not even be cured, but it felt good to not flinch when your lover touched you a certain way.
“Was I too rough?” Kane asked against his shoulder. “Did I hurt you?”
Syren shook his head. “The pain—when you take me, the pain…it’s the kind you welcome, the kind that makes you sigh as it sinks into your bones. The kind you miss once it disappears.”
“You’re something else, you know that?” Kane rolled off him and kissed his forehead. “You want to go find a bed in this place?”
Syren pretended to think it over. “Yeah, but I’ve apparently lost all function in my legs.”
“What should we do about this?”
“I’m thinking you should carry me.”
Kane shrugged. “If you insist.”

Syren held on to Kane’s hand in a fucking death grip as he approached Delatorre’s hospital room. He couldn’t let go to save his life. According to Patel and the doctors, Delatorre had been poisoned. By what, they had no clue. They were managing the symptoms—failing organs, constant seizures. Not much they could do for the loss of sight in one of Delatorre’s eyes though.

How could a man locked up so tight and under twenty-four-hour surveillance be poisoned without anyone knowing? How did this happen and why now? Just as Syren had garnered some peace, just as he’d managed to pick himself up and dust off the remnants of his past.

The doctors cautioned Delatorre’s heart was failing. Fast. He’d been asking for Syren or more correctly, Faro. That son of a bitch was going to die, kick off without feeling the pain Syren intended him to feel. Without ever knowing who Syren really was? Not if he could help it.

He halted in front of the glass doors leading to Delatorre’s private room and stared at the figure on the bed inside, hooked up to machines, face covered in a mask. Henri looked like that at the end, but this wasn’t Henri. Where he’d been afraid to see the hold death had taken on Henri, he looked forward to this.

Syren jerked a nod and looked around. FBI agents milled about, doctors and nurses too. Patel sat off to the side, a cup of coffee in hand, phone to his ear, gaze steady on Syren. No one in the FBI knew his history, he hadn’t felt the need to share why he wanted to take Delatorre down so badly, but Patel’s look made him think maybe the agent knew more than he should.

No time to wonder about it at that moment. Everything he’d planned and worked so hard for was gone and he had nothing to fall back on but the memories and the truth. Today he’d hit Delatorre with both.

Kane faced him with his hands jammed into the front pockets of his jeans. “I’d take you in my arms right now and kiss you,” his lips twisted into a smile, “but I’m not sure how well that would go over here.” He waved a hand.

Syren edged closer to him and laid a palm on his chest. “Like I give a fuck.” He tilted his chin. “Kiss me.” Kane did, a tender brushing of lips, over too damn soon. Syren licked his lips and stepped back. “Okay.” He straightened his shoulder and swallowed. His stomach was queasy, the coffee he’d had on the way from the airport sloshing around in his throat.

“I’ll be right outside if you need me.” Kane’s gaze caressed him, the concern in it overwhelming. He wasn’t used to someone caring for and about him, besides Isa and Henri. Syren wanted so much to burrow into Kane’s broad chest, snuggle into the hold of his strong arms and never leave.

But that was fantasy. This and the man dying mere feet away was reality, his reality. Time he dealt with it and him.
He pulled up the surgical mask someone had hooked around his neck covering his mouth and nose, and stepped into the room. The beeps and whirs of the machines keeping Delatorre alive echoed all around him, deafeningly loud. Syren crept closer and closer to the bed and the form who laid on it, unmoving, save for the barely noticeable up and down of his chest.
A memory flitted through his mind of the first time he met Ricardo Delatorre. He’d been so young and still so clueless, his knees trembling, heart in his throat that the man would know who he was. That Delatorre would recognize him as Marcos Inácio de Melo and he’d know. He’d know how many men had used Syren for their own ends and he’d laugh and point, brag to his men.
Delatorre hadn’t known then, but he would now.
He grabbed a chair from over in the corner and brought it close to the bed before sinking into it. A sound, a moan maybe, came from Delatorre and Syren leaned over him so the man could know he had company. Delatorre’s skin was pasty and blotched, his forehead damp with sweat. As Syren stared down at him, Delatorre’s lashes fluttered and his eyes opened. Both were bloodshot and dilated, but the left one, though unfocused, held some recognition. The right eye stared blankly.
“Faro.” A harsh whisper left Delatorre’s throat. He attempted to lift his shoulders off the pillows, but gave up when Syren didn’t offer a hand in help. Delatorre flopped back down, gasping for air. “Poison. They want me dead,” he rasped in Portuguese.
Syren nodded. “Any ideas on who that might be?”
“Nieto.” Delatorre coughed. “Nieto.”
The Nieto Brothers. How would they know where Delatorre was and who had they gotten to poison him?
“Find them.” Despite the whole dying thing, Delatorre still thought he could order Syren. “Kill them all.”
Syren looked him over. A complete shell of the man he used to be. Taken down so easily. He’d thought about that in the early years, poison and accidents and all that, but if he went that route, what would have been the point in naming it revenge? Delatorre had to know who and he had to know why.
“Monica,” Delatorre moaned his wife’s name. “She must know. The kids. Bring them to me. I want my family.”
Syren cocked his head to the side. “Funny you should mention family. I would also like to have my family, but thanks to you, that’s not going to happen, is it?” The pinky on his right hand tap-tapped on his knee.
Delatorre’s left eye sharpened—as best it could—on him. “What are we speaking of?” He visibly struggled to breathe. “You told me you didn’t have family.”
“Well I don’t.” Syren shrugged and held that one eye. “Not after you had your men murder them to get a hold of the business there in São Paulo. My father, Manuel Rua, you may have heard of him?”
Delatorre’s search for breath grew louder and louder, his good eye flitting back and forth as the machines beeped.
“Of course you knew my father.” Syren chuckled. “You sent Luiz Salazar to kill him, to kill us. Only, Luis saved one.” He poked his chest. “Me.”
Delatorre shook his head on the pillows. As Syren watched, the heart monitor dipped lower and lower.
“Lie. That,” Delatorre croaked, “is a lie.” He fumbled unseeing for the button to alert the nurses and Syren grabbed it from him.
“I’m afraid it’s not a lie.” He held up the alert monitor. “Luiz liked ’em pretty didn’t he? Is there anyone prettier than me?” He bared his teeth. “I’m the reason he’s in that Columbian prison.”
“No.” Delatorre tried rising off the mattress and Syren pushed him back.
“Yes.” He didn’t know what he expected to feel when he stared down at the son of a bitch, but the emptiness inside him wasn’t it. The hollow in his gut wasn’t it. The thrill of revenge wasn’t what he thought it would be. “I remember everything. Everything,” he spat. “And let me tell you, nothing cements a memory so much as the wish to forget. I can’t forget.” The hand he’d trapped between his knees shook uncontrollably. Syren pressed harder on them.
Delatorre stared up at him. “Manuel’s son, eh?’ He didn’t quite pull off the sneer. “Then it was good that I had you, made you bleed.”
The coffee raced back up his throat, but Syren didn’t blink. His chest hurt when he swallowed, a foul, bitter taste lingering on his tongue. “You didn’t take anything I wasn’t offering,” he spoke calmly. “And for what I got in return the price was nothing. Completely worth it.”
“What you got?” Delatorre’s one good eye widened. “This is you?” He motioned to his chest. “You poisoned me?”
Syren burst out laughing. “Not my style and besides, why wait until now when I could’ve done it long before now? No.” He shook his head. “Maybe it is the Nietos, Lord knows I worked hard to make sure they hated you.”
Delatorre’s chest rose and fell rapidly as he panted, eye questioning.
“Who do you think leaked the days and times your shipments would be passing through Culiacán? More importantly, remember who suggested we use Culiacán?” Delatorre swore and Syren laughed. “You thought you were in control, didn’t you? But not with me around, you weren’t. I shut down the sex trade, with some help from the FBI and right under your nose too.” He tsked. “Someone was not on his game.”
Veins bugled in Delatorre’s face and neck, his skin growing darker and darker as he coughed and coughed.
“Remember the money you thought you had in those offshore accounts? It’s long gone, donated anonymously to some very deserving charities.”
Delatorre’s machines went crazy as the man wheezed, his body arching off the bed under the force of his coughs.
“You have no money,” Syren told him. “None. You have no life beyond these four walls, and even that’s on borrowed time. Everything Delatorre is gone. I win.” He spoke the words, but he didn’t feel them. Not really. All the years he’d bled and lied and sacrificed and it all came down to this. He wanted back into the comfort and safety of Kane’s arms.
Delatorre thrashed on the bed, eyes wild, color draining from his face. Syren kept talking.
“You took everything from me. I paid for your sins,” he told Delatorre. “It’s about time I returned the favor.” He stood and bent, whispering in Delatorre’s ear, “She’s still alive and she’s mine.” He straightened and turned way. Nothing more needed to be said because Delatorre knew what he meant, who he spoke off. The machines blared and Syren pressed the nurse’s button. Seconds later the room was filled with people.
“Step aside!”
“He’s seizing.”
Syren stood off to the side, against the wall, as they worked on Delatorre. He blocked out sound and focused on the body on the bed. Doctors tore away his gown and pressed the paddles to his chest. Delatorre’s body jerked upright then fell backward. Mouths moved, lights blinked. The paddles landed on him again and again, on his bare chest, working to revive the black heart.
At the corner of his eye, Syren saw Thiago pressed up against the glass doors, fear big and bright on his face. He looked younger than he was, a boy needing his father. He wouldn’t get that chance, much like Syren never got his chance.
When the doctors gave up and stepped back, dropping the paddles as one of them glanced at the clock on the wall, Syren brought his gaze to the heart monitor.
Straight lines. They took a minute to register and Syren had the sudden and overwhelming urge to drop to the floor, curl on his side and sob, because the memories were still there. The pain was still there. That box of darkness he’d been gifted hadn’t let up with the stopping of Ricardo Delatorre’s heartbeat. Where was the relief he’d expected? The slate hadn’t been wiped clean, not one bit.
Delatorre was gone and he remained the same man, tainted and forever burdened with the life he’s struggled so hard to escape. His legs moved, carrying him out the room and outside where Thiago grabbed him, tears in eyes so much like his father’s Syren couldn’t hide the wince. He stood, unmoving, as Thiago wet the front of his suit with the tears he shed for a man he didn’t really know. A father he loved, nonetheless. Kane stood behind Thiago, holding Syren’s gaze, his eyes searching for something Syren didn’t think he found because Kane’s mouth tightened.
He patted Thiago on the back awkwardly then stepped away. He wasn’t the one to be comforting Delatorre’s son, but Thiago didn’t know that because hurt darkened his eyes when Syren retreated.
“I’m sorry.” All he could say. All he made himself say. He looked up and Kane was by his side, silent but there, and Syren reached for him. Just a hand, he stretched out a hand and Kane took it. Squeezed him. The strength in his touch enough to tug on the unraveling thread of his control. “Thiago.” He faced the young man with the tearstains. “Call your mother. I’ll see you soon.”
He turned and walked away hand in hand with Kane. They didn’t speak in the elevator. Syren held himself in check, his gaze straight ahead. He felt Kane’s eyes on him, but he didn’t look to be sure. The elevator stopped then opened into the dark underground parking spot, filled with cars, but silent. He blinked.
Kane grabbed his arm and pulled him out, half carrying him until they were up against a concrete pillar, huge and looming, hiding them from anyone who wanted to see.
“Hey.” Warm fingers touched his chin. “I’m here.”
He collapsed into Kane, fingers digging into his lover’s upper arms and looked up into his eyes. “He’s gone.” The words were a mournful sob he couldn’t contain.
Kane nodded. “I know.” So much pity in those blue eyes.
“But it’s still here.” He pressed a hand to the center of his chest. “The pain is still there. It won’t leave.” He rubbed the heel of his hand right there, over his heart, the source of his pain. “Why?” he asked. “Why won’t it go away?”
“I don’t know.” Kane held him close, hands rubbing up and down his back as he pressed kisses to Syren’s head. “I don’t know.”
Syren buried his face in Kane’s chest. There should have been some kind of relief, something to let him know he hadn’t completely wasted all those years. Revenge should feel better than this.
“I just feel empty,” he murmured into Kane’s t-shirt. “It wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t worth it.” He pushed away from Kane and fumbled for the pack of cigarettes in his jacket pocket. Using the gold lighter Isa gave him he lit the business end and turned away, giving Kane his back. His hand shook so bad he couldn’t contain it. Couldn’t hide it from anyone looking for evidence of him losing his mind.
One deep drag on the cigarette then he brought the lit end to the inside of his left wrist and held it there, on his skin.
The pain. His gums hurt, but his heart leapt, welcoming it. The burn raced up and down his entire hand and breath filled his lungs on a hiss. He did it again, pressed the lit cigarette to the inside of his wrist and his knees buckled.
“Hey.” Kane grabbed him, held him steady. Pulled him close, but Syren shrugged away his touch.
He felt himself going under with nothing solid under his feet to break his fall.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Kane yanked his hand up, horror in his eyes when he saw Syren’s destruction. “Syren, what are you doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing?” Syren brought the lit cigarette back to his wrist, but Kane knocked it to the ground before it made contact with his flesh. “Bastard!” Syren swung, fist connecting with the underside of Kane’s jaw. “Don’t fucking try to control me.”
Kane caught his hand and twisted it behind his back. “Calm down.” He shoved Syren up against the hood of a dark-colored Toyota Camry and caged him in. Pressed together as they were, Syren couldn’t tell which one of them was trembling, whose teeth he heard rattling in his head.
“I know you’re hurting,” Kane murmured harshly in his ear, “but this isn’t the way you deal. This self-destructive shit isn’t you.”
“Fuck you, what do you know about me?” Syren pushed his ass into Kane’s crotch, snickering at the bulge. “Go on, do it. Fuck me.” Anything, anything to let out the pain. To ease the coil of tension in his gut.
Kane’s arm tightened on his wrists. “Not gonna happen.”
“Then I’ll find someone willing to do it.” Syren struggled in Kane’s hold, fighting to escape, but Kane wasn’t having it. He breathed in short, hot spurts on Syren’s nape, erection still present, fingers biting into Syren’s skin. He closed his eyes and smiled.
“Fuck me, Kane,” he purred and arched, rubbing sensually on the cock poking him back there.
Kane released him suddenly and stepped back. “No.”
“Then why are you here?” Syren whirled and lashed out. Kane’s gaze was understanding when he shouldn’t be, expression calm, and Syren hated that. Hated him in that moment. “Why are you here with me?” he yelled. “If you can’t give me what I need, then I don’t want you around.”
A muscle in Kane’s jaw ticked. “Then you’re shit out of luck, because I’m here and I’m staying.”
Syren held his gaze while he unbuckled and unzipped his pants. When they dropped to his ankles, he pointed to the scars on his hips and upper thighs. “See this? This isn’t Delatorre’s work, this is all me. This is what I do to myself.”
Alarm didn’t begin to describe the look in Kane’s wide eyes.
“I need this,” Syren begged in a ragged whisper. “I need to release the pain.” The boulder in the middle of his chest grew bigger, tighter. “Please.” He took a step and dropped to his knees at Kane’s feet. “Please.” He looked up into the other man’s eyes, the man he loved, and begged for help.