Brooklyn Sinners 3 -A Sinner Born (4 page)

“Isa.” Syren walked into the arms of the only woman he ever allowed to touch him as soon as the heavy door closed behind him. Isabella Tatzi smelled of roses and the most tentative dabs of Chanel No. 5, yet that didn’t hide the stench of sick underneath.

“
Vous êtes ici
,” Isa whispered against his cheek. “You’re here.” She squeezed him tight, quite unladylike of her, but very few people knew the composed woman before him had been born on the streets and made her living picking pockets until they were both rescued by the same man. Now Isa got to be who she’d always wanted to be, a woman of power.

“Of course I’m here.” Syren pulled back and smiled up at her. Her blue eyes, contacts to cover the ordinary brown she’d been born with, flashed when he said, “Where else would I be?’”

“I’m sure you’d rather I not answer that question, yes?” She stepped away from him and tugged on her turquoise-colored blouse. The silk material pulled tight around her generous breasts, one of the first things she’d bought with their rescuer’s money. Syren didn’t begrudge her any of her spending since he’d used his portion to finance his revenge on Delatorre.

“Come.” Isa turned toward the spiral staircase, her body swaying as she walked across the marble floor on red stilettos. He did question how she moved so effortlessly in the white skirt that gave the illusion of cutting off any circulation to her lower half.

“How is he?” Syren cursed his short stature as he raced to catch Isa as she climbed the stairs. The man who’d plucked them from the streets way back when was nearing the end of his life and Syren wished selfishly he didn’t have to be witness to it.

Isa didn’t look back when she spoke. “The same. Nothing changed since you saw him last.” On the second floor she stopped in front of a door and motioned. “Go on, he knows when you’re here, you know.” Her eyes were bright and the faint smile shaky when she met Syren’s gaze. “He always knows when you’re near.”

That had been a sore subject between them, their rescuer’s obvious affection for Syren. One they all knew went beyond what a caretaker should feel for his charge. Had Syren given him the slightest hint, they’d have been more than they were now, but he’d been too damaged, too dead inside to encourage the things he’d known his benefactor wanted.

The older man had settled for Isa and they all three knew it.
Syren hoped his eyes conveyed his apology because he couldn’t make his lips form the words. Isa must have gotten the message because she nodded briefly and he granted her a smile before opening the door and stepping inside the well-lit room.
Memories hit him full on. The early days when he couldn’t make himself believe his fortune had indeed turned, when he didn’t trust the tall man with steel in his eyes and in his hair whispering to him in the dead of night, promising him no one would hurt him ever again. That he’d make it all better.
The nights he hid under the bed when footsteps sounded outside his bedroom even though he’d dead-bolted it. And those nights, the nights when summer storms drove a shaking eighteen-year-old Syren out of his bedroom and into this one, to crawl into bed with the one man he knew would always make the pain go away, even if it was for a little while.
That man was leaving him soon. Syren saw it in the once powerful and vibrant form now reduced to a frail slip of a man, hidden under piles and piles of blankets, his body hooked up to a million and one machines that beeped incessantly.
He’d been sick for a few months, hanging on. Maybe he was finally tired of fighting.
“Well, boy.” The gruff words, spoken in flawless French from the middle of the bed made Syren smile. “Are you going to stand there all day? Better not, I’ve got things to do and people to see.”
“Henri.” Syren covered his nose and mouth with a blue surgical mask and walked over to stare down into what used to be gray eyes, now dulled with pain. A yellowish

“How the hell do you think I am?” Henri Lefèvre snorted then covered his mouth with a white handkerchief as he coughed and coughed. Syren reached over to the nightstand and handed him the glass of water there. Henri sipped the water through the straw for a few minutes then spoke when he finished. “I’m not happy. Isa and that bastard nurse took away all my smokes.” He turned a laughably hopeful gaze to Syren. “What about you? Got any?”

Syren shook his head with a grin. “Enough, old man. Those smokes are the ones that put you where you are, remember?”
“For shit’s sake, boy. I’m already dying, what’s the big deal?”
“Language, Henri.” Syren sobered. “And I’d like to keep you around for a while yet, so no smoking. I won’t help to speed up your demise.”
“Bah.” Henri waved a pale, blotchy hand. “You’re no fun, boy.” He turned his head away with a pout and Syren stared at his gaunt profile.
He’d been fifteen when Henri barged into his life and turned it upside down. He’d been sold to a man with money to burn, someone from somewhere in Saudi Arabia, and been locked in a tiny room with no windows and exposed concrete floors. His punishment for not being willing enough was a flogging, starvation and nakedness. Syren had been certain he’d freeze to death in that room, but lucky for him, Henri broke in that same night, intent on stealing the owner of the house’s legendary weapon collection.
That night Syren got his freedom and he’d dared to hope he’d have a life again. But he’d had to exorcise his demons, put them to bed, beginning with Ricardo Delatorre. When he finally told Henri who he was—six months after his rescue—Henri didn’t believe him. Eventually he did. He’d been adamant Syren not go after Ricardo, that he let the world Delatorre dealt in be its own vengeance, but Syren couldn’t sit idly by and Henri had no way of stopping him when Syren finally left.
He’d broken Henri’s heart the day he walked out. Syren broke it all over again every time he came to Paris then went back to the Delatorres and their world.
He must have made a sound because Henri turned to him with questioning eyes. “What is it?”
Syren grabbed Henri’s hand nearest to him and linked their fingers. He squeezed lightly. “I’m sorry.” He couldn’t remember if he’d said it, ever, to Henri. Or even to Isa. They knew where their lives where headed, they had no loose ends to tie up, unlike him. He’d walked away from the family Henri wanted so badly to keep intact, hurting them deeply.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated the apology and Henri frowned.
“Why are you sorry?”
Syren kissed the back of his hand. “I’m sorry you wasted all those years loving me.” He blinked away sudden moisture. “I’m sorry I couldn’t love you the way you wished.”
Henri shook his head, his expression fierce and protective. “No, never say that.” He pulled away from Syren and sat up. Syren moved with him and Henri grabbed his chin with surprisingly strong fingers, forcing him to look into the other man’s extra wide eyes. “What I feel—” Henri broke eye contact for a split second then returned to Syren. “What I felt was my failing, not yours. You can’t feel something that isn’t there.”
Syren’s throat burned. He forced himself to continue to hold Henri’s gaze instead of hiding his inner turmoil. “I wish I could have given you that,” he whispered brokenly. “It would have been easier, simpler.”
Henri’s eyes glittered, a muscle flexed in his jaw. His cold fingers curved around Syren’s cheek. “A life with you wouldn’t have been simple,
chéri
. Not at all.” He smiled crookedly. “You’re rather fucked up, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Syren barked a laugh. “I have noticed.”
“More than anything, I wanted you happy all those years go.” Henri turned serious. “I’d hoped, fool that I am, that I would be your happiness.” He shook his head. “You need someone,
chéri
, someone to chase the bad stuff and I wished I could be that for you.”
“You were.” Syren leaned into him. He pulled down the mask and pressed his lips to Henri’s leathery cheek. “You were the light that guided me back from the edge every time I got too close.”
“I was there. I was reliable and I was your savior, but I wanted your heart.” Henri paused and heaved a sigh. “I promised I wouldn’t talk about this with you. It’s my failing, not yours. Some thief I am, eh? A dirty old man, eyeing a younger man.”
“You’re only twenty years older, Henri, not ancient.” Syren had an image of Henri as the robust man he’d been all those years ago, tall and lean and gorgeous with the dimple in his chin and twinkle in his eyes. Probably the reason no one ever suspected him of being
le Falcon
, notorious thief.
“I knew you would be a challenge the night I rescued you. Naked, chained to the wall, all skin and bones and yet, your eyes.” Henri choked up. “You eyes,
chéri
, they tell your secrets. One only has to look deeper. I wanted to be the one to remove the tale of sadness in your eyes.”
Syren didn’t have words so he buried his face in Henri’s neck, breathing in his skin. Bony arms circled him, held him close, an embrace so familiar Syren couldn’t hide the sob.
“Once I knew there would be no you and me, I hoped you’d find someone out there to make you want to stay,” Henri said softly. “Someone to make you want those things you didn’t want with me.” He tugged on Syren’s neck until he drew back and their eyes met. Syren swallowed when he saw the tears trek down Henri’s cheek.
He’d never seen the older man cry. Never.
“Henri.”
“Shh.” Henri kissed his nose. “I’d hoped to be alive to watch you fall in love, even prepared myself for the hurt that would bring me, but,” he whispered at the corner of Syren’s mouth, “I’m ashamed to confess I’m glad I don’t get to see it.” He cried openly then, his wet face pressed to Syren’s, his lips quivering.
Syren hugged him close.
“I’m glad I don’t have to watch you love someone else, because I think it would be beautiful,
chéri
. When you finally find him, when you love him, it will be beautiful.” He kissed Syren then, on the lips, and Syren kissed him back, tasting the salt, impossible to tell whose tears he licked off. He parted his lips. Henri hesitated and Syren made the move for both of them, giving Henri his tongue.
Henri shivered in his arms, a choked sound rising to his lips as he kissed Syren tentatively. They clung to each other until Henri separated them with a shift of his head. He brought their foreheads together.
“
Chéri.
”
“I know.” Syren wiped the moisture off Henri’s bottom lip. “I know.”
“Isa isn’t as strong as you.” Henri moved backward until he sat against the propped-up pillows. “She’ll need to be taken care of.”
Syren didn’t scoff at Henri’s talk of his strength. He wasn’t strong, but he tabled the negative response. “I think Isa is strong when she needs to be,” Syren countered. “You underestimate her.”
A wistful smile crossed Henri’s face, there one minute, gone the next. “Maybe I do.” He patted the spot next to him. “Come, tell me about your plans. How are they coming along?”
Henri was the only person who knew the full details on how Syren planned on dealing with the Delatorres and while he didn’t approve of any of it, he respected Syren’s decisions.
“Everything is coming along smoothly.” Syren kept his answer deliberately vague. “The players are all in place, just waiting on my move. I don’t want to talk about it now.” Henri was most important at the moment.
“Very well, but one last question.”
Syren raised an eyebrow and waited.
“How is she? How is Càtia?”
Syren had no way to hide the huge smile Henri’s reverent question evoked. “She’s healthy and she’s safe.”
A matching smile broke out on Henri’s face. “He can’t get to her?”
Syren shook his head with sharp conviction. “Never.”
“But the price you pay,
chéri
—”
He silenced Henri’s words with a look. “Worth it. Every time. No matter what he dishes out, she’s worth it.”
Henri simply regarded him with a knowing look in his fading eyes. “I’m proud of you, no matter your decision. I’m proud.”
Syren inclined his head as a knock sounded on the bedroom door. Seconds later, Isa stepped in with a tray loaded with medication. “It’s time.”
Syren moved off the bed, allowing Isa to take his place. He stood for a moment, watching as she patiently handled Henri, giving his medication and granting a soft smile and encouraging word every time he swallowed. With their attention focused on each other, Syren crept out the room and down the hall to the bedroom with the red door.
His bedroom.
He went in on silent feet and got into the bed, messing up the perfect sheets. On his back he stared up at the ceiling and remembered as the tears fell. At fifteen he’d thought the tears a definite sign of weakness and he’d berated himself each time he lost the battle, each time the tears won.
Now the tears reminded him he was still human. The tears proved that despite it all he still
felt
.
He picked up the cell phone he’d dropped next to him and scrolled to the one number he had no business having. The phone number to the man he had no business wanting, but Kane Ashby was the first man, the only man Syren wanted to touch, the only man he wanted to touch
him
.
In every way.
He had no business doing what he was about to do, no right, but he would. He sent the text, the number to his private phone, and waited.
A hand on his shoulder yanked him back to awareness and Syren jumped upright, blinking up at a solemn Isa.
“How is he?”
“Asleep.” She jerked her chin. “Will you stay the night?” Her tone was noncommittal, but her eyes not so much. She wanted him stay, but they both knew he couldn’t.
Syren shook his head and swung a leg over the edge of the bed. “I can’t. Got some business to attend.”
Isa pursed her lips and smoothed his hair with one hand. “He loves you so much.” Her voice cracked. “I wish things were different.”
“So do I.” In order for things to be different he had to change them. Despite the obvious pain.
“Here.” Isa bent and picked a discreet black shopping bag off the floor. She handed it to him when she straightened. “I got this for you.”
Presents. He never could turn down presents, especially if they were what he thought they were. Peering into the bag, Syren moved the white tissue paper aside and smiled. “No way!”
Isa giggled at his expression. “I saw them and immediately thought of you.”
“Thank you.” Syren kissed her forehead. “I appreciate this so much.”
“I know,” she whispered then stepped back. “Let’s get you out of here and back to your business.”
Syren walked with her down the hallway past Henri’s suite and into the foyer. At the door he hugged her tight, leaving only after she promised to keep him up-to-date on Henri. He had the driver bring him directly to the airport where he boarded the private plane that would take him to Brazil and a face-to-face meeting with the last man he wanted to see.
Syren lit a cigarette and sat back in his seat, alternating between staring out the window and staring at his phone, willing it to ring. Willing something, anything, to happen. By the time the plane landed on the private airstrip Ricardo Delatorre used, Syren had a stiff neck, a cramped right leg and no contact with Kane Ashby.