OWN (EBOOK): Beautiful Sinner Series
SUMMARY
The De Leons are a criminal dynasty.
No one makes a single move in South Florida without our knowledge, and yet, it's not enough.
Not as a man. Not as a boss.
Not when I’ve vowed to lay an entire country at my little Mermaid's feet.
Every man has a path to walk, and Ivan De Leon's is set in stone. The price to pay for my decisions has been steep, but the gains are mine to claim, and I will. I’ve killed to be where I am—walked away from the most important person in my life—and now, one phone call changes everything.
Success comes with casualties. Hunger and desperation.
I’ve bled to be worthy of her.
I broke her heart, but I’ll also put it back together again.
My little sirenita. My Amberlyn.
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*This is a Mafia Romance and as such, you will encounter descriptive scenes of violence and sex. It contains dark elements that some readers might find triggering. These men are brutal and unapologetic, please read at your own discretion.*
OWN (BEAUTIFUL SINNER #6)
was written by Elena M. Reyes
Copyright 2022 ©Elena M. Reyes
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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This work is copyrighted. All rights are reserved. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the author.
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Cover Design: T.E. Black
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Editor: Marti Lynch
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Publication Date: June 9th 2022
Genre: FICTION/Romantic Suspense/Erotica Suspense/Thriller
Copyright © 2022 Elena M. Reyes
All rights reserved.
CONTENTS
GLOSSARY for Spanish & Cuban Slang:
Note From Author…
Acknowledgments
1. Ivan
2. Ivan
3. Ivan
4. Ivan
5. Amberlyn
6. Amberlyn
7. Ivan
8. Amberlyn
9. Ivan
10. Ivan
11. Amberlyn
12. Amberlyn
13. Ivan
14. Amberlyn
15. Ivan
16. Amberlyn
17. Ivan
18. Ivan
19. Ivan
20. Ivan
21. Amberlyn
22. Amberlyn
23. Ivan
24. Ivan
25. Amberlyn
26. Ivan
27. Amberlyn
28. Ivan
29. Epilogue
30. Outtake
Beautiful Sinner Announcement…
Beautiful Sinner Series
Fate’s Bite Update:
Dark Obsession Anthology
Hot Boy Summer Anthology
About the Author
Also by Elena M. Reyes
GLOSSARY FOR SPANISH & CUBAN SLANG:
Sirena/Sirenita: Mermaid
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Viejo/Vieja = Old Man/Woman
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Mierda = Shit
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Chivato = Rat/Snitch
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Coño = Fuck or Damn
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Bebe = Baby
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Cabron = Fucker
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Mamajuana =
This Comes From The Dominican Republic And Is Made By Combining Rum, Red Wine, And Honey And Soaking The Mixture With A Special Tree Bark & Herbs. The Color Is A Deep Red, And Some Say It Tastes Similar To A Port.
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Singao = Fucker or Asshole
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Hijo de Puta = Son of a Bitch
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Que Vola = What’s Up
Acere or Asere = Friend
Tio/Tia = Uncle or Aunt
Salsa Rueda or Salsa Casino =
This style of salsa dancing originated in Cuba. Here, the couples form a large circle or rueda, and they execute turns, steps, and patterns in unison to the calls of the singer or leader.
NOTE FROM AUTHOR…
When I started this series in 2019, I pictured the De Leon brothers as Cuban males with a Latino family dynamic; the crazy cousins and funny parents and the get-togethers that never ended. Because no one parties like we do; what starts as a barbeque never fails to end like a block party. LOL
For me, writing these books hit me with a bit of nostalgia I wasn’t expecting. I was born and grew up in Miami, and the places and people within these pages are me and my stomping ground. My friends and family. And sure, the whole crazy-mafia aspect is fiction and for fun—an escape—but the longing to see where your family comes from is real.
So, I dedicate this to the people that were never able to visit the places your grandparents talked about while reminiscing. To the countries our parents left behind to give us a better life.
And lastly, to my Abuelos—my Mima and Pipo—may you always rest in peace. We never got to make our trip to Cuba, to the city you were born in, but I plan to do it with Mom someday.
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Elena XoXo
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
HAPPY READING, MY BEAUTIFUL BABES!!!
Before you get to the crazy/sexy fun; I want to give a huge THANK YOU to my team. Seriously, I couldn’t do this without you.
Emina Ros, Ana Rita, C.M. Steele, Marti Lynch, & Tonya Fox Summerlin; I couldn’t have finished this book without you guys. You push me and don’t let me doubt myself. You keep me going on days when the writing isn’t flowing, and always believe in me when it’s hard to
believe in myself.
I love you all so much and I’m thankful to have you in my life.
Also, another HUGE thanks to Lyra Parish and her kick-ass sprints. Those things are heaven-sent and so much fun!!!
1
THE CUBAN MALECON is beautiful at night. Havana is nothing short of paradise.
And more so as its citizens come alive beneath the stars. The area from one end to the other is full—people young and old are dancing and singing, sharing with each other what they have even though it’s illegal to do so by the government's standards.
They decide what you eat and when.
They decide what kind of business you are allowed to own.
You can be arrested for something as simple as speaking your mind.
There are no liberties here, because freedom means they lose power.
Those bastards sit comfortably inside the national palace and hold court surrounding a ridiculous round table, giving nightly discourses on a nonexistent threat that’s dangerous to only one percent of the island's population. They fear everyone outside this country, and projecting that same emotion is how an abuser stays in control of a situation.
I’m the real threat within their midst.
And while I understand the notion that I hold no moral high ground, there are limits you don’t cross. My family doesn’t take kindly to abuse, not of innocent people, and their day of reckoning is coming.
In my grandfather’s name.
In my grandmother’s memory.
On the series of digits that grace our family’s wrists in honor of a man who fought against oppression and demanded freedom.
Patria y Vida. Country and Life.
Their day
is coming. The people here can taste it.
Smiles spread across those socializing near me, a few catching my eyes here and there while pretending it’s just another hot summer night. The stone-built embankment runs for five miles and is an attraction that pulls in tourists and citizens alike; they come to relax and enjoy the cooling cocoon of never-ending sea mist while making deals.
The legal kind. The ones solved in alleyways and away from the military police who seems to be absent tonight.
This evening, though, those visiting the island have been warned to stay inside the National Hotel just a short walk from here. And while they watch from the windows and lobby, I stand right within the sight of the large fountain of said establishment in my black jeans and shirt with an old pair of combat boots on my feet. The tattoos on my arms and neck should be enough to pick me out of a crowd.
I’m not hiding.
The president knows I’m here and waiting.
A few feet from me, people begin to clap in key, keeping in tune with the salsa playing on someone’s old-school stereo. It’s loud and full of life, even catching the attention of a few vintage cars. The taxis are empty except for one driver, who passes and honks while a group of twenty-somethings begins to dance in a rueda formation.
They move in sync, turning to face their partners while staying in step. The count is the same as your standard salsa, but quickly changes when the couples begin to execute choreographed moves that are interconnected with each person—turns and dips and the occasional trick where the men lock arms in a circular pattern and the ladies sit atop their forearms.
The circle breaks when the song’s chorus does, and those near us cheer.
Moreover, I find myself nodding along to the beat, humming low, when I see him. The man isn’t wearing his normal military uniform, choosing instead to blend in—his guayabera and dress pants combined with a pair of dark aviator glasses are meant to make him seem harmless. It fails.
He’s anything but.
A killer can sense another.
Those around me also take him in. They know who he is and what he’s capable of.
General Ortega smiles at a woman not far from him, trying to seem nonchalant before moving closer. And to keep up his charade, I bring the bottle of Cristal beer to my lips and take a deep pull while looking at those still having a dance-off.
Ortega doesn’t disappoint when he stops beside me, facing the same way. “You’re playing a dangerous game, De Leon. One might say you're overstaying your welcome.”
“Am I?” After another sip, I tip over the rest over his feet and soak what I’m sure are expensive moccasins. “I had no clue.”
His face reddens, hands clenching at his sides. “What do you think all this will achieve? You’re no one’s hero, asshole. Instead, you’re putting marks on innocent people.”
“And you care about these people?” We both know he doesn’t, and I snort, waving at an older man that I consider to be family sitting on the embankment’s edge. He’s my mermaid’s uncle and one of the many eyes and ears here. “My, General, you’re as corrupt as he is.”
“And you’re not?” I’m not blind to the way his right hand slowly reaches his hip—to the tight grip he now has on a small pistol. “The De Leon family has more blood on its hands than I do. A criminal should never point fingers, kid. That’s something your family should’ve taught you by now.”
“Is that so?” Turning my head, I meet his beady eyes and smile. Fucking idiot has fallen right into my hands. “Do tell me how to run my business. How should I bow to you?”
Two of my men give me a nod from over his shoulder, coming a little closer while those watching do the opposite. They make more noise, celebrating, while Junior brings out a syringe from his pocket and stands at the ready.
There’s enough sedative in the small dose to knock him out and transport him without issue.
“Scum like you always ends up on his knees with a mouth full of steel, tears rolling down your cheeks. President Rodriguez won’t be gentle either; he wants to see you choke and beg for mercy.”
“What else?” His vitriol is unimaginative at best. Pathetic. “Will I be forced to kiss his feet?”
“No, but your puta will.”
“You’re wasting my time, Ortega. Say your piece,” I say, and while on the outside I’m calm—my smirk in place—the ire within is barely contained. This is something every man in my position deals with at one point or another: the threat to a loved one.
My girl. My mermaid.
It’s a test. Not my first either.
It also gives me a sick sense of pleasure to watch his composure slip a little at my nonchalance. He’s expecting yelling and curses, for me to react with violence while I’m sure his men are nearby. Another mistake, and at this point, I’m going to tally them up and deliver my reprimand before I snap his neck.
“You’re egotistical now, Ivan,” he spits out through clenched teeth, voice low as to not attract attention. Ortega’s not entirely stupid; he knows I have people here, but he just doesn’t know who is who.
Is it the old man clapping?
The mom holding a rum bottle tightly in her grasp?
Or the young man kissing his girlfriend?
Any one of them is a possibility, but not the case this time.
“Will you ever finish explaining yourself?”
“I’m going to personally shove my gun against Amberlyn Ibarra’s head, cabron. I know her schedule, where she sleeps, and who her family is here on the island. Working in that bail bonds office near the police station won’t protect her from us.” With two fingers, he taps his temple and smirks. “Our reach is just as deep as yours.”
“So that means your wife and son in Curacao are fair game? What about the whore you keep here…Barbara, is it?” Tilting my face a bit, I give him an innocent shrug. “I’ll bleed them both dry and then make you drink it, Ortega. Don’t get cocky with me. That mouth of yours is already going to cost you dearly.”
“Listen here, hijo de puta—”
“No one calls my mother a whore.”
“Fuck you and your...” A snap of my finger and Junior stabs the needle into his neck before he can finish, injecting the concoction into the great general’s system and then stepping back. “What the hell was that?” He brings a hand up to the pricked area, cupping it while frantically looking around. Eyes wide, he stumbles within a few seconds and mumbles something. It’s unintelligible, but I’m sure a few curses were insinuated.
His hands dig at his side, but they’re more than likely asleep and just keep dusting his sides.
I take his gun and phone, dropping the latter and stomping on it. The screen shatters, and he tries to say something but fails. Words come out, but they’re garbled and my men shrug, not understanding the idiot either.
I’m sure it’s some insult either way.
“What was that? Did you say something?” I grab Ortega’s arm when he stumbles again, while my other guard, Israel, takes the opposite side to steady him. “Inebriated and while on duty. So irresponsible, General. Such a grave mistake, too.”
There’s anger in his eyes, so much hate, but both roll back and he slumps completely against Israel. The entire ordeal lasts but three minutes at the most. Those around us clap when he loses consciousness, still pretending, and I tilt my head toward the newly restored Ford Fairlane parked a few feet from us. The driver is my personal one while on the island and has his orders:
No stops until on the family compound.
And as they move toward it with the passed-out general, the crowd follows. Covering. They block the view and most of the street, the party growing while all traces of them being here is erased within a blink or two.
I’m left behind to stroll off at a leisure pace with a smile on my face.
President Rodriguez made a huge mistake today.
Never show your hand ahead of time.
Never leave your messenger without proper protection—men who can’
t be paid off.
Never threaten a De Leon or his girl.
2
“WHAT THE FUCK!” General Ortega sputters, coughing up the old water from the hog pen Israel threw at him. He’s alert at once, eyes screwed shut as I’m sure something nasty fell in there. “What’s going on?”
I don’t answer him. Instead, I sit back and get a little more comfortable.
We’ve been inside the family compound for a few hours now. The drive here didn’t take long; our estate is located west of Havana on a private stretch of land not far from the Mariel port and with the gulf as our backyard. My abuelo made the first move to own property here, more for vacation purposes, but my father transformed the land into a fully functioning colonial monstrosity with a twenty-four-hour staff, a small airstrip—and a private jail at the back end away from the family communal areas.