OWN (EBOOK): Beautiful Sinner Series Page 2

  No neighbors for miles.

  No questions asked.

  Only one way in and out of the premises.

  We also have access on and off the port without bypassing security, something that worked perfectly fine—smoothly—until my guest’s master became greedy. That doesn’t sit well with me or Thiago; their fear, while attractive, can lead to stupid decisions made by the heads of this country.

  I’ll kill every one of them first.

  Another rancid-smelling bucket of water is thrown on the near-naked man, the rivulets dripping over the side of his gurney and onto the floor. The noise isn’t loud, but just enough to rouse the attention of the other residents of this land.

  I’ve always been an animal lover, just like my viejo and his father. Working the land and tending to them is relaxing, a decompression from our day-to-day operations. It’s also one of the reasons I’ve decided to move here permanently in a few weeks.

  There’s a freedom here you don’t have in the city.

  My brother can rule the 305 while I overthrow a government.

  The Mariel port will continue to be our gateway to Miami. Our products enter and disperse from there, while I receive and account for everything here. It’s how I pay back what I owe him while also following my own path.

  Two bosses.

  A few partners.

  One familia.

  To be worthy of her.

  Moreover, we have plenty of livestock here, from cows to chickens, a few goats, horses, and lastly, hogs. Large ones. Hungry ones. The kind that always stay near the rear of the building and I moved their pen closer because of it, with a back door that lets them in and out.

  The noises alone haunt those staying here as our personal guests; the shivers and soiling of themselves is quite disgusting. I’m used to the fact but do bite back a grin at the look that overtakes Israel’s face.

  Junior isn’t fazed, though. Not when Miguel, his father, has worked for the family for years and is trusted. The kid’s come into his own in the last few months working with me. Steadier—sure of himself—and has earned the right to move up in rank.

  However, the newer of the two soldiers, Israel, a recommendation from Luna’s uncle from his time with the Miami Police Department—his rookie partner before making the mistake of trusting another officer—is a different beast. That man took a small bribe from a celebrity needing to make the evidence against him—the drugs and guns confiscated in his possession—disappear.

  Israel did a favor and caught the false charge.

  He’s been out now for a few months, and I offered him a position. His knowledge comes in handy.

  “Hose him down.” At my voice, Ortega turns his head in my direction and blinks. The wild hogs know my voice and a bit of screeching follows, causing the general to pale, body thrashing against the restraints. Idiot. “Calm down before I bring them in.”

  “Done.”

  “Cabron, let me go.” Israel and Ortega speak in unison, but it’s the general I’m focusing on.

  “One second.” Bringing two fingers to my lips, I whistle and the noise travels through the large space. It’s sharp enough for my pets to quiet down, and I tilt my head to the side. My eyes never waver from him. “Now explain. Why would I do that?”

  From my periphery, I see Israel walk toward the cell next to the hose spigot and step inside. He’s in and out within seconds, dragging a piece of machinery behind him.

  Smart man.

  Ortega’s tries to shift his face, to see what’s happening, but Junior is quick to yank on the hospital bed’s lever and force a half-sitting position. There’s a grimace on his face right after, uncomfortable as the action stretches his arms back with how they’re bound. It reminds me a bit of the way my hands were tied down before my gallbladder surgery a few years back.

  Strap on each wrist. One across his waist.

  He’s unable to move much. In pain.

  You have no idea what real pain is yet.

  He swallows nervously, wrists trying to yank free. “You have no idea what you’ve done.”

  “I do.”

  “My president will never…fuck!” His scream reverberates through the large space; it’s loud and full of pain. A small yet hard jet of ice-cold water smacks him in the face and he splutters, choking as the strength digs into his flesh.

  Torturous. Painful. Such a thing of beauty to watch how something as simple as a pressure washer with enough PSI can be wielded as a weapon. Like butter, it will slice through every layer until reaching bone, and even that can be cut through with ease.

  Israel is taking it easy on him.

  I look over and give him a nod. “Increase it.”

  “Yes, boss.” My guard fiddles with a button at the front of the machine and the fine-tip nozzle, shifting it a little to the right. In the background, I can make out the whine of my hogs; they dislike being kept out, but for now, remain calm.

  They’ve been taught to be patient. They’ll be fed soon enough.

  “I’m going to kill every member of your family! Hijo de puta!” Ortega screams, trying to shift away, but Junior grips the back of his head. With strands of hair between his fingers, he holds the general still while I simply watch. From the right corner of his lip to his cheekbone, the skin gives way and the blubbering that follows is truly pleasing.

  Makes me smile.

  Blood pours from the wound and drips onto the plastic mattress, pooling a bit before his life’s essence adds to the stained floor. It mixes with grime and filth and the more direct the hit digs into his cheek, I begin to see bone.

  I raise a hand, and Israel pauses. “Rinse the rest of him.”

  “They’ll be here any second now to rescue me. You’re fucked, cabron.”

  “I’m shaking in my seat.” My monotone grates on him. There’s still plenty of fight in him, and yet it dies the moment Israel opens the water again. Pain fills his expression while rivulets of red run down his body, limbs shaking in their confined seat.

  There’s no true direction to my soldier’s cleaning method. From the soles of the general’s feet to his chest, there are quick and semi-deep slashes now littering his frame. He’s been reduced to nothing in a matter of minutes—from a high-ranking member of the Cuban military to a whimpering pussy.

  How fast the mighty fall.

  Once deemed as clean as can be, Israel shuts the machine off and retakes his place a few steps back. Junior does the same, but not before bringing a rolling cart I have behind the bed to within my guest’s line of sight.

  Nothing covers the top, and the two items ready for me make him pale a little further.

  “Talk.” And while he swallows hard, his red teeth chattering a bit, I remove my shirt and lay it behind my chair. While he mutters under his breath what I know is a prayer for help to whatever deity he believes in, I shake out my arms and crack my neck.

  I’ve been docile.

  Keeping a tight leash on the monster within I’ve come to accept.

  Because everyone has one. This evil that lurks beneath the surface, fighting to overthrow rationality, and I embrace mine.

  It’s been a part of me since my childhood. From the first time I witnessed my father slit a man’s throat after catching him trying to sell us out, I knew we were different. That our norm isn’t for everyone, but I learned quickly to thrive in it.

  To protect what’s mine. Just like every member of the De Leon family, we bleed for each other.

  “Fuck you.” That’s his response, the open wound on his face gushing a bit with each word. Funny.

  “Not my type, old man.” Next, I remove the bracelet and Cartier watch on my wrist but leave the family ring. It’s a thick gold band with our last name branded over the top, and right over the letter “D” there’s a yellow topaz representing my mother’s birthday. A bit eccentric from the rest of the family’s; I consider my design to be a little more brutal when meeting a direct hit. My letters are 3D and with specific points meant to embed in t
he skin, tearing through flesh with each sharp edge. I flex my hand and then close my fist. “But you did mention someone I will kill for. Who’s watching her?”

  “I’d never betray my boss.”

  “You will.” My steps are loud, the soles of my boots sloshing on the wet floor as I stop at the foot of his bed. He’s following my every movement, fighting back the urge to cringe when I raise a hand and scratch my jaw. “Last chance.”

  “I’m not afraid.” Yet his bottom lip quivers.

  “Let it be known, you made me do this.” Without another word, I walk to the tray and pick up a metal meat tenderizer. It’s a little heavy in my hand, a very old kitchen tool my grandmother used and now I possess. She had a purpose for it, and I’ve eaten many meals where the meat melted in my mouth after a good pounding.

  Now, though, it’ll break down a different kind of flesh.

  I make my way around him, from his head to his feet, pausing right beside his bare feet. These we did not strap, but he won’t have much movement soon.

  The first strike is right over his ankle, fast and hard, and Ortega disappoints me greatly.

  His cries fill the space, and my animals outside once again get rowdy. Now, they thrash against the door, banging their bodies on the metal, and the sound nearly overthrows the general’s pain-filled yells. I hit the same spot again, and then again, taking in how quickly the skin cracks and a fragment of bone slips through the opening.

  He’s also quick to pee himself once again, and I crinkle my nose. Disgusting.

  My hard eyes meet his and still, his cracked lips remain quiet. I nod and trail the red-stained metal up his shin and pause at the knee. Waiting. Being hospitable enough to let him talk, but nothing comes out.

  Nothing but whimpers of pain.

  So be it.

  The tap against his knee is a caress, very light, but I do enjoy the way he jumps in place right as I drop the mallet.

  Holding a hand toward Junior, I wait for the next tool. This one, much like the previous, is meant to hurt, but the cross between hammer and sledgehammer is still comfortable in my grip. Easy to swing—same weight—yet the handle is smaller, fits better in my palm.

  My fingers close around the sturdy base, and I arch a brow.

  “He’s the brother of a detective in the Miami P.D.” Ortega licks his lips, shivering a little harder than a few minutes ago. “That’s all I know.”

  “Liars never make it to the kingdom of heaven.” The saying is funny coming from a man like me, but my mother drilled that into our heads while we were young. Be an asshole, a murderer, but your words should never be questioned.

  A real man always keeps his promises.

  Always admits to his wrongs.

  Sins shouldn’t be hidden under a veil of bullshit.

  It’s why the people here accept us so freely and without blinders. We give, provide, and protect, but discretion is the cost. Never bite the hands that feed unless you’re willing to pay with your life.

  De Leons value loyalty, not ass kissers.

  They want to rise against and demand their freedom.

  A mutual agreement that both sides respect.

  “I swear it on my daughter’s life. He lives in Hialeah.”

  “Hmmm.” That’s all I give him right before swinging the large steel hammer at his right, then left knee. One blow shatters both and he vomits, the sight of it slipping out of the facial wound quite disgusting. “Give him some water.”

  Ortega blanches, and the shivering increases. “Please stop.”

  This time, I don’t hold my snort in. “Thought you said you weren’t afraid of me?” Flicking my eyes to Israel, I shake my head when he goes for the power washer. “A bottle for the man, por favor.”

  Israel rushes over to a stack of room-temperature twenty-four packs and pulls one water out. He’s back within seconds and untwisting the cap before placing it against Ortega’s lips. And while the asshole rinses his mouth, spilling more than anything, I take my place near his opposite hand.

  I’ll give him points for having somewhat of a high pain tolerance. Laying the head of the hammer over his knuckles, I clear my throat and Israel retakes the bottle and dumps what’s left on the floor. Ortega opens his mouth to say something, too, but I shake my head.

  “I’ve given you every opportunity to come clean. To die with dignity and not as food for my pets, but you failed time and time again. So I’ll do what you didn’t and share with the class what I know.”

  “Ivan, I—”

  One hard smack to the face shuts him up; Junior’s hand is poised for a second hit. “He’s Mr. De Leon to you.” Nothing else is said, and I bite back a smirk. His father would be so proud of him right now, of how far he’s risen in my ranks since starting at the bottom. “My apologies, boss.”

  “None needed.” And when the guard retakes his place a few steps back, I refocus on a pathetic Ortega who looks nothing like the man threatening me earlier. How quickly that changed; he’s a bloody, beat up, and scared man now. “From now on, all I want from you is a si or no. Do you understand?”

  “Si.”

  “Good boy.” Ortega doesn’t like the praise, and his eyes narrow a bit; I remedy that by breaking the middle knuckle of his hand. Once again he screams, a sob catching in his chest, and I wait for the man to find his composure before continuing. “Now, tell me if I’m wrong.” His nods are quick, as is the low yes. “Detective Jaime Uriel and his brother, Dalian, are related to President Placido Rodriguez through his current wife. They’re her nephews from a dead older sister and have been in trouble a few times in the past. The only reason Jaime is on the force, and a detective, is through a heavy donation and favor called in by your boss to the now-deceased Miami mayor.”

  “Si.” There’s no hiding the surprise on his face.

  Did he really think us to be so stupid? “Dalian is watching my mermaid.”

  “Si.”

  “They focused on her since she’s not publicly claimed yet.”

  “Si.”

  That burns me with guilt; I put a marker on her head due to circumstances created out of duty. This one’s on me, and I’ll right the wrong no matter what it takes. My sirenita will be safe.

  “Dalian and Jaime have asked for Amberlyn and control of Miami through us, as payment.” Ortega hesitates and I break two fingers this time, my blows consecutive until the pressure of each direct hit makes the digits burst. “Did President Rodriguez offer those two singaos my girl on a silver platter to be at their service, if I was brought to my knees? If Rodriguez got control of the De Leon operations in Cuba?”

  The pain is getting to him, and his eyes roll back. The blood loss from each injury is substantial.

  “Bring the pigs in.”

  At those words Ortega perks up, eyes wide and full of tears. “I’ll tell you everything. Just please...end this.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Yes. He offered them the girl and a cut of your Miami profit while he controlled Cuba’s.”

  “Why?” Below him, there’s a lever that’ll lower the bed and I kick it, bringing him closer to the floor. At just the right height, while Israel heads toward the only other exit. And when he does, the squeals become deafening. Animals are intelligent, can sense things we don’t, and know what’s coming. “Explain why a man like him would make such an ignorant move.”

  “Rodriguez is afraid.” Ortega voice is low, and spit dribbles over his lips. He’s slipping, but not as fast as he’d like. “People are talking, and the citizens are beginning to organize. He blames your family for this.”

  “So control the head of the beast, and the body follows.”

  “Si.”

  “Thank you, General Ortega. Your wife will be compensated for your brave contribution.” No sooner has the last word left my lips than the sound of hooves fills the space. They rush to where I stand but don’t touch me; instead, they focus on the bloody body atop the hospital bed with no way of getting out.

/>   Not that he fights it. Instead, his limp body heaves in breaths while his eyes close.

  The animals surround him, fighting for a bite, and I walk out when the bed topples over and every piece of him is covered by a hungry mouth. Nothing will be left behind, and once I cross the main entrance and step out into the warm night sky, those horror-filled screams of his disappear.

  Tonight confirmed what we already knew.

  It also cements my worry for Amberlyn and the life she’ll have with me.

  I can’t allow her to be hurt.

  “Placido Rodriguez has no idea how dangerous a man like me can truly be.”

  3

  “STAYING away is an impossibility.”

  Using my copy of her house key, I walk in and only pause long enough inside the entryway to remove my clothing. Every single article is tossed aside like the nuisance it is, my boxer briefs holding the proof of my need for her in the few drops of pre-come that have slipped from the angry tip.

  I’m hard for her. Always am.

  I’ve been away for too long.

  Cock in hand, I walk to her room at the end of the hall like the asshole I’ve become. Her door is open, a habit of hers from my late-night visits, and I kick it closed as gently as possible in my state. It’s been four days since I’ve seen her. Too many, and I know this sensation—the feigning crawling under my skin—will only get worse when I move to Cuba.

  Our expiration date is close, and she’ll hate me soon enough.

  I have no other choice, but first, I’ll rid Miami of every cabron who’s a threat to her safety, moves I’ve already put into motion.

  After yesterday’s incident with Ortega and then leaving instructions with the crew there, I flew right back onto American soil. Then made one small stop. Some people need motivation, and the proof of our talk is more than likely on my shirt or pants; a single punch broke his nose, and the idiot was a bleeder.

  However, all other thoughts die when my eyes find her lithe body atop the bed, face down and with a strewn sheet across her ass and upper thighs. She’s bare underneath that sheet; I know this just as I know she’s already slick between her thighs.