Sin & Redemption (Caprice Chronicles Book 4) Read online

  Sin & Redemption

  Book Four of the Caprice Chronicles

  Selena Page

  Sin & Redemption

  Copyright © 2016, Selena Page

  Copyright © 2016, Selena Page

  First electronic publication: September 2016

  Selena Page

  www.selenapage.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s permission

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Caprice Chronicles

  Love & Accusations

  Smoke & Longing

  Roads & Royalty

  Sin & Redemption

  Dirt & Desire – Coming October 2016

  Find Selena Page online at www.selenapage.com or e-mail her at [email protected]

  Please visit Selena’s Amazon Author Page and leave a review if you enjoy this book!

  Join the Family and stay up to date with the latest news, sneak previews and more from the Caprice Family!

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 1

  She’d loved him. Once upon a time, in what felt like a million lifetimes ago, she’d truly loved him. Iowin Tintreach, blond haired and with eyes too green to be anything but otherworldly. A mark of his family line, he’d once joked. Wizards of the Tintreach variety wore their power on their person in some way. His uncle’s shadow was always a half step ahead of him, for instance. His grandmother’s laugh had a touchable quality and would make anyone smile. Sean Tintreach, his older brother, always ran slightly hot to the touch. Like a fever crept into his blood at birth and never quite went away.

  For Iowin, it was the eyes. His were the proverbial gateway to his soul, the tell that made him the worst poker player in the world. They glittered, those eyes, enveloped in the heredity of Ireland that continued to kiss his speech even after decades of living in America. It drove her crazy, the way that accent grew heavier the more he drank or when the night was at its darkest and the sheets were warm and duty had nearly sucked the will to live from their hearts. He’d speak to her in that low, melting tone, and she tasted his homeland on those lips--

  --before it had all gone to shit.

  "Tintreach. It’s done," Lieutenant Alynia Caprice lifted her gun and put her finger on the trigger, trying not to find the double meaning in her words. "I’ve found you. You have to come with me."

  To his credit, he didn’t so much as twitch. His bodyguards did that for him, fanning out in a semi-circle of promised pain. Glocks appeared from suit jackets specifically tailored to hide them, an array of clicking sounds as safeties popped and rounds chambered filling the hush of the church. Almost like a reverent hymn to the long forgotten god of war, or maybe that was the god of death?

  Judging from the amount of hardware currently aimed at her forehead, she was willing to bet that it was both.

  Iowin stood with his back to her, and if he was cognizant of the power she quietly channeled through the beads in her upraised left hand, he didn’t show it. Stars above, there was no way he wouldn’t feel that magic. No one as talented in the craft as he was could have missed the mystical workings of her will. Hell, he created the artifact in her hand. Beads of Binding, he’d called them. It was the only way to bring down a magic user safely and ensure they stayed right where you put them. How many rogue witches had they captured together with that exact item? Too many. Just like too many deaths now rested on his head, too much blood to let him walk away.

  It took less than a heartbeat for the cathedral-like church to become the latest in a long line of standoffs between the law and the mob. Moonstone beads glinted in the morning light, sending shards of cast-off colors across the polished floor. Stained glass windows added pigment to the shadows, smudging a surrealistic quality over the world, combining with the heat of a Florida autumn to make the situation that much more exacerbating. She felt more like a gingerbread man baking in a cavernous oven than an officer about to discharge her duty. Only this act wouldn’t be recreated in sugar on someone’s Christmas dinner table.

  Sweat slicked the back of her neck, turning the midnight wisps of hair that had managed to escape her haphazard ponytail into sticky reminders of how much this sucked. All it would take was a single word, and the world would erupt in blood and bullets.

  "Iowin," she said softly. "Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. Come with me."

  Itchy fingers slid against solid triggers, the tiny metallic creaks echoing in her ears like trumpet blasts.

  "Nia," he replied just as softly. "It’s been a while. How’s the family?"

  "Peachy as always," she kept that gun level with his heart. "They miss you. You shouldn’t wait so long between visits."

  He chuckled, the sound mirthless. "Everyone is always so busy these days."

  "We have time. Like now. How’s now work for you? I’ve even brought you a present. Turn around, hold out your right hand, and I’ll give it to you."

  Much to her surprise, he did--minus the holding out of his hand. Just a glance over his shoulder, a slight movement of his head, and the weight of those jade eyes plowed into her with sledgehammer-like force.

  If anyone asked if she’d hunt down Iowin Tintreach, she’d have laughed in their faces. One of the most decorated cops on the mundane police force and one of the most dedicated crusaders for justice within the circles of magic, the thought of Iowin going dark was unfathomable. His brother had. But the sins of a family member shouldn’t be held against another. He’d personally led the movement against the ancient law of cursing entire bloodlines just for the actions of one individual.

  Coming from a cursed bloodline, herself, she totally understood.

  But there he stood, all six-foot-six of rangy muscle and stunning tanned features wrapped in enough silk Armani to impress the Corleone family. With an empire of drug dealers, gang-bangers, and contract killers running through the streets of Miami at his beck and call. They all bore the three-pronged lightning bolt tattoo that was the calling card of the Tintreach Family.

  They took their orders from the head Tintreach sibling, which until five years ago was Sean Tintreach. Known in magical circles as Sean the Black or Sean Shadowbringer for the drug he’d created, the ShadowBlack that had nearly replaced Molly as the drug of choice on the Miami club scene. Hundreds of people on South Beach had imbibed the jet-colored liquid, exulting in pleasure as their life force was siphoned away a piece at a time. Right into Sean’s greedy little soul, granting him a kind of immortality.

  She and Iowin had made it their purpose in life to get ShadowBlack off the streets. Until something went horribly, completely sideways. Something that caused Iowin to don the crown as Tintreach Mob Boss Incumbent before Sean’s body grew cold.

  Idly, she wond
ered what the magical community called him now. ‘Iowin the Just’ wasn’t so just anymore.

  The step back she took wasn’t entirely involuntary and had nothing to do with the weight of his stare. Or so she tried to tell herself. More to square her shoulders, readjust her grip on gun and beads alike, and behave like the officer of the law she was supposed to be.

  "I won’t ask again."

  "Then don’t ask," he spun around fully, shadows drifting through those magnificent eyes. "You know who and what I am now, and more to the point, what I will and won’t do."

  The beads vibrated on their black cord, her temper rising with the mid-morning heat. "The undisputed Underworld King of Miami."

  The corner of his mouth quirked. "I have been called such, yes."

  "You wear your money as well as the title. How does it feel to profit off the sickness you once tried to heal? Bet you go to sleep every night in that fortress you call home on Star Island, safe and happy."

  "I sleep well enough, thank you," he answered, and if her barbs struck any nerves, he didn’t show it. "Now, are you going to shoot me, or can I go to confession?"

  As if to emphasize the point, Father Alejandro Sanchez stepped up behind him, garbed in his priestly black. The barrel of her gun twitched an inch to the side, taking in both men. The former Tintreach foot-soldier-turned-priest gazed at her with serene dark eyes. Bible clasped to his chest, a rosary of bright gold and ruby studs wrapped around his right hand, almost as a mirror to the artifact in hers. A safe bet held that the rosary was a gift from Iowin, and the double down odds were good that the delicately carved body of Christ on his cross wasn’t glittering in the sunlight just because it was polished ivory.

  Apparently God wasn’t the only sure thing that could save a life in this place.

  "Lieutenant," Father Sanchez smiled gently, almost too kindly. "Do you have a warrant for Mr. Tintreach’s arrest?"

  "You know I don’t."

  "Then I am sure he has nothing more to say to you, Lieutenant Caprice. You are breaking several city codes by brandishing your service weapon in a place of worship."

  She flicked her flint-colored gaze at the seven other guns and lifted an eyebrow. "Because it’s rude for a cop to wave guns about in a church, yet thugs gunning me down on holy ground is the cost of what? Seven Hail Mary’s and a couple of Our Father’s?"

  "Four Hail Mary’s, actually," one of the bodyguards, a woman in a sharp pale blue business suit, said with a professional smile. "This will be self-defense. Cuts some slack on the sin scale."

  "Oh, well. As long as everyone’s chanting the right hollow platitudes to the right invisible man in the sky, who am I to argue?"

  Father Sanchez winced at her blasphemy, and she fought not to shake her head in disbelief. Really, he drew the line at blasphemy but talk of murder earned less than a bat of the eye? No wonder she had issues with organized religion.

  "Enough," Iowin cut in, something akin to a whisper of anger starting to crack the ice in his voice. Against the better advice of his guards, he took three steps forward, close enough to touch. "This is not the place or the time. And you will not distract me, Alynia Caprice. You forget I know you better than this. I taught you this tactic."

  She almost flinched. Almost. "It’s never the place or the time with you, Tintreach," Alynia continued, switching gears. "You always ignore my requests for an interview."

  "So you hunt me down like an animal and ambush me in my chosen place of worship?"

  She shrugged a shoulder, trying to ignore the lactic acid building up in her muscles, causing her arms to tremble slightly. Holding a gun on a suspect looked so much easier on television. "You left me no choice."

  Iowin sighed faintly, compressing his lips. "I have a very busy day ahead of me, Lieutenant Caprice. But you do have the number of my attorney. Call and make an appointment. I’ll be happy to accommodate you then."

  He started to turn away, and she felt herself snap.

  Her hand lashed out, grasping his wrist. "Dammit, Iowin!"

  In the blink of an eye it was his hand gripping her upper arm, yanking her against him so hard her teeth rattled. She lost her grip on the beads, hearing them clatter to the floor. But the gun in her hand? That she held onto like life itself and rewarded herself by pressing the muzzle right over his heart. He froze. Everyone around them froze. The entire world froze for all she knew.

  It came down to her finger on the trigger. Good solid steel when all else--even magic--failed.

  "You would? You’d shoot me, would you?" he had the temerity to ask.

  No! "Yes," she answered instantly, ignoring the screaming in the back of her heart, where her soul still ached for what was lost. "For what you’ve done, yes I would."

  Confusion danced in his eyes, true puzzlement washing away the darkness that was his hallmark now. "You have no reason to question me. You have no proof of my wrongdoings, no witnesses, and no evidence to indict me. Until you do, I would appreciate you keeping your distance, or I will be forced to press harassment charges," he leaned in closer, the steel in her hands biting deep into his black Italian suit. Close enough to kiss him, close enough to leave a bruise over his heart in the shape of the muzzle. Close enough that only she heard the words: "Lieutenant Caprice is not welcome in my home or near my person. Alynia, on the other hand, is."

  With that, he let go. Just as calmly he turned and followed Father Sanchez into the confessional, his bodyguards taking up position around it.

  Chapter 2

  It took two days and a long conversation with her team to understand what Iowin had meant with that parting shot. Alynia was welcome in his home, but Lieutenant Caprice wasn’t. Translation: he was willing to talk to her off the record. And the way he had phrased it led her to believe that her name was the only one that would make it past those massive ironwork gates.

  Cue the complete and utter freak-out of her homicide team, the screaming and the cold logic coming at her in alternating waves. This was a stupid idea. She couldn’t go alone. It was against procedure. It was insane. It was a trap. It was blah, blah, blah.

  They were very valid reasons in the eyes of the law. And meant absolute dick to anyone who didn’t follow that same law. Alynia went alone, or this whole interview didn’t happen. End of argument.

  Lightning danced in a rainless sky as she made the long trek from Miami proper onto the exclusive Star Island. If South Beach was the playground of those with more money than sense, then Star Island was the proverbial hotel room they crashed at after the debauchery and liquor ran dry. Mansions and modern day castles flitted here and there across the horizon, cleverly hidden in some places by thick copses of trees or shoved right up in one’s face, the front doors a mere stone’s throw from the main gates protecting them from the unwashed masses. Dark and Gothic, or sleek and modern, with a sprinkling of Spanish style to spice up the horizon. What they had in common, the factor that tied them into one cohesive unit instead of disorganized chaos, were the thick iron fences.

  She tried not to think about how much those fences looked like prison bars. She tried even harder not to think about how many people in these homes belonged behind bars.

  Jesus H. Christ, the money to water their lawns cost more than she made in a year.

  Alynia shook her head, mentally preparing herself for the prejudice of not having a million or more in the bank. Still, a bit of sadistic satisfaction dripped from her smile as the department issue H3 Hummer rolled down that privileged asphalt, the Miami-Dade Police Department emblem emblazoned on its side like a rune of power. She’d chosen the vehicle for a multitude of reasons, the least being how it stood out like a sore thumb. Sure, some of the billionaires populating this hunk of rock had Hummers, but they were locked in private garages. No one would be so gauche as to leave it in plain sight of the neighbors. Heaven forbid the members of this private community think one of its own actually drove a car that was accessible by the average working stiff.

  It also reminded Iow
in who and what she was. Or more to the point, what he no longer was.

  She pulled to a stop at the huge iron gates and flashed her badge at the man in the guard shack. He stared at her long and hard, the way one might stare at a Pygmy rattler found curled up on the front porch. She flashed him a polite smile, one that seemed to make him all the more nervous, and received a half-hearted wave in return. Apparently she’d been correct. Her name was on the guest list.

  Alynia forced her eyes away from the prison tatts running the length of that waving arm. Dollars to donuts, if she suggested he take off his nicely pressed shirt she’d find the three-pronged forked lightning bolt, the symbol of the Tintreach Empire, tattooed above his heart. Tintreach, the Gaelic word for lightning. Like the energy dancing in those pregnant clouds, ready to give birth to power and destruction. She suppressed a shiver, forced her mind on the tasks at hand.

  Interview. Conversation. Lunch.

  Get the confession, or at least a clue as to where to look for evidence. Go home. Arrest his ass tomorrow. Case closed.

  Then maybe sleep, really and truly sleep, for the first time since he’d walked away.

  The driveway was bordered by more thick green trees than she’d seen outside a national park, the drive itself nothing but crushed white marble chips. Iowin probably paid a fortune to keep that marble where it belonged and not sprawling about the manicured lawns. Glimpses of those before-mentioned lawns showed that the property line went on forever. If the rumors about this estate were true, his house and the surrounding homes had once been Tintreach drug houses. Iowin had purchased his brother’s former properties and leveled them to create this fortress.

  Thunder rumbled as she made slow progress up the winding driveway, and finally the monstrosity he called home came into view. Soaring towers and turrets with more windows than she could count filled her vision. And that was the primary residence. Aerial maps indicated six other mansion-sized houses—all of which looked like a shoebox apartment in comparison to the main complex--sprawled out behind this one, a gothic-looking church in its center. Alynia had no idea who lived in those houses, but again the safe bet said it was where he housed his soldiers.