Page 17 of Beautiful Sinners

One bushy eyebrow arches, and I can’t tell if he’s being condescending when he replies, “Ye havenae asked me a question yet, wee Amato.”

With his mossy gaze stationed on me, his chin lifts ever so slightly, but it’s a signal that tells his men to stand down.

“We’re leaving.”

His mouth curves under his short beard. “I heard ye the first time, lad. Still not a question.”

“Your men saved us.”

“Aye.”

“They destroyed my friend’s house.”

He smirks. “Aye.”

“Why?”

“Now we’re getting somewhere, wee Amato,” he cheekily replies.

His amusement at the situationandhis juvenile nickname for me piss me off.

Cillian pushes away from the wall and sweeps a hand out for Con and me to follow him into a side room that connects to the foyer.

“I don’t think so.”

With an exasperated huff, Cillian chuckles. “Bloody hell, you’re as fecking pigheaded as she is.”

Con’s hand lands on my biceps, fingers digging in. A reminder not to do anything dumb. Like punch Cillian’s smug face.

“Leave Syn out of this.”

“I’m not talking about the bonnie lass.”

There’s a commotion above us on the stairs, followed by Syn’s frantic voice calling my name. Her red hair flies wildly behind her as she barrels into me and practically climbs me like a frigging tree.

Throwing her arms around my neck with a strangling hold, she sobs, “I swear I didn’t know. I didn’t remember. Please forgive me.I didn’t remember!”

She rambles frantically, not seeming to notice the stocky Irishman and the men with guns standing nearby.

Gasping like she’s fighting for air, I band an arm under her to hold her to me and gently cup the side of her ravaged face.

“Breathe, Red.”

She’s freaking out and not making any sense.

Tears leak from her beautiful, devastated blue eyes. “You don’t understand. Oh god, Tristan. I’m so sorry. I didn’t remember.” She takes a shallow, stuttered breath. “Dierdre…”

At the mention of my sister, Syn’s gaze falters when our eyes meet, her expression brimming with sorrow and regret. Her lips part as if to speak, but the words get trapped.

“Syn.” I shake her, needing her to finish but scared to death of what she wants to tell me.

“…is my mother,” tumbles out of her mouth.

But Alana is her adoptive mother.

“The fuck?” Con mumbles.

Syn’s tears turn into rivers as she watches what she said sink in and rip me apart.

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