Devour (Sinro Enterprises #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

DANTE

Petty war rages in my head as I stand in front of the open fridge.

Should I eat the rest of the leftover arroz con leche and risk going into a sugar coma? What if I’m sluggish in dance classes tomorrow morning? Would one bad day ruin my reputation as a dedicated soloist? Or do I say fuck it and reward myself for once?

A hand suddenly smacks against my abs, curling me over with a grunt of pain.

“The fuck was that for?” I shout, glaring up at my older brother.

Laz is shirtless—what’s new—all that threatening muscle he earned in the fighting gym on display for the world to gawk at. His thick, dark curls fall perfectly over his brows, no trace of the frizz I battle on a daily basis with my own unruly hair.

“Protein, manito,” my brother replies. “It’s better for you than sweets.”

I’m about to complain that he doesn’t know shit about my macro needs, but then he grabs the pan I was eyeballing, pops the lid off, and scoops half of the rice pudding into his mouth like an animal.

Rage snaps through me, quicker than lightning. I go to shove him, but my hands meet a solid wall of unmovable mass. Laz chuckles.

“Asshole,” I mumble.

“Hey. You told me to keep you on track with dance shit.” He dives his fork in for another big bite. “This is me keeping you on track.”

Okay. So I would have wallowed in self-hatred after eating the entire pan. Only because I’ve worked so hard to get where I’m at in my career. I’ve bled and callused over, practicing almost every day since I can remember.

When you move around a lot, you have to find some sliver of normalcy to cling to. Some form of routine to keep you grounded.

That’s always been ballet for me.

Still, the sugar high from the homemade dessert would have been real fucking nice, even if it only gave me temporary reprieve from the stress of approaching auditions for our company’s new show.

“Yeah? And how about your next weigh-in?” I retort, shutting the fridge door hard enough to rattle the contents.

Laz reaches a hand out to ruffle my hair, but I smack it away. “No stress, manito. I’ve got this next fight in the bag.”

He saunters off like the baddest predator in the jungle. My leaner muscles coil up on instinct, ready to spring into an attack. Always ready to fight for what’s fucking mine. In this case, the last of the dessert Laz and I made together.

I know for a fact I could get my older brother in a rear naked chokehold and drop him to the ground.

But keeping him there…that’s another struggle.

As the sons of the Colombian Muay Thai king, Laz and I are both trained in mixed martial arts. However, I don’t have Laz’s brawn. Or his patience to think out next moves.

Jaw clenched, I file revenge away for another day and brew a cup of black coffee for Papi.

At twenty-one, I probably shouldn’t be living with my family, but considering Mamá was taken from us, I think we have a solid reason for wanting to stay together.

The night Laz told me the truth about Mamá replays in my head, even all these years later. What had started as a trip to visit Papi’s side of the family in Cartagena to celebrate Noche Buena turned into an extended three-month stay.

When I’d asked Laz for the hundredth time why Mamá hadn’t come with us, he’d hugged me and told me that Mamá was murdered by bad people. Papi was pretty messed up about it, so much so that he was considering leaving us in Cartagena.

I’d rushed to find Papi in one of the guest bedrooms, slouched down on the floor with a lost look in his eyes. I threw myself at him and broke down into hysterics.

Don’t leave us behind, Papi. Por favor. I’ll be good. I won’t ever complain about anything. Just please. Please don’t leave us.

Papi had rocked me in his arms while Laz draped himself over me like a weighted blanket. We’d fallen asleep like that right there on the floor, three aching hearts beating in synchrony.

The next morning, Papi moved us to a cold, rundown cinderblock apartment in Santa Teresa, New Mexico.

And thus began the never-ending game of moving. Every time Papi got an itch like something was lurking outside of whatever hole in the wall we’d come to occupy, I knew what to expect.

I’m sorry, mijos. This is the last time. The next house will be our home. Lo prometo.

Always lo prometo.

To this day, I don’t know the definition of home. Papi makes sure we always have a roof over our heads, but none of the places we’ve ever lived are anything more than a place to sleep. The possessions I have fit in a suitcase. Makes it easier to pack up my shit and leave on a moment’s notice.

But the nightmares…those come with me everywhere we go. They always star a faceless horror hunting us, formed out of some fucked-up mix of anxiety, confusion, and fear over whatever may have happened to Mamá.

So yeah. The idea of leaving my family makes me want to claw my fucking skin off.

Pushing out a breath to settle my emotions, I carry Papi’s coffee up the creaky wooden stairs of our small rental house and bring my knuckles down on the cracked study door.

“Come in, mijito.”

A little on edge, I push through the door. It’s not that Papi’s an intimidating man. He’s actually pretty levelheaded for someone who could kill you with a single kick.

Having watched recorded fights of him breaking literal bones, I thought it was messed up that he kept fighting for so many years, but maybe I don’t have enough álvarez blood to understand the need to destroy things.

Maybe that’s why I ended up a dancer instead of a fighter.

It’s just…I’m not really sure what Papi does for work since we left Colombia. Some days, I think too hard about it, and it brings a sickening feeling to my gut. Like it’s somehow tied to whatever happened to Mamá.

But I don’t ask because I don’t want to know. We all have our secrets. Unspoken house rule is we don’t pry.

Rich brown eyes meet me as I approach Papi behind his desk. Even with the remnants of sleepless nights clinging to his face, he’s classically handsome. His dark waves swoop artfully over his thick brows, and a pair of wire-framed glasses sit on the bridge of his slightly crooked nose.

Laz is handsome, too. I take more after our mother—fairer and not so sharp in my features.

My curls are a reddish brown and require threats to cooperate.

I have a beauty mark under one eye. I used to wish the spot away when I was a kid, until I worried about wasting a wish on vanity when I’d rather have Mamá back in our lives.

Papi closes the black leather notebook he was scrawling in moments ago. “What’s wrong, Dante?”

“Laz ate my dinner,” I pout, setting the hot coffee down on his desk.

There’s nothing cozy about his study. It’s drafty around the old windows, and the radiator no longer works.

The two armchairs positioned in front of a dirty fireplace were left here by previous renters and have almost no cushion left.

All Papi added was a shabby desk he picked up from a thrift store and a small metal filing cabinet where he keeps his notebook when he’s not obsessing over it.

No lie, this place kind of sucks. At least I have a promising future in dance here.

“We can order something from our favorite pizza spot,” Papi offers. “Garlic bread and meat lovers?”

Laz’s muffled voice bleeds through the walls. “Thin crust.”

Huffing, I plop down on the floor. “I shouldn’t eat junk food this close to auditions.”

We don’t speak of the dessert I’d debated scarfing down in the secrecy of my bedroom. Times of emotional crisis, okay?

Papi takes his glasses off and leans back in his desk chair. I have his full attention now. As much as it’s a bit unsettling, it also brings a little surge of happiness through me.

“So soon already?” he asks.

I bend over my left leg, hooking my hands around the arch of my foot for a deep hamstring stretch. “Two weeks.”

“And when do I get to see you perform as the lead?”

I roll my eyes. “That’s not really how it works, Papi. I’m a soloist, not a principal. I don’t get lead roles.”

“Your talent will shine through. You will save me a front row seat, yes?”

“I can’t promise front row.”

“You know your brother will threaten others out of their seats.”

I snort. “Might as well call Laz a thug.”

“I would never.” But when I glance up at Papi, there’s a glint of humor in his kind eyes. “Tell me he wouldn’t do anything for you.”

“Kill for you, manito,” Laz calls out.

Fuck these thin walls. Fuck this house.

“Fine. I’ll do my best to save you both front row seats,” I grumble.

“Then we’ll go out for a big dinner after,” Papi states.

I sigh and lean back on my hands. “Yeah. Whatever.”

Papi nods. Returning to his work, he slips his glasses on and cracks open his mysterious black book once more.

I flop down into a starfish pose on the floor, shutting my eyes and visualizing fouettés and pirouettes and saut de basques. Every little leap and turn I still need to perfect. All the choreography Trey has been sharing with me while he worked on his original queer piece.

A gunshot cracks outside.

The slam of my heart against my ribs lurches me upright. My head snaps to Papi. He’s staring out the window into the night, face rapidly draining of color. He holds so still, I worry he might not be breathing.

“Viejo?” Laz peeks his head in the study, his brows furrowed.

My brother speaks Spanish whenever he can, whereas I struggle to keep the language. I think he’s afraid to lose it, like he’d be losing another piece of Mamá, who he shared more memories with than me.

Papi raises a finger to his mouth. A silent command.

Another shot fires, closer this time. Instinct has me jolting to my feet.

“Papi?” My voice cracks as I look to him for reassurance.

His response is quiet but firm. “Hide, mijitos.”

When I don’t immediately obey, Papi’s tone sharpens. “Dante.”