Sinner's Redemption: A Second Chance Billionaire Romance (Syndicate of Sinners Book 3), page 1
Sinner’s Redemption
Syndicate of Sinners Book Three
Bianca Borell
Copyright 2023 Bianca Borell
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, real people, and real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, organizations or places is entirely coincidental.
All rights are reserved. This book is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author. All songs, song titles, and lyrics contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.
Disclaimer: The material in this book contains graphic language and sexual content and is intended for mature audiences, ages 18 and older.
ISBN: 978-3-9824854-7-8
Editing by Heather Anne, Rebecca Fairest Reviews, Missy Borucki
Proofreading by Michele Ficht
Book design by The Cover Fling
Cover design by The Cover Fling
Cover Image Copyright 2023
First Edition Published 2023
All Rights Reserved
This book is a dark romance. It includes triggers such as graphic violence, explicit sexual scenes, murder, and other mature situations.
Sinner’s Redemption is a full-length, interconnected standalone.
To those who are shackled by guilt. To live means to make mistakes. I wish you all the strength it takes to accept, heal, and move on.
.
“Oh, love isn’t there to make us happy. I believe it exists to show us how much we can endure.”
– Hermann Hesse
Dedication
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
A Note from the Author
Connect with Me Online
Acknowledgement
About the Author
BIANCA BORELL
Seven Years Ago
Why do you want to be a doctor?
How do you put into words something you can’t even describe? It’s a calling mixed with the sheer knowledge that you’re meant to do something. It’s instinct layered with passion.
I shut the laptop and trudge toward the window seat. Sitting down, I lean back. Looking through the clear glass, the land stretches endlessly as birds chase the sun on the horizon, and the lake reflects the boundless sky.
Why do you want to be a doctor?
I hate this question because I’m not sure how to answer it in order to show that I will fit into their accelerated program. Would knowing that from the moment my parents put a toy medical kit under the Christmas tree, I’ve wanted to become a doctor help my chances? Or the fact that I only exist to become a surgeon? Some children like to be told bedtime stories about princesses or superheroes. Not me. I wanted to know how the body functions and all the complex processes happening to maintain life. But there’s more to my story, and it has to do with my father, whose name alone stirs ominous thoughts in my head, mimicking the slowly forming storm clouds outside.
Don’t go there, Alessandra.
I tilt my head to the door where Teresa, my former nanny and now the head of the household, steps inside, and I sigh.
“Alessandra, just type. It will come.”
“What if I don’t get accepted?”
Her amber eyes crinkle with amusement. She approaches me, wrapping her slender arm around my shoulder.
“Bet you’ll get in as their first choice. I doubt anyone else applying will have the same extensive list of achievements as you.”
I interlace my fingers on my lap. “Yes, but they want to know me, as if one answer could cover it.”
“Everyone who gets to know you will end up loving you.”
I lift my chin to her, shrugging. She takes my hand. “Come, breakfast is ready, and your father and Stephanie are home as well.”
A heavy feeling drops in the pit of my stomach—conflict over whether I want to see my father splits me in half between loving him and resenting what he does. I’m pretty sure it’s not normal to feel this way about your own father. I push myself up and drag my long brown hair into a messy bun.
Our steps echo down the wide and long corridor as we pass by rooms with nothing but dust-covered furniture. Fine paintings hang on the wall, but they don’t breathe life into a place mostly inhabited by staff.
At the deep timbre of my father’s voice, I take in a breath as our eyes lock.
“Tesoro,” he says, opening his arms, and I embrace him. He holds me tightly.
My stepmother Stephanie, a blond beauty, rounds the corner. “I’ve missed you.” She takes me in a hug as well.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say, Then be home more.
“The table is set,” Teresa hurriedly explains.
We walk inside the expansive dining room. Antique Italian chairs and a golden mirror on the neutral wall add a touch of glamour. Immense arched windows offer a spectacular view of the garden outside. A crystal chandelier drips from the ceiling, and a vase overflowing with flowers sets in the middle of the long table—a refined décor just like in the rest of the house. My father sits at the head of the mahogany table with Stephanie and me to his left and right.
I take a few spoons of oatmeal, nuts, and blueberries.
“You should eat more, Tesoro,” my father says, peering into the bowl.
“This is all my body requires.”
“A doctor should stay healthy.”
“I am.”
“I hear you have a new volunteer position.”
A blush taints my cheeks. “You know I need extracurricular activities for my college application.”
“The sins of the father aren’t for the daughter to fix.”
His words suck the air from the room. It’s a taboo subject in our household. We all know who my father is and what he does, while we all pretend we’re an average family. Stephanie places a hand on his.
“Fabian.”
God forbid we talk about the shadow looming over the table, the fact that my father is a cartel leader.
“Alessandra needs friends her own age and maybe a boyfriend,” Stephanie says with an exasperated sigh.
My father’s brows draw together. “Alessandra doesn’t need a boyfriend.”
“Yes, she does.” My stepmother eyes him, a sound of desperation pinching her voice.
“I’m fine,” I say, trying to ease the tension.
“But you should go out, have fun, and do stupid things. You will have all the time in the world to be an adult.”
At Stephanie’s passionate and emphatic discourse, Teresa says, “She doesn’t need a boy. She has herself.”
“And this house and her studies, everything but a normal life.”
“Stephanie, enough.” My father waves his hand dismissively.
She shakes her head at my father and Teresa. Her reaction comes from a good place, but I hate being put in the spotlight. I offer a small smile. She’s only ten years older than me, and even though, officially, she is my stepmother, we’re more friends. She’s worried, and ever since she started fertility treatments, she tips from one extreme to the other.
I place the napkin on the table. “I’m done.”
“But we haven’t finished eating.” Stephanie’s pleading expression tightens my heart.
“I have to study.”
“Fabian, say something.”
His eyes fill with love. “My daughter will be
“I will.”
The corners of his lips arch up in a proud smile. I go up the stairs and dive right back into my classes. Being homeschooled has its advantages. There are no distractions.
One hour chases the other. It’s late when I crane my stiff neck, massaging the throbbing spot. Looking out the window, I see a shooting star. “I wish you were here, Mom.”
Wishful thinking.
The empty place her absence has left in my heart is filled with sorrow, remorse, and guilt. Grief is strange. Days pass, and you’re okay with time having dimmed even the memories, but there are moments when it crashes into you, twisting your heart to the point of thinking it’s impossible to survive the loss. From faint pulsing to acute throbbing, it’s a perpetual cycle I don’t believe I’ll ever step out of.
My door opens, footsteps approaching, and I dab the tears away. My father drags me into his arms, and I sniffle.
“I miss her.”
“I miss her too. Your mother was the love of my life, and more than that, she was the woman who put me in my place.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was not your fault.”
It was.
***
The next morning, I shower, pull on a pair of jeans, tuck a white shirt in my waistband, and tie my sneakers. After I style my hair into a ponytail, I rush down the stairs. Inside the kitchen, Teresa serves Stephanie tea, and the bags under my stepmother’s eyes reveal she had another sleepless night. She places the cup of tea on the marble island, massaging her temples while I dig into the sandwich Teresa offers me.
“I hope the in vitro fertilization works out this time.”
“Me too.” She places a hand on her lower belly, and I hug her.
“Infertility is hard.”
I’ve studied everything about infertility, the biological and psychological aspects. Sympathy fills me. It must be a thousand times harder for someone who wants to become a mother but whose body won’t grant her wish.
“I wish you’d go into this area rather than trauma surgery.”
“You’re in the hands of the best doctors.” I peck her cheek and go outside toward the black, bulky SUV, where Parker, my bodyguard, who is also my driver, greets me.
“Good morning, Parker.”
He closes the door. Excitement bubbles inside me. It’s always exhilarating to help those in need.
We leave the long driveway and turn right, driving through the forest. It hits me like so many times before, the discrepancy between my life and the lives of everyone else. I live in a mansion with bedrooms filled with ghosts of the past. But money doesn’t buy the most important things: more days, happiness, love.
It’s as if we’re the only house in the neighborhood because a few miles separate our place and the next one. Growing up, I thought this was how everyone else lived until my mother made me look closer and I shed my rose-colored glasses.
After a thirty-minute drive, Golden Retirement, the nursing home, stands proudly in washed orange bricks. I like everything about older people. They are funny and witty, and they tell the best stories, including all the gossip.
After security lets me in, I stop at the registration desk, and the woman smiles, her mouth painted pink.
“Welcome, honey. I’ve heard all about you. I’m Patty.”
“Hello, Miss Patty. I’m Alessandra.”
“Yes, yes, come on. Let me give you a tour.”
We leave the reception area and take the stairs to the second floor.
“The second and the third floors are for our residents. It’s divided into four wings, each with fifteen residents. And each wing has a day and night team of two doctors and five nurses.” Pride laces her words.
Doors line the walls, and the smell of age and disinfectant is heavy in the air.
After the tour ends, I meet three nurses.
“We can always use more hands.”
“I’m here to help.”
She stops in the middle of the floor, eyebrows raised with curiosity. “You’re the youngest volunteer we’ve ever had. Most young people have other priorities.”
“I love helping.”
I spend the rest of the day getting settled in and following the two doctors, Robert and Donna, around.
“We monitor the residents daily. Even though we don’t have many emergencies here, you never know,” Donna says as I watch her take the vitals while she talks to the resident.
“You’re doing fine, Miss Prime.”
“I will outlive you, my dear, with my luck,” the older woman responds with a warm smile.
Miss Prime turns her gaze to me.
“My, my, and who are you, beautiful thing?”
“I am Alessandra, the new volunteer.”
“I had only boys in my head at your age. Those were good days.”
I like her already, and Donna smiles at her affectionately.
As we leave, Donna glances at me. “We make daily checks to create a foundation built on trust.”
I like how things are in this facility. I’ve read of the poor treatment and harsh conditions the elderly face in other nursing homes, and it breaks my heart. But everyone seems to be in good health and spirits here, and the medical team is involved. There is this stereotype that doctors position themselves higher on the medical ladder, but this is not true at Golden Retirement. It’s respect and teamwork in every interaction between doctors and nurses.
“So, have you decided on a major?”
“Yes, a college as well, and I will be a trauma surgeon.”
“Determined, aren’t we?”
Her pager buzzes, and she disappears down the hallway. Left alone on the second floor, I look around me. A fit of coughing shifts my attention to a door. I peek inside the room and see an elderly woman on the bed, clutching a napkin.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
“Could you pass me a glass of water, please?”
“Yes, of course.”
I rush to her side and pour her some water, urging her to take small sips.
“Better.”
“I hate summer. I always catch a cold.”
I look at the medication on her table, noting it’s for diabetes and heart problems. She sighs and gestures toward the armchair next to her bed. Taking a seat, I fidget with my fingers.
“I haven’t seen you around. I’m Margaret.”
“Alessandra. I’m new.”
“How old are you, dear?”
“Eighteen.”
“You’re a beautiful girl.”
“Thank you.”
“So, what is a young thing like you doing surrounded by death?”
My eyebrows furrow. Surely it has to be meant as a joke, but she waves me off. “I am too old to give a damn about what sounds nice. I tell it like it is. That’s the only thing good about getting older.”
I finish sharing with Margaret my life plan when the door creaks open, and a frail woman limps inside.
“Good, you’re still alive.”
“I told you I’m leaving this place only after you, Anne.”
“Keep dreaming. I just got my hip replaced.”
“I have a pacemaker.”
“So?”
They keep bickering, and the other woman watches me. “She’s new.”
“Her name is Alessandra, and she wants to become a doctor.”
“How old is she?”
Surely, they know I am right here, right?
“Eighteen.”
“At that age, I had other things on my mind.”
They share a secretive smile, and I move to leave.
“No, stay, play a card game with us. I always beat her.”
“That’s not true.”
“When was the last time you won?” The other woman is deep in thought, and Margaret goes on, “See, you don’t even remember.”
“Must be my Alzheimer’s.”
“You don’t have Alzheimer’s.”
“Could be.”
We move to the table set in the corner. I laugh so much during our UNO game my stomach aches.
Standing up, I reach the door when Margaret says, “My grandson will visit me tomorrow. If he doesn’t change your opinion about living it up a bit, then I am too old to know better.”
“You’re too old, period, but he’s a fine-looking young man,” Anne says.
