23. Cast
23
CAST
I sit in the dark. Upstairs, Ricardo’s wife soothes the baby to sleep, unaware I’m listening.
I don’t move. Just breathe. Slow. Steady.
My knife rests against my thigh, warm from my grip—not out of need, just habit.
According to Damien, Ricardo’s daughter is a competitive gymnast, training until seven. No detours, no wasted time. No friends. She carries her high school’s winning streak yet keeps to herself. Focused. Disciplined.
Perfect on paper. Predictable.
I like predictable.
So how does a girl like that become a killer?
Ricardo wouldn’t have introduced her to this life unless it was life or death. My father would’ve protected Valentina, her mother, and Joseph with his last breath.
So why is she what she is now?
I tip my head back, lips curving at the silence. My grip shifts on the knife, thumb tracing its ridges. The street outside is empty. The quiet stretches long and thin.
I remember the first lesson my father gave me toward becoming the man I am now. My father, Ricardo and I stood in front of a woman. She was holding her six month old child. The woman wasn’t scared and she didn’t show my father the respect many others had— a respect that I didn’t know stemmed from fear.
The memory plays out in my mind like an old film—grainy, imperfect, but sharp in the places that matter.
I was young, too young to understand everything, but old enough to know that nothing about that night would be forgotten. The air smelled of jasmine, my mother’s perfume clinging to her skin even as she stood before my father, her back straight, her chin lifted and a baby girl in her arms. A queen in her final moments.
"Good morning, ángel."
His voice was smooth, almost affectionate, but I knew better than to mistake it for kindness. My mother did, too. She didn’t greet him back. Instead, she rolled her shoulders, licking her lips like she was tasting the moment, savoring it.
She kissed the baby's forehead and handed her to Ricardo before looking at my father with disdain.
"I am ready to go home," she whispered.
The words sent a chill through me, one so deep it never really left. It still lingers, even now, creeping up my spine when I least expect it. Home. I remember mouthing the word to myself like a question, as if the place she spoke of didn’t exist. As if she had never belonged to the house she helped build, the life she once ruled over.
My father chuckled, low and knowing, as he pulled a small pistol from his coat. I’ve never seen him use it again.
"I have been betrayed by kings and assassins, jokesters and idiots," he pondered, almost amused. "But you, Jamila… you have shown me that even my queen, even my God, can turn against me."
And my mother—my mother laughed.
Her eyes flickered to mine, dark and steady, and the smile she gave me wasn’t kind. It was venom wrapped in silk, sharp and knowing.
"You have your son, Jefe," she said, her voice like a blade sliding between ribs. "You never said you needed my love as well."
"I did not want your love, Jamila," my father hissed, stepping closer. "I wanted you not to try to kill me."
My mother exhaled, tilting her head like she was studying him, seeing him for the last time. Then she looked at me again, and for a second, I thought she might say something. That she might give me a memory to hold on to, some part of her that was just mine.
But she didn’t.
Instead, my father lifted the gun, and I learned what it meant to be a Castillo.
My mother didn’t flinch.
Even with the barrel of my father’s pistol aimed at her heart, she stood tall, regal, as if she had already made peace with the inevitable. The only sign of fear—if there was any—was the slow rise and fall of her chest.
"And what will happen to my daughter?" she asked.
Her voice was steady, but I caught the way her fingers twitched at her sides, the slightest betrayal of nerves. My sister. The one my father kept hidden away from all of this. I had never met her. Not properly.
My father smiled, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring the moment. "She will learn to love," he said. "Unlike you."
A look of resignation flickered across my mother’s face then. A crack in her mask. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the same cold acceptance she’d carried since the moment she walked into this room.
"You always were a fool," she murmured.
My father didn’t take the bait. He only sighed, as if he were disappointed. As if she had let him down.
"And you my love, my Jamila," he said. "You were always going to be the death of one of us."
He pulled the trigger.
The sound of the gunshot shattered the silence, and for a moment, everything felt slow. My mother’s body jerked backward, her breath hitching, and then she crumpled to the floor. The scent of jasmine thickened, tainted by the metallic bite of blood.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
My father turned to me, his dark eyes calm, as if he had just swatted a fly, as if this was nothing more than another lesson.
"Remember this, Juan," he said, lowering the pistol. "A woman’s love is a fragile thing. If she betrays you once, she will do it again. And when that happens…" He looked down at my mother’s body, then back at me. "You do not hesitate."
My throat was dry, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. I wanted to look away. I wanted to close my eyes and pretend none of this was real.
But I didn’t. Because I understood.
Because this was what it meant to be a Castillo.
The knife spins between my fingers, the movement smooth. My other hand rests on the gun beside me, thumb skimming over the safety, tracing the familiar ridges. Grounding. They’ve never felt heavy before. Not even when I was a kid, holding my first blade, pressing the tip against my palm just to understand how sharp it was.
But tonight, they do.
Because tonight, I have to kill a child.
I don’t know her. That should make it easier. A name on a list, a face I’ll forget as soon as the job is done. That’s how it always works. That’s how it’s supposed to work.
And yet, for the first time in my life, a feeling inside me twists. Not hesitation. Not fear. Something else. A foreign and unwelcome realization curling tight in my gut like a sickness.
Regret.
I close my eyes, exhaling slowly through my nose, trying to shake it off, but it lingers. My father would be disgusted. You do not hesitate. You do not regret. He made sure I understood that lesson, drilled it into me in blood and fire and loss.
The knife leaves my hand before she even sees me, slicing through the air in a blur of silver before burying itself in the wall inches from her skull with a sickening thunk .
Valentina freezes. Her breath hitches, the keys in her hand slipping through her fingers, clattering against the hardwood. The second stretches, long and suffocating, the dim glow from the streetlight outside catching the sharp edge of the blade, casting a jagged shadow across her face.
She doesn’t scream.
She moves.
Like a gunshot, she whips around, snatching the first thing within reach—a glass bowl from the entryway table—and hurls it at my head. I barely dodge in time. The ceramic explodes against the wall behind me, shards raining down like shrapnel. But she doesn’t wait to see if it connects. She’s already lunging, her body coiling like a spring before launching forward.
Her shoulder slams into my ribs, knocking me back a step, her smaller frame packing more force than it should. Pain blossoms across my side, sharp and unexpected. I go for her wrist, fingers closing around delicate bone, but she twists—using her momentum to slip free, pivoting with a speed that sets my instincts on fire.
I barely block her next move. She aims for my stomach with a sharp, driving knee, but I deflect it with my forearm, gripping the back of her hoodie and yanking her off balance. She gasps, body snapping backward, but instead of falling, she rolls with it, wrenching herself out of my grip just before I can I tighten it.
She’s quick. Too quick.
Valentina dives for the knife still lodged in the wall.
I surge after her. My fingers brush the fabric of her hoodie just as she grips the handle, but before she can yank it free, I slam into her, sending both of us crashing into the dining table. The wood groans under the impact, chairs skidding back, silverware clattering to the floor.
Still, she doesn’t stop.
Before I can pin her, she scrambles upright, reaching blindly, fingers closing around the back of a chair. She swings it hard, the force behind it surprising. The legs narrowly miss my temple, but the movement costs her. She’s off balance. Wide open.
I seize my chance, grabbing the wrist holding the chair and yanking her forward. Her breath stutters as she collides with my chest, and for the first time, I catch the flicker of awareness in her eyes.
Not fear.
Calculations.
She knows she’s at a disadvantage. She knows she’s losing.
I brace for another wild strike, another blind attack, but she doesn’t give me one. Instead, she exhales sharply and lets go— lets me throw her.
I don’t realize what she’s doing until it’s too late.
She uses my own momentum against me, flipping her body in the air and kicking off my chest, sending herself flying backward toward the counter. Before I can recover, her hand snatches something from the table—a steak knife.
Shit.
She grips it like she’s done this before, knuckles tight around the handle, the blade pointed at me. Her chest rises and falls, breath quick but controlled, her fingers flexing as if she’s testing the weight.
From upstairs, a door creaks open.
“Valentina?” A woman’s voice. Soft. Concerned.
Valentina’s eyes flick toward the stairs for the briefest second before she sucks in a sharp breath and roars , “ Mom, hide! ”
Footsteps retreat. A door slams shut.
She doesn’t hesitate.
She lunges.
I barely twist in time, the knife slicing through the air, missing my side by inches. I grab her wrist, but she pivots, slamming her knee into my ribs again—harder this time. A sharp bolt of pain shoots through me, but I hold on, twisting her arm back. She lets out a strangled gasp, the knife slipping from her fingers.
She tries to break free, but I force her against the table, my grip tightening.
She’s stronger than I gave her credit for. Her body writhes beneath mine like a wild animal, her breath ragged, but she refuses to stop. She twists, slamming the heel of her boot into my shin, the sharp crack of it reverberating through my body.
I grunt, my grip never faltering around her wrist. I push harder, slamming her against the side of the table. The wood groans under the force, and I feel a sharp pain flare in my side—her elbow drove into my ribs when I shifted, the jagged edge of the knife catching my skin.
Blood. Warm and slick, coats my skin, spreading under my clothes. I grit my teeth against the sting, but I don’t let go. My fingers dig into her arm, forcing her down as I feel the heat of my own blood seep through the fabric of my shirt.
She’s fast.
Her knee drives into my thigh this time, and the impact sends a shock wave of pain through my leg. But before I can adjust, I feel the cold bite of metal— the knife —cut across the flesh of my arm.
I don’t register the exact moment it happens. One second, I’m focused on keeping her still, on pushing her back, and then— searing pain erupts in my bicep.
I pull back just in time to avoid her slicing deeper, but the damage is done. Blood drips down my arm, pooling on the floor beneath me. I can feel the pulse of it, each throb like a cruel reminder.
The streetlight flickers outside, its glow passing through the window, casting an eerie shadow across her face.
For the first time, I really look at her, not as an enemy, not as a target, but as a recognition that jolts me in ways I can’t explain.
The way her wild hair tumbles around her face, a messy cascade of waves, is striking. But it’s her eyes—those sharp, piercing eyes—that arrest me. They're green. Just like mine.
And suddenly, I’m not looking at Valentina anymore. I’m looking at her—just like my mother .
The blonde hair. The wavy strands she used to run her fingers through when she was thinking. The green eyes that always seemed to hide an innate knowledge, something deeper than the anger, than the cruelty she wore like a second skin. Her eyes never wavered, just like Valentina’s do now. They’re filled with the same defiance, the same spark, that terrifyingly familiar fire.
I force my gaze away. I can’t afford this. I can’t afford to feel this, but I can’t help it. Is she…no. I never saw that baby again.
Valentina’s breath is ragged, but she doesn’t stop fighting. She doesn’t give in. She doesn’t know who she is, and she will kill me without knowing she just killed her older brother. I can see it’s in her eyes.
S he moves .
In one fluid motion, she reaches down and pulls the knife free. The flash of steel is the only warning I get before the blade drives into my leg, slicing through the fabric of my pants and embedding itself deep into my flesh.
I grunt, pain surging up my body as I stagger back, but I don’t fall. My hand shoots down, gripping the handle of the knife. I rip it out with a sickening yank, blood spilling from the wound as it drips to the floor.
Fury floods me.
I don’t hesitate this time. I’ve had enough.
Before she can react, I step forward, pressing the blade against her neck with brutal force, the cold steel kissing her skin. Her eyes widen, a sharp breath escaping her lips as she goes still.
I press her against me, my chest flush against hers, the tension between us electrifying the air. The blade in my hand, the throb in my leg, the blood that stains my skin—all of it is secondary to the way her pulse races beneath my fingertips.
I tighten my grip on the knife, pressing it harder against her neck, just enough to feel her pulse stutter beneath my fingers. The pain in my leg is nothing compared to the fire in my chest, the rage surging through me. I can feel her breath catch in her throat, each shaky exhale sending a shiver down my spine.
“Stop,” I hiss, my voice low and dangerous, barely a whisper of control left in it. The knife trembles slightly as I hold it against her, and for a second, I can see the flicker of fear in her eyes. It’s brief, barely a flicker, but it’s there.
“Stop,” I growl again, my voice thick with warning. “Or I’ll make you stop, Valentina.”
Her breath quickens, but she doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move, except for the subtle rise and fall of her chest beneath mine.
Her chest heaves, but her voice is steady, even through the pain. “I’m not afraid of you, Cast.”
I scoff, my grip tightening. “You should be.” I press the knife harder against her skin, feeling the faintest trickle of blood slip down her neck. “You think I won’t do it?” I growl, my face close to hers. “You think I won’t kill you? I will. I’ll kill you, your mother, your brother— all of you —if you don’t stop this. Right now. ”
Her eyes flicker with fear now, no longer the fierce defiance, but a raw, trembling realization of the kind of man I am. And for the first time, I think I might have broken through—just enough to make her understand.
But she still doesn’t break. Her hands, still pinned to her sides, tremble only slightly as the cadence of her breaths rumble through her chest. She doesn’t give in. Not yet.
“I’m not afraid of death,” she whispers. “But you should be, La Parca .”
God, she’s just like her mother-- our mother.
“This is your last chance, Valentina,” I growl. “Stop now… or I won’t hesitate to finish this.”
I move the blade just a fraction closer to the artery pulsing in her neck, the sharp edge scraping against her skin, drawing another trickle of blood. “You’re just a child Valentina,” I growl. “But if you’re going to keep fighting me, if you’re going to keep playing this game… then I will make the choice for you and it won’t be the kind choice.” She jerks back in my arms, but I hold on tight as I continue. “ So, join me. Be loyal, or die here. Everyone in this house will die here.”
Her chest rises and falls rapidly, but her gaze doesn’t waver. Not even an inch. For a moment, it feels like I’m staring into the abyss, waiting for her to decide whether she’s going to fall or climb.
“I pledge my loyalty,” she whispers, and her words feel like a surrender.
The air between us goes cold. I stare at her, her pledge sinking into my chest. She’s not backing down. She’s not caving to fear. She’s giving herself to me, willingly. And there’s a powerful regard in the way she says it that makes my stomach twist.
She’s just like her .
I lower the knife, my grip still tight on her wrist. “Good,” I say, voice hoarse, and for the first time, the blood pounding in my head is the only sound I can hear. “We’ll see if you can live up to it.”
I release her, stepping back just enough to give her space. She stands there, trembling slightly, blood running down her neck, but she doesn’t back away.
God, I’m not sure if I made a mistake or not.
But it's too late now.
She’s in this.
And so am I.