19. Cast
19
CAST
A bout a week after Vincent comes back into our lives, Damien finds Richard Beaumont and we create the perfect plan to kill him and scare Angie.
The moment I step into the grand ballroom, the scent of money and arrogance clings to the air like overpriced cologne. Chandeliers dangle from the ceiling, throwing a golden glow across the sea of tuxedos and designer gowns. The gala's banner reads "Technology for Tomorrow's Children" in elegant gold lettering. Ironic, considering what we're here to do and who these people are.
The people here are only interested in their own reflection, clinking their champagne glasses while throwing crumbs at charity to make themselves feel important. They don’t know struggle and they don’t care about the future of the children, only the future of their bank accounts and the idea that attending jerking off sessions like this makes them good people .
Vincent walks ahead of me, exuding effortless confidence in a deep navy suit, his presence commanding. Damien flanks him on the other side, in a dark grey suit that Willow said matched his eyes. I stand slightly behind scoping out the area. We're here for one reason—to find Vincent’s father and put an end to him.
While we wait, I scan the silent auction table. A vacation to the Amalfi Coast catches my eye—private villa, personal chef, all the luxury a man like me could ask for. I imagine Willow there, sprawled out on a sunbed, soaking in the Italian sun, hair wild from the breeze. A perfect escape.
I grab a pen and write down a number that ensures no one else will outbid me. One million dollars. A small price for something I know she’d love.
“Sentimental of you,” Damien murmurs at my side, amused.
I smirk. “Not at all. I just enjoy the finer things in life.”
A lie. It’s for her. But Damien doesn’t need to know that, because then he will want to come, and that trip is just for Willow and me.
"Remember the plan," Damien murmurs, adjusting his tie. "Vincent creates the distraction, I lead Mr.Beaumont upstairs to discuss the 'private investment opportunity,' and you..."
"I keep Angie occupied and then lure her upstairs," I finish, straightening my tuxedo jacket. "Let's get this over with."
We weave through the crowd, pausing only when necessary to shake hands and exchange empty pleasantries. I play the part well, the charming Castillo heir with a dangerous glint in his eye. A woman in emerald silk brushes my arm, purring a greeting, but I barely spare her a glance. My mind is on keeping Willow safe, and thus killing Richard Beaumont .
We approach the group casually. Mr.Beaumont is mid-story, gesturing with his champagne flute. "So I told the investors, either get on board or get left behind!" The circle around him erupts in practiced laughter.
Vincent steps forward, glass in hand. "Father."
Mr.Beaumont flashes a wide smile, but his narrowed eyes give away that he wasn’t expecting Vincent and preferred for him not to be here.
“Son, I wasn’t expecting you,” he nods, lifting the champagne flute to his lips cautiously.
Vincent laughs an acceptable three times and winks at one of the wives next to him. “Well after you talked so much about the lovely Sophia Richards. I knew I had to come check out the event.”
Vincent’s father visibly relaxes, that wild smile spreading across his lips again. “She just went to the bathroom, should be back any minute now.”
“Lucky me,” Vincent smirks before turning to Damien and me. “Father, you remember Damien and Cast.”
We both step forward, our hands out with wide plastic smiles on our faces. “Hello Mr.Beaumont, it has been a long time.” Damien beams.
“Yes, too long.” I add as he shakes my hand and nods, appreciatively.
“Hello boys, nice to see what proud men you’ve grown into.”
“Yes indeed,” Angie purrs, her eyes locked on the tattoos peeking from underneath my crisp white button up, with no tie .
Vincent steps aside, allowing his father to take center stage, though it’s clear from the gleam in his eye that he’s enjoying the show. Mr. Beaumont studies us with careful scrutiny.
“Damien,” he says.“Still on the ice?”
Damien nods, his grin unwavering. “Of course, one of the best goalies in the college league right now.”
“ I better get those courtside tickets.” He jokes.
“Your name is already on it.” Damien nods, his smile so bright it looks like he cracked his face open. Mr. Beaumont hums in approval before turning to me. “And you, Cast? Still raising hell, I assume?”
I offer a slow smile, letting my tongue caress every word.“Only when necessary.”
Angie shifts closer, the scent of her expensive perfume curling around me. “Necessary, hmm?” She tilts her head, her red-painted nails brushing against my sleeve, barely grazing the ink beneath. “I’ve always appreciated a man who knows when to be bad.”
Vincent chuckles, sipping from his glass. “Careful, Angie. He bites.”
She drags her gaze back up to mine, a slow, knowing smirk on her lips. “Lucky me.”
Mr. Beaumont clears his throat. “Angie,” he says. “This is our son's friend, not a random boy toy.”
“My mistake. You know how excited I can get sometimes.” She smiles.
My skin crawls but I continue with the plan anyway. “You can’t have me for the night, but how about a dance? ”
Her gaze sweeps over me, assessing, before she smiles. “I guess I can agree to that for now.”
I have to swallow down the shiver of disgust as I offer my hand, and she takes it. We step onto the dance floor just as Sophia Richards, a lifelong friend of Vincent’s walks over with a million dollar smile. I don’t hear what she says, but I know it’s enough to hook his father into a conversation.
I pull Angie close, guiding her with smooth precision. She smells like bitter cherries and bergamot, two smells that should never go together.
“You’re quite the dancer,” she says, voice sultry.
“I’ve had practice,” I reply, spinning her effortlessly.
Her fingers tighten slightly in mine. “You should come around the estate more often.”
I chuckle. “I have an empire to run too. I can’t abandon it for a pretty face.”
She preens at that, her ego stroked just enough.
I let my gaze drift subtly toward Damien and Vincent’s father. The conversation looks tense. Good.
“Your husband doesn’t seem to mind you dancing with a younger guy,” I comment, watching her reaction.
She rolls her eyes. “He knows no matter how far I stray that I am coming back home.”
I smile like I don’t want to rip her husband’s throat out. “That’s a shame. If you were mine, I’d never let you out of my sight, let alone let you stray.”
It’s a lie, of course. I just need her to think I want to fuck her to lure her upstairs along with her husband as a threat .
“Well some people don’t know what they have,” her hand roams down my chest. “You don’t have that problem, do you?”
I glance over her shoulder, my eyes meeting Damien’s for half a second. He’s leading Richard Beaumont toward the elevators, their conversation looking casual to anyone watching. Perfect.
Leaning in, I let my breath tickle the shell of her ear. “No, beautiful,” I murmur, my voice a smooth hum. “I know exactly what I have—and exactly how to take care of it.”
Her fingers trail lower, nails scraping lightly over the fabric of my tuxedo. She’s testing me, trying to gauge how far I’ll let her go. I catch her wrist right before she gets to the waist of my slacks, and press her hand flat against my chest. “Not here,” I say, voice teasing. “Unless you want to put on a show.”
She smirks, her lips painted the same shade as danger. “Where, then?”
I stroke the back of Angie’s hand with my thumb, my expression all heat and promise. “Upstairs.”
She tilts her head, considering. I can see it in her eyes—the calculation, the thrill, the temptation.
Then she smiles. “Lead the way.”
I keep my touch light as I guide her toward the elevators, my palm resting on the small of her back. It’s just enough contact to keep her hooked, to make her feel like she’s the one in control. Meanwhile, Damien and Richard disappear behind the elevator doors, the numbers ticking higher.
Angie and I step into the next available car. The doors slide shut, and we’re alone .
She leans in, her lips inches from mine, her perfume thick in the air. “You always take other men’s wives to hotel rooms, or am I special?”
I grin, caging her in against the mirrored wall. “Very special,” I say, dragging the words out like a promise.
She hums, satisfied, as the elevator glides up to the top floors. When the doors open, I take her hand, leading her down the hallway. My steps are measured, controlled, though my pulse thrums in anticipation.
I stop in front of the door and slide the key card through the reader. The light flickers green.
Angie steps inside first, expecting candlelight, silk sheets, and my hands all over her body.
Instead, she freezes.
Her husband is seated in the middle of the room, wrists and ankles bound to a chair, his mouth stuffed with a neatly folded pocket square. His eyes go wide when he sees her, veins straining against his temple as he struggles.
Angie’s sharp intake of breath is the only sound in the room.
I step in behind her and shut the door with a soft click.
“What the fuck—” She whirls on me, but I’m already moving. One hand slides around her throat, not tight, just firm enough to remind her who’s in control.
“I was hoping you’d join us,” I murmur against her ear. “It wouldn’t be as fun without you.”
Her pulse flutters beneath my palm.
“What is this?” She gasps as I push her onto the hotel bed, Damien already handing me the duct tape for her wretched mouth.
“A little birdy told me you threatened my girl,” I whisper against her cheek, a tear escapes. “I can’t let you and your husband think a little money makes you invincible, can I?”
“Wait, they don’t have any money.” Damien mocks.
“Right, my apologies.” I pout, placing a strip of tape over her lips.“Still you threatened my girl. I can’t let you live.”
Richard makes a garbled, furious noise against the fabric stuffed in his mouth, his body lurching against the restraints. Angie thrashes beneath me, her manicured nails clawing at my wrist as I press her into the mattress, her breath coming in sharp, panicked bursts.
Good. She should be afraid.
I rip a strip of duct tape from the roll Damien hands me, yanking her arms behind her back. She kicks out, but I press my knee into her stomach, knocking the air from her lungs. “Easy, carino,” I murmur, fastening the tape around her wrists. “Wouldn’t want you hurting yourself before we’re done playing.”
A muffled scream tears from her lips as I slap the tape over her mouth, sealing her pathetic pleas.
I straighten, rolling my shoulders as Damien cracks his knuckles beside me, his face radiating a deadly calm and control, but the tension in his body tells me he’s been waiting for this.
I turn to Richard, taking my time as I stalk toward him. His chest heaves, his sweat-slicked forehead reflecting the dim hotel lights. I crouch in front of him, gripping his jaw, forcing him to look at me.
“You thought you could threaten her?” My voice is almost conversational, but there’s something sharp beneath it, something lethal.
His nostrils flare as he glares at me, hate burning in his beady eyes. He jerks his head, trying to shake me off, but I tighten my grip, digging my fingers into his cheeks until his skin purples.
Damien exhales slowly. Then, without a word, he drives his fist into Richard’s stomach.
The chair creaks violently as Richard jerks forward, a strangled grunt escaping past the gag. His body curls as much as the restraints allow, his knees knocking together.
I hum, standing upright as he sputters, his eyes watering. “That was for thinking you had the right to say Willow’s name.”
Damien rolls his neck, shaking out his fist before swinging again. This time, it’s his jaw that takes the impact, his head snapping to the side with a sickening crack. Blood splatters across his suit, dribbling from the corner of his mouth.
“Shame. That was probably expensive,” I say, clicking my tongue.
Richard’s head lolls forward, his breaths ragged. I grip his hair, yanking him upright so he’s forced to look at me. His face is already swelling, one eye beginning to bruise.
“You’re gonna die tonight,” I inform him, my voice soft, almost gentle. “But first, I want you to understand why.”
I lean in, letting my lips almost brush his ear.
“You threatened the only thing that matters to me.”
Then Damien drives his fist into Richard’s ribs.
Richard howls against the gag, his body convulsing as I deliver the next strike, then another. The sound of bones cracking fills the room, and I feel something give under my knuckles. He coughs wetly, blood dribbling down his chin, staining his teeth.
Damien grips the back of the chair, spinning it sharply so Richard is forced to look at Angie. Her muffled sobs fill the space between us, her body trembling violently on the bed.
“You thought you were untouchable,” Damien muses, his voice quiet but brimming with fury. “That no one would come for you.” He tilts his head, considering. “Tell me, Richard—do you feel untouchable now?”
Richard jerks weakly against the ropes, his swollen eyes darting between us.
Damien sighs, wiping the blood from his knuckles onto Richard’s shirt. “Nothing to say?” I glance at Angie, her tear-streaked face frozen in horror. “And here I thought you had such a big mouth.”
Richard groans, a wet, gurgling sound in his throat, blood bubbling from his busted lip. His right eye is nearly swollen shut, his suit ripped and stained dark with crimson. He looks like a beaten dog, weak and pathetic, trembling in the chair like his body is already trying to shut down.
Too fucking bad. I’m not finished.
Richard’s breathing is a mess of ragged gasps, his nostrils flaring, his body trembling from the pain we’ve already put him through. But I can see the fight still lingering in his eyes. Stubborn old fuck.
I grab his tie and twist, cutting off his air just enough to make his face start turning red. "You don't get to fucking breathe while she's out there scared because of you." I release him only to slam my fist into his face again. His head snaps back, blood splattering against my pristine white shirt.
Angie sobs against the gag, her body trembling on the bed. I ignore her. She knew exactly what kind of man she married.
Behind me, Damien pulls a knife from his pocket, flipping it open. The metal glints under the hotel lights, sharp and unforgiving. He twirls it lazily between his fingers before tracing the tip along Richard’s cheek, just deep enough to slice the skin. A thin line of blood beads along the path, and Richard flinches, his breath coming out in quick, panicked gasps.
I rip the gag from his mouth. His lips are cracked, swollen, his teeth stained red. He coughs, blood spraying from his lips, and I step back just enough to avoid it hitting my shoes.
“Please,” he chokes out, his voice barely above a whisper. “I?—”
I cut him off with another punch, my knuckles splitting further against his jaw. He lets out a pained cry, his head lolling forward. I grab his face, forcing him to look at me through his half-shut, bloodied eyes.
“There’s nothing you can say that’ll save you now,” I murmur, and then I slam my knee into his gut. His whole body spasms, bile and blood spilling from his mouth.
The door creaks open .
Vincent steps inside, his expression deceptively calm as he surveys the scene. His gaze lands on his father’s battered form, then flicks to Angie’s bound and trembling body on the bed.
A slow smirk tugs at his lips. “Damn. Did I miss all the fun?”
I chuckle, shaking out my sore hand. “You were about to miss the best part.”
Vincent sighs dramatically, rolling up his sleeves as he walks forward. I place a palm on his chest, stopping him just short of Richard’s crumpled body. “Not yet,” I murmur, locking eyes with him. “You get the final blow.”
Vincent arches a brow, glancing down at his father, whose chest barely rises and falls, his blood pooling across the hotel carpet. “Looks like he’s already dead.”
I shake my head, slipping my free hand into my jacket and pulling out a sleek, black pistol. “Not until you make it official.”
Vincent’s smirk falters for a fraction of a second, his gaze flicking between the gun and Richard’s twitching body. He hesitates, just long enough for Damien to step forward, his voice cold, steady.
“This is the only way to get our trust back,” Damien says, watching Vincent closely. “The only way to prove you’re with us.”
I keep my hand pressed against Vincent’s chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, the tension coiling in his muscles. He’s smart. He knows what this means.
“You wanted Willow so bad you were going to steal her away?” I remind him softly. “You wanted to kick us to the curb and steal our girl. So next time you do that I won’t kill you, but you’ll go to prison for life.”
Vincent’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he exhales slowly and reaches for the gun.
I hand it over, watching as he curls his fingers around the grip, the weight of it settling in his palm.
Damien pulls out his phone, unlocking the camera and holding it up. “Smile, Beaumont,” he taunts, his expression void of amusement.
Vincent’s lips press into a thin line.
Richard lets out a wet, choking sound, his body jerking weakly. It’s almost pathetic. He tries to lift his head, blood dripping from his chin, his lips forming silent words. Begging, maybe. Apologizing.
Doesn’t fucking matter.
Vincent lifts the gun and aims it at his father’s head.
His hands don’t shake. His breathing doesn’t falter.
His finger tightens on the trigger.
The gunshot shatters the air.
Richard’s body jolts, then goes still. Blood splatters across the floor, the wall, Vincent’s pristine white cuff.
Silence settles over the room, thick and heavy.
Damien lowers the phone, checking the video before giving a satisfied nod. “That’ll do.”
Vincent exhales, lowering the gun, his gaze still fixed on his father’s lifeless form.
“Congratulations,” I murmur, clapping him on the shoulder. “You just killed the man who made you.”
Vincent blinks, then lets out a small, breathy laugh, wiping a speck of blood from his cheek. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Guess I did.”
“Once your grandfather finds out, you’ll be a rich man.” I comment, looking over at a sobbing Angie.
Angie scrambles back on the bed, her tear-streaked face twisted in pure terror. She looks between me, Vincent, and Damien, like she’s trying to decide who’s the worst monster in the room.
Bad news for her—we all are.
I crouch down, resting my forearms on my knees, watching her with a lazy, detached smile. “You don’t have to look so scared, Angie,” I murmur, reaching out to grab her ankle before she can retreat any further. She freezes, a sharp, panicked breath leaving her lips. “We’re not gonna kill you.” I squeeze just hard enough to feel her pulse hammering beneath my fingertips. “Unless you give us a reason to.”
She whimpers, shaking her head furiously, tears dripping down her chin.
Vincent steps beside me, his movements slow, calculated. He’s still holding the gun, though now it dangles loosely at his side, his suit splattered with his father’s blood. He studies Angie with the kind of cold detachment that makes my skin hum with satisfaction.
“I should kill you,” Vincent says, his voice eerily calm. “For everything you let him do. For standing by and watching.”
Angie flinches, her breath coming out in panicked gasps.
Vincent exhales through his nose, shaking his head like he’s disgusted. “But I won’t.” He crouches beside me, grabbing her chin roughly and forcing her to look at him. “Not for their sake.”
She trembles under his touch, lips parting in a silent plea.
“My siblings,” Vincent clarifies, his fingers digging into her jaw. “They didn’t ask for this. They didn’t ask to be raised by a man like him or a coward like you. I’ll take care of them.” His voice darkens, eyes flashing with warning. “But if you ever— ever —try to come for Willow or me again, I’ll kill you on sight.”
A strangled sob escapes her, her shoulders shaking violently.
Vincent holds her gaze for a moment longer, then releases her roughly, letting her fall back onto the bed in a crumpled heap. “Stay the fuck out of my way.”
I push off my knees, glancing at Damien, who already has his phone to his ear.
“Yeah,” he says into the receiver, voice cool and businesslike. “Body in room 708, Regency Hotel. Clean it up. Make it disappear.” A pause. “Ten minutes.”
He hangs up without waiting for a response, slipping his phone back into his pocket.
“Time to go,” he announces, already heading for the door.
Vincent takes one last look at his father’s corpse, then at Angie, still crying, curled into herself like she can make herself small enough to disappear.
“What now?” he asks, sliding his clean hands into his pockets as we enter the elevator .
Damien leans back against the wall. “Now?” He glances between the both of us, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. “We go see the woman we love enough to kill for.”
I grin, leaning back against the seat, letting my head fall against the headrest.
Willow.
The only person who matters.
The only person worth all this blood.