Chapter 2
Angel
“What do you mean you owe a female courier a life debt?” My father, Gustavo Castillo, sat behind his desk, arms folded neatly on top, and stared at me.
His expression was akin to staring at dog shit on the carpet.
I could hear my tíos, Jose and Andre, behind me.
They were seated, waiting for their nightcap with my father.
That Padre didn’t ask them to leave wasn’t lost on me. He wanted an audience tonight.
That bullet should have just hit me, if only to get me out of this moment.
My father, the head of the infamous Castillo family, had a nasty temper, and he never gave a thought to turning it on his own children when the need or mood struck him.
Public humiliation was a favorite of his.
“She threw herself at me,” I explained. The words physically pained me to say.
“The bartender, Tony, tried to shoot me. Then, Rojas’s men attacked. ”
I had hoped the discussion of what happened would steer away from Emma, but Padre wouldn’t be swayed. “You turned your back,” he said. “Estúpido.”
The words hit me like a backhand, and I dropped my head in supplication, clenching my jaw tightly when my Tío Andre chuckled. Fucker. “It was a mistake,” I agreed through clenched teeth.
“That’s no excuse!” he roared back at me. “If you expect to take over as head of this family, you cannot make such mistakes. Ever.”
If. So, we were starting with that particular threat early tonight.
“You’re right, Padre.” My father sighed heavily and dropped his eyes to the papers on his desk, clearly dismissing me.
I wasn’t giving enough of a show, then. Omar touched my shoulder, telling me that we should get out while we were ahead…
but I couldn’t leave. Not yet. “Sir.” My father’s eyes met mine again.
“What should I do about this life debt? Can it be undone?”
My father’s eyebrow raised and he sneered.
“Are you not a man?” He pushed himself to his feet, and for a split second, I saw the pain naked on his face.
It was becoming too much to mask, and we would have to address his diagnosis with the others soon.
Fucking pancreatic cancer, and the prognosis wasn’t good.
“Have I taught you nothing about being a man?”
My hands drew up into fists, and almost unconsciously, I stood straighter, pulling myself up to my full height. “I am a man,” I said. “You taught me to be a man.”
“Then tell me,” he said archly, “what do we do with life debts?”
For years I had imagined what it would be like to hit my father. Just once with all of my strength. When my Tío Andre chuckled again, clearly enjoying himself, my mind conjured the image: my fist sinking a crater into my father’s nose. Pushing the bridge so far into his skull that I hit his brain.
I wouldn’t live long beyond that moment, but right now, I couldn’t help but think that it might well be worth it.
“We repay them. A man lives up to his obligations,” I answered by rote and resisted the urge to rub at my eyes.
A headache was beginning to build in my sinus cavity, and if I didn’t do something about it soon, it would swell into a migraine.
“So, I protect her from the Rojas family. For how long?”
My father’s sneer curved into an even nastier smirk. “You’re not going to protect her; you’re going to marry her.”
The world came to an abrupt halt, and all I could hear was my own breathing in my ears. He couldn’t be fucking serious. “Padre —”
My father’s gaze grew sharp. The smirk dropped: his patience was dwindling. “Is she pretty, this girl?”
Pretty wasn’t an apt enough word to describe her.
I thought of Emma’s icy blue eyes, full of defiance despite her obvious fear; I thought about the lush bottom lip that she’d bitten near bloody.
The ugly polo and horrible shorts that she wore did absolutely nothing to frame the curves of her body, but there was no hiding them. “Yes,” I glowered.
But she was a nobody. Marrying her, making her the mother of the Castillo heirs, was an insult. Besides, she had no concept of this life. There would be so much that I would have to teach her. My patience would never stand for it.
Padre was smiling again, as if he could read every thought in my head.
He shrugged, as if marriage was a trifle.
“So, what’s the problem? It’s more than time for you to find a wife.
Marrying her would give her spousal privilege, so she can’t be used against you legally, and the Rojas family wouldn’t come near her.
After she starts giving you legitimate children, you can take a mistress if you like. ”
I have been in shock before. I was shot in the chest, and I could remember my body going almost pleasantly numb.
My brain kept me warm when my body started going cold from blood loss.
My brain was trying to do that now. To flood me with enough dopamine to keep me calm.
To keep me from lashing out. It had gone into survival mode because I was going to have a stroke. “I don’t know her.”
My father scoffed. “Like that matters,” he said. “You’re going to fuck her. You don’t need to have a conversation with her.”
“She’ll never agree to this,” I tried again. “I just spent the afternoon telling her she was going to die. How I was going to kill her.”
Still, Padre did not look the least bit worried. “She’ll see sense,” he said. “Once she realizes that we’re the only ones who can offer her shelter and safety, she won’t resist.”
Images of my mother came to mind, unbidden.
I remember her as beautiful with a smile that could pull anyone out of a bad mood, Padre included.
But there was always a sadness in the twist of her mouth when no one else was looking; her eyes could become flat and lifeless at times.
She and Padre hadn’t known each other when they got married, and as far as I knew, she hadn’t been given much of a choice in the matter.
She was brought from Venezuela to be his bride.
A gift from a supplier Padre had made rich.
“Padre, I can’t marry this girl,” I said, and from behind me, Omar choked. “I’ll do whatever it takes to protect her from the Rojas family, but I won’t —” Omar groaned. Telling my father no was tantamount to spitting in his face.
My father stepped around his desk, full of cold fury.
“Can’t?” he asked, low and dangerous. “Won’t?
Are you telling me no, mijo?” He loomed over me; he was built like Omar, taller and broader, and he never let me forget it.
I stood my ground. Backing away wasn’t an option.
He sneered. “Omar. Andre.” My brother and uncle stepped forward, and each took hold of one of my arms. My father balled his hand into a fist and swung, slamming into my cheek.
The pain was immediate and sharp, but I didn’t make a sound.
This was not the first time that I’d been on the receiving end of such retribution, and I had been in Omar’s place, holding his arm, just as many times.
The next blow landed on my jaw. It was weaker this time, and I took my eyes off the wall to look at my father. From this close up, I could see the whites of his eyes were starting to turn yellow. His skin was sallow. He could hide it as a hangover, but he and I both knew the truth.
Meeting his eyes drove him into a frenzy. “You dare to defy me after everything I do for you? After everything I have built for you? That’s how you repay me?” He swung again, aiming low and striking me in the ribs. Then, again. “I should let Omar have everything, you ungrateful, spoiled brat.”
I gripped Omar’s arm, appreciating my brother’s silent support and willed myself to be quiet, to take this like I have so many times before.
When I was a child, these punishments were about the pain.
If you made a choice that would get you hurt, you wouldn’t make that choice again — or you’d get better at hiding it.
The last time that it had truly hurt, I was fourteen, and I had been caught with a neighbor girl in my bedroom.
She’d been sent home crying, and my father burst my spleen with the toe of his Italian leather shoe.
He worried about me fathering a bastard but didn’t mind the emergency surgery that I had to have to save my life.
After that, I threw myself into training with my father’s enforcers.
I spent years with bruises all over my body from sparring and on jobs for my father so getting punched and kicked was no big deal. Especially by him.
I waited him out knowing I could easily fight back.
I could overpower my father and take away the power he thought he possessed over me…
but that would be treason. It would be worse than declaring war; it would be suicide.
Not one person would back me in my bid to lead the family if I did it that way, and coup d’états only work when there’s a following.
So, I willed myself to accept the humiliation of being beaten like a disobedient child… in front of his audience, no less.
My father punched me in the jaw again, rocking my head to the side.
My vision swam, and I tasted blood in my mouth.
I thought about spitting it out on Padre’s shoes, and I had to bite back a smile.
I could and would endure this because one day very soon, this man would die, and I would take his place as head of the family. I could wait that long.
Padre’s anger abated, and he stepped back, massaging his knuckles.
“Let him go,” he said, and I tried not to laugh at his panting.
Hitting me had taken more out of him than it had me.
Omar and Tío Andre released my arms, and I rolled my shoulders, letting the flashes of pain settle.
“Now, is there any more discussion about your marriage to —” He snapped his fingers at me.
“Emma,” I supplied for him, gut burning at the reminder. “Emma Hudson…and no, Padre, I don’t need to discuss this anymore with you.”
My father eyed me, determining whether I was being sarcastic or not. “Good. I expect you to present me with the marriage license by the end of the week.” He waved his hand, dismissing me, and Omar all but dragged me from the room.
“Do you have a fucking death wish?” Omar asked, as the office door closed behind us.
I shrugged as we walked. “It didn’t hurt.”
Omar put a hand on my shoulder. “You’re a mess. He wore his ring.”
“I’m fine,” I assured him. “I’ll have Lara patch me up.”
Lara, our ancient housekeeper, was the best when it came to first aid.
When I was a boy, I asked her why a housekeeper needed to know so much about doing rudimentary stitches, and she’d laughed so hard that she had a five-minute coughing fit.
It was all the answer I ever needed: being a part of the Castillo family meant learning survival skills, no matter what you did as a day job.
“Let your new fiancée do it,” Omar suggested. “Let her see what it means to be a part of this family.”
“Do you imagine that will endear her to me?” I asked him. “If she has to bandage my wounds, will the blow of our impending marriage be less shocking?”
Omar shrugged. “Maybe she’s the maternal type, and she’ll want to take care of you.” He waggled his eyebrows at me in dramatic fashion.
I shoved at him. “Keep your fantasies to yourself,” I said, but the mirth leaked out of our exchange just as quickly as it had cropped up.
Emma was not going to make this easy. She was already mouthy and disobedient.
I’d seen as much from her. And despite knowing exactly how I’d like to use that pretty little mouth of hers, I didn’t relish the headache she was likely to be.
“What the hell am I supposed to do with a wife?”
Omar shrugged. “Fuck her good, hope you get her pregnant, then send her to one of the smaller families for ‘safe keeping’.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Then you can move on with your life.”
Most people assumed Omar was stupid because he was as big as a tank, and he had very little qualms about showing a man his insides, but I knew differently.
Omar was sharp; he observed the world around him.
If it weren’t for his loyalty and his lack of interest in leadership, I’d be worried about fighting my brother over who would replace my father when the time came.
He makes marriage sound so simple, I thought. “Will that be your solution? When the time comes?”
Omar offered me a savage smile. “You’re the pretty boy with all the family responsibilities, Angel. You’re the one who needs the heir. I can do what I please with whomever I please, so long as I keep you alive to take over.” He laughed at the look on my face.
Cabrón, I thought as I fell into step beside him. I didn’t know who the bigger ass was, him or me.
“Come on,” Omar said, throwing his arm over my shoulder. “Let’s go tell your fiancée the good news.”