Lords of Ruin (Ruthless Kings Of Thorhaven #3)

1. Cast

1

CAST

Three Years Later

“Speak up, Pendejo.” I whisper in the ear of the sobbing man in front of me. His face is a grotesque masterpiece—swollen, bloodied, and broken beneath my hands. One eye is sealed shut, bruises blooming in sickly hues of purple, yellow, and green. Blood trickles from his split brow, weaving down to the gash on his cheek like the final, perfect stroke of my work. His lips, cracked and swollen, threaten to tear with just a little more pressure—a tempting thought.

His nose, crooked and broken, serves as the centerline to the chaos, dried blood crusting around his nostrils. Sweat beads on his battered skin, mixing with dirt and crimson in a grim contrast—each rattling breath is unsteady, a dying animal’s gasp.

I tilt my head slightly, a faint, almost amused smile curling my lips. It’s... art. Beautiful in its rawness. My fingers twitch with the desire to add another stroke, to deepen the masterpiece, but for now, I let the moment hang, and settle on tapping my knife against this fucker’s skull.

“Come on,” I laugh, my eyes wide and curious. “Don’t make me take another finger, Gus.”

He spits in my face; blood and saliva slide down my cheek. “Fuck you, you sick rat.”

The spit doesn’t bother me; if I knew this was my last moments alive I would spit in a motherfuckers face too, but it’s the word rat. Some of the racist Italians refer to the Mexicans here as rats, because they are brown, furry, reproduce in litters, and other racist reasons. I’m not saying I wouldn’t love to kill the bastard, but I am going to make this so fucking slow. I smile, wiping the spit off my cheek and then slapping him so hard across his face, he coughs out a tooth. Nice , but we can do better, can’t we?

Swiftly I throw my machete down and take his hand.

The man’s screams rip through the air, raw and guttural, a symphony of pure agony that reverberates off the walls. His body convulses, trembling uncontrollably, and tears streak his battered face, mixing with the blood and sweat already staining his skin. He tries to suck in a breath, but it comes out a choking sob, his voice breaking under the weight of the pain.

The sound is exquisite. Like music, raw and unrefined, every note striking something deep within me. It fills the silence, drowning out the dull hum of my own thoughts, and for a moment, I let myself savor it. There’s a rhythm to his agony, a cadence to his cries that I find... intoxicating. Each scream, each gasp, is a testament to my work—a masterpiece painted in blood and suffering.

I stand over him, my fists clenched, my patience thinning but my pleasure undeniable. "Now tell me, you racist shit," I snarl, my voice cutting through his cries like a blade. "Who’s the mole stealing my supplies and killing my people?"

But he doesn’t answer. He can’t. His screams drown out anything he might say, his body consumed by the sheer torment coursing through him. The sound grates against my ears, but more than that, it ignites primal feeling within me. I shouldn’t be enjoying this. But I am.

Control yourself, Cast, I think, a flicker of irritation sparking in my mind. Don’t let it slip too far. Not yet. But the line between my fury and my restraint is razor-thin, and this bastard’s silence pushes me closer to its edge.

With a growl of frustration—and delight—I rear back and slam my boot into his already shattered kneecap. The sound is sickening—bone crunching, cartilage snapping—and his scream spikes to a pitch that makes even my own stomach churn. Beautiful.

“Still nothing?” I hiss, leaning over him. His head lolls to the side, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps, but he’s still not talking. Coward.

Swiftly, I heave my favored machete , the blade embedding itself into the ground with a metallic thunk. Without hesitation, I grab his trembling hand, forcing it palm-up. “Let’s see how much more you can take,” I say, my voice low, almost a purr. My grip tightens, his fingers twitching under the pressure. "You don’t want to talk? Fine. Let’s make it a little harder for you not to scream."

And God, I hope he does.

Gus gives me the name Nicholas, spitting it out between sobs and screams like a confession at the gates of hell. That’s all I needed. I let him live—if you can call it that. One hand, two shattered knees. Even bargain. Mercy, by my standards.

I step out of the warehouse, a cigarette dangling from my lips, the smoke curling lazily into the night air. Blood drips from my clothing in steady, crimson trails, staining the ground as I walk. My boots crunch against the gravel, the only sound besides the faint whimpers from inside.

I’ve run the Cartel ruthlessly since my father’s death three years ago. It wasn’t a seamless transition. People doubted me, whispered that I was too young, too reckless, too consumed by my own demons to lead. But I silenced those whispers with bullets and blades, leaving a trail of bodies as proof of my resolve. They don’t question me anymore. Not my men, not my enemies.

They call me La Parca. The Grim Reaper. The name fits, doesn’t it? I like the way it rolls off their tongues, dripping with fear and awe, like I’m some myth come to life. Death itself, walking among them. It’s not far from the truth. Fear keeps people loyal. It keeps them in line. And it keeps me alive.

I glance at my men as I step past them, their gazes avoiding mine out of respect—or fear. Either works.

“Clean it up, and drop him off at the Don’s home,” I say, my voice flat but carrying authority. They nod silently, already moving to handle what’s left of Gus.

The night air feels colder as I slide into the waiting car. The leather of the seat is cool against my back, and for a brief moment, I let myself sink into it.

I take a slow drag, the cigarette tip glowing faintly in the dark as I exhale a stream of smoke into the air. It’s a brief reprieve, until the sound of the passenger door opening destroys any semblance of peace.

Valeria, my assistant, slides in, her perfume is a light floral that cuts through the lingering scent of blood and smoke. She’s impeccably dressed as always: a fitted, short pencil skirt that hugs her figure and a silk blouse with just enough sheen to catch the dim light of the car. Her brunette hair is pinned back in a sleek bun, and her crimson lips curve into a polite, practiced smile.

“Senor Castillo,” she greets, her tone smooth and professional, though her eyes linger on me a second too long. “Your itinerary for tomorrow.” She holds up the tablet, her manicured nails tapping lightly against the screen as she scrolls.

I grunt, not in the mood for pleasantries. “Go on.”

Her crimson nails tap against the tablet, the screen’s glow reflecting in her sharp eyes.

“7 a.m., call with the European connection—they want a better percentage on the arms deal, but I’d hold firm. 10 a.m., security walkthrough at the docks—there’s chatter about a raid, and new protocols need your approval.”

She shifts slightly, silk blouse dipping lower, cleavage on full display.

“Noon, lunch with Senator Ortega—he wants campaign funding but is offering access to new transport routes. 2 p.m., meeting with Zona Rosa.” She glances up, lips curving into that ever-present coy smile.

“4 p.m., drop-off at the vineyard—ensuring distribution lines are smooth. 6 p.m., dinner with the Luna family—pushing for an alliance, though their leverage is unclear.”

A pause. A scroll.

“9 p.m., inspection at the south warehouse. Someone’s skimming inventory. I assume you’ll want to handle it personally.” Her gaze lifts, locking on mine with a flicker of amusement. “Busy day, even for you, Senor Castillo. Shall I reschedule anything?”

I smirk, leaning back in the seat, the cigarette dangling between my fingers. “No. Leave it as is.”

She leans forward slightly as she scrolls through the list, her toned legs crossing to show off her completely unprofessional mini skirt. My jaw tightens, but I keep my face neutral.

“And Mr.Beaumont is waiting in your estate office for your arrival. Do you need anything else from me, Senor Castillo?” she asks, her voice dropping an octave as she leans just a little closer. Her eyes flick down briefly—subtle but intentional—before meeting mine again.

Her question hangs in the air, thick with implication. I let the silence stretch, studying her. She’s good at tempting me, and one day I might let myself, but not tonight.

I hired her because she reminds me of Willow. The resemblance isn’t exact—Willow was softer, her beauty effortless, unintentional. Valeria, on the other hand, is polished, every detail of her appearance carefully curated to attract attention. But the similarity is enough to twist the knife deeper every time I look at her. I am a masochist, through and through.

The car comes to a stop outside the gates of the estate. The driver’s voice crackles through the intercom, but my focus is on Valeria, who’s still sitting next to me, her body language carefully composed.

“No,” I say finally, my voice cold. “That’ll be all, Valeria.”

She straightens, smoothing her skirt with a practiced hand. “Of course,” she replies with a passive expression; however, now there’s a flicker of disappointment in her eyes, or maybe frustration.

I exhale a steady cloud of smoke. “Take her home,” I order the driver, Jamil, without sparing her another glance.

“Yes, sir,” Jamil responds, his voice steady as always.

Valeria doesn't flinch at my words. She simply nods, her expression a little too composed, her smile a touch too practiced.

“Senor Castillo,” she murmurs, the words dripping with a sweetness that feels a little too forced. I turn toward the door, opening my side swiftly. “Goodnight,” she adds.

I finish the cigarette, the last of the smoke curling around my fingers as I flick it away, grinding it out under my heel. The cold air bites at my skin as I move toward the estate, my thoughts drift—unbidden— to Vincent, knowing he is waiting for me in my office.

Vincent hasn’t been the same since Willow left. I’ve kept him busy as my right-hand man in the Cartel, but even that doesn’t help. He was always the steady one, unshaken even when everything fell apart—but now, there’s a bitterness in him, a darkness that lingers. The Beaumonts push him to marry and take over the estate, but he brushes them off, claiming he needs to sow his wild oats when really, he’s just waiting for Willow to come back—if she ever does.

Damien isn’t much better. His anger simmers beneath the surface, only eased by the blood of the pedophiles, murderers, and enemies I give him to kill. He usually hides his emotions, but lately, every word from his mouth feels like a blade. It all ties back to Willow—the way she left without a word, leaving a wound in all of us. He even put hockey on hold after that first brutal year, claiming he couldn’t focus with Cartel business, but I know the truth. They gave him two years to figure his shit out before they pull his scholarship. Two years that are almost up.

I push open the door to my office, stepping into the dimly lit room. My eyes immediately land on Vincent, sitting there in the leather chair, looking as worn out as I feel. His posture is rigid, but the lines around his eyes betray exhaustion.

He lifts his head slowly, his eyes meeting mine. They’re dull, lifeless, and it pisses me off more than I want to admit. I drop into the chair behind my desk, the leather creaking under my weight, and light another cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating my face.

“What the hell are you doing here at this hour?” I ask, exhaling a stream of smoke.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans back in the chair, running a hand through his disheveled hair. His silence grates on me, and I slam my hand down on the desk, the sound echoing in the room.

“Talk, Vincent,” I snap. “I don’t have time for this silent bullshit.”

He flinches, barely, but it’s enough for me to notice. “It’s about Willow,” he says, and just hearing her name makes my chest tighten.

I lean forward, resting my forearms on the desk, my jaw tightening and the ash from the cigarette drooping onto the desk. “Of course it is,” I mutter. “It’s always about her, isn’t it?”

His eyes narrow, and for a moment, I see a flicker of the old Vincent—the man who wouldn’t back down from anyone, not even me. “Don’t act like she doesn’t matter to you,” he says, his voice sharper now. “We both know that’s a lie.”

“She made her choice,” I say coldly, flicking ash into the tray on the corner of my desk. “She left. And you’re sitting here like a goddamn ghost, letting her haunt you.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Vincent snaps, his voice rising. He leans forward, his hands gripping the armrests of the chair. “You think I haven’t tried to move on? You think I haven’t done everything I can to fix this?”

“Clearly not, because you’re still here,” I shoot back, my tone icy. “If you’re so desperate, we know where she is. You want to drag her back? Fine. Go do it.”

Vincent’s expression shifts, a dark and unreadable expression crossing his face. He looks away, his jaw tightening, and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter.

“I already tried that,” he says, the words heavy with implication.

My stomach twists, but I keep my face neutral. “What the hell does that mean?” I demand.

Vincent doesn’t answer immediately. He leans back in the chair, rubbing a hand over his face. When he finally looks at me, there’s a flicker in his eyes I’ve never seen before. Regret? Defeat? It’s hard to tell, but it sets me on edge.

Before Vincent can speak Damien strides in, his face set like stone, as he wanders over to my liquor cabinet.

“Can’t you see we’re in the middle of something?” I bark, irritation flaring.

He ignores me, his gaze bouncing between Vincent and me, as he pulls a glass out of the cabinet and pours a glass of the most expensive whiskey on the shelf. After a long sip, he speaks, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.

“She has to come home. Now.”

Vincent is the first to react, his brow furrowing as he straightens in his chair. “What are you talking about? I thought you didn’t want her to come back?”

Damien’s lips press into a thin line, and his nostrils flare as he takes a slow breath. “Willow,” he says, his voice heavy with an urgency that’s impossible to ignore. “It doesn’t matter what any of us want. She has to come back.”

My patience snaps. “You’re not making any goddamn sense,” I growl. “Why? What the hell happened?”

Damien’s eyes lock on mine, and the weight in them hits me like a freight train. “Her dad’s dead,” he says, the words clipped, almost mechanical. “And it’s our fault.”

The room falls deathly silent, no pun intended. I stare at him, waiting for him to take it back, to say it’s some kind of sick joke. But he doesn’t. His expression remains grim, unwavering.

Vincent’s knuckles go white where his hands grip the armrests of the chair. “Our fault?” he echoes, his voice barely above a whisper. There’s a tremor in it, something I’ve never heard before. “What do you mean, our fault ?”

“It was the Italians.” Damien whispers. “I know, because his left ring finger is missing. That’s their calling card.”

“If they know about Tommy,” Vincent continues, his voice rising, “it won’t take them long to connect him to her. They’ll know where she is. And if they don’t know already, they’re going to figure it out.”

Damien nods,“They’ll hunt her down just to prove a point.”

Vincent leans forward, fists unclenching as desperation tightens his voice. “If we bring her back, we put a target on her. If we leave her out there, we’re handing her over ourselves.”

Damien finishes his glass, before sharply saying. “I know.”

Vincent looks at me with crazed eyes both lingering with fear and excitement as the words leave my lips. “We have no choice. We have to bring her home.”