12. Cast
12
CAST
I can’t sleep, not after watching Willow. She looked so fucking small, standing there, lost in grief. And I stared at her until I couldn’t anymore. The Cartel doesn’t stop for anyone, not even the girl I love. And yeah, I love her. I think I’ve loved her since she was fourteen and she said sorry to me right before going into surgery for her heart transplant.
Maybe I always wanted her, but I don’t deserve her. I am not a good man. I was never a good child, but I have always wanted to be good enough for her. The best thing about Willow is she doesn’t want me to be good. She wants me to be me, and that in itself is a sick travesty, because she sees who and what I am and asks for more. She is my everything.
Three years without her and I became more myself than ever before, but when she saw me, she smiled and welcomed me into her life like I had never left. Like she welcomes the corruption that I am more than willing to give.
I exhale sharply through my nose, shaking my head. What the hell is she doing to me?
A soft thud breaks the silence. I don’t look up.
“Busy,” I mutter, swirling the last of my whiskey in its glass.
The door opens anyway.
Valeria steps inside, moving like she owns the space—hips swaying, heels clicking softly against the floor. She’s in a sleek, black fitted dress that hugs her curves just enough to be a distraction. And she knows it.
“Someone left this for you,” she says, holding out a yellow envelope between manicured fingers. Instead of waiting for me to take it, she steps around my desk and perches on the edge, crossing one long leg over the other. Close enough that I catch the faint scent of her perfume— artificial cherries, gross.
I take the envelope, tearing it open with one sharp motion. The photo slips into my palm, and my entire body goes still.
Willow.
She’s standing at the funeral partially dressed with Vincent naked behind her. Her head is bowed, clothes crumpled in her hands, and shoulders are curled inward like she’s caving in on herself.
My fingers tighten around the edges of the picture, but it’s the words scrawled beneath that light a fuse inside me.
"You can’t protect her forever."
I take a slow, steadying breath but it doesn’t work. My jaw flexes, rage pressing against the inside of my ribs, sharp and demanding.
Valeria watches me, amused but observant. “Bad news?”
I don’t answer. Just shove back my chair, standing so abruptly that she has to plant a hand on the desk to keep her balance. I grab the photo, already moving.
“Who dropped this off?” I say, my voice low.
Valeria doesn’t move from my desk, just tilts her head, watching me with a smarmy curve of her lips. “No name. Just an envelope. Guess you have a secret admirer.”
I’m in front of her before I realize I’ve moved, my fingers gripping her jaw, forcing her to look up at me. Her smile doesn’t waver, but her pupils flare just a little, dark and knowing.
“ Where did this come from? ” I snarl, my grip tightening just enough to make a point.
She exhales, slow and deliberate, her lips curving like she enjoys this. “Security caught a man on the cameras, left it at the front desk and walked out like he didn’t have a care in the world.”
“Face?”
Valeria leans into my grip just slightly, like she’s daring me to lose control. “Not clear. Baseball cap, hoodie, classic no-trace bullshit. But he wanted you to get this. ”
My fingers twitch before I let her go with a rough exhale. My pulse is a steady roar in my ears. Someone thinks they can play games with me. With her .
They’re fucking wrong.
Valeria straightens, rolling her jaw like she can still feel my grip. “You're going to rip someone apart tonight, jefe ?”
I don’t answer. I exhale hard, running a hand down my face, forcing down the rage clawing up my throat.
“Get Vincent and Damien. Now.” My voice is sharp, edged with lethal determination.
Valeria doesn’t flinch, just slides off my desk with that slow, deliberate grace of hers. “Of course,” she purrs, smoothing out the hem of her dress.
“After you get the guys. You’re fired,” I say coldly.
She pauses, one perfectly manicured hand on the doorframe. “What?”
“You’re fired.”
Slowly, she turns back to face me, one brow arching in disbelief, but her amusement doesn’t drop. If anything, it deepens, like she thinks I’m bluffing. “Oh? And what exactly did I do to deserve that, Cast ?”
“Excuse me?” I snarl.
“Senor Castillo.” She corrects.
I step forward. “You don’t take this seriously. You flirt like this is a fucking game. And I don’t have time for games.” My voice lowers, rough with conviction. “She wouldn’t like it.”
Understanding flashes in her eyes. Not shock—Valeria isn’t the type to be shocked—but an awareness close to recognition.
She breathes out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “So that’s how it is.” Valeria’s smirk falters, just slightly, before she squares her shoulders. “You’re serious.”
I stare at her blankly.
She scoffs, crossing her arms. “You’re firing me because some fragile little girl wouldn’t like the way I talk to you? Since when do you give a damn about anyone’s opinion, jefe ?”
My jaw flexes. “Watch it.”
But she doesn’t. She steps forward instead, heels clicking against the floor “You really think she’s going to love you for this? That cutting me loose is going to make you a better man in her eyes?” Her smug look returns, slow and knowing. “You’re still you , Senor Castillo. And you and I both know she won’t survive in your world.”
I close the distance between us in a single step, towering over her, my voice ice-cold. “Get. The. Guys.”
I let my next words land like a warning. “And if you’re not gone by the time this meeting is over, I’ll make sure you don’t take another breath in this city, fuck with me some more and I’ll make sure you’re dead by sunrise.”
That gets her. Just a flicker in her expression—surprise, irritation, something dark and sharp. But she masks it quickly, rolling her shoulders back with a low, bitter chuckle.
“Fine.” She walks out slamming the door behind her and I throw my glass of whiskey against the wall.
The moment Vincent and Damien step into the room, I slam the envelope down in front of them, watching as they both take in the photo of Willow at the funeral.
Vincent picks up the photo first, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the image. “Who the fuck sent this?” he asks, his voice tense.
“I don’t know.” I growl, pouring myself another glass of whiskey.
Damien simply leans forward, his fingers brushing the edge of the photo, his gaze cold and calculating as his jaw clicks. “Why the fuck is Willow partially dressed and you’re naked?”
“What the fuck do you mean, you don’t know?” Vincent hisses, ignoring Damien’s narrowed eyes.
"Vincent," I snap, pulling his attention back to me. "I need you to track down the sender.”
"Right. I'll get to it." But his voice is distant, almost like he’s not fully present.
Damien, however, is unfazed by the tension in the room. His eyes don’t leave the photo, his mind already working. "You know," he starts in his usual cool tone, "this has the Italian mob’s fingerprints all over it."
I don’t need to ask what he means. Damien’s gut is rarely wrong, and he has a way of seeing things for what they really are.
“You think it’s them, Cast?” Vincent asks, his voice quieter than usual.
Damien's eyes flick to him, a faint snarl on his lips. "You’re not paying attention, Vincent. This is their signature. They want war. And I say we give it to them."
The image of Willow—vulnerable, exposed—keeps burning in my mind. No one touches her. No one.
I step closer to the desk, my voice colder than I’ve ever let it be. I turn toward the phone, picking it up with a calmness that contrasts with the fury boiling inside me.
“Get the team on this. Full scale. No half-measures. We’re starting a fucking war. If they think they can touch her, I’ll burn their entire empire to the ground.”
I turn to Damien. “And go get our girl.”