2. Cast
2
CAST
B lack curls fan across my lap in a dark mess, and her lips encase my dick in warmth, but I can’t get into it. The girl beneath me looks like Willow—well, if you squint your left eye and down six shots of whiskey like I did moments before pointing to her and telling my new assistant, Justin, that I wanted her.
I close my eyes and set my rhythm. Despite the girl on her knees for me, my mind conjures up different curls—inky black with pink highlights. Smooth, tanned skin. Hazel eyes that used to look at me like I held the world in the palm of my hand. The ache in my cock builds, tension coiling tighter with every thrust. She inhales sharply, her eyes watering, and fuck, I want the hazel eyes that had me blue-balled for the past three months.
She squirms, twisting in an attempt to get away, sucking in a much-needed breath, but I'm relentless, slamming hard and deep down her throat. This woman has my dick in her mouth and my balls in her hand, and yet all I can think about are the dimples in Willow’s cheeks, the way her face shattered when I told her we were done.
I am seriously fucked up. I love women. I used to cycle through at least three a week. A girl with curly hair and a talent for dislocating her jaw should’ve had me busting in fifteen minutes flat. But now? Now, I’m so backed up I can barely function. This is worse than when Willow ran off to art school. Back then, at least I knew where she was. I had cameras in her apartment, watched her prance around naked or in those cute little lingerie sets she always wore under her sweats.
And now? Now she’s back, back in my city, back in my orbit—but not back with me. Not yet, anyway.
The girl between my legs makes a garbled sound of protest, dragging me out of my thoughts. Annoyance flickers in my chest, sharp and unwelcome. My fingers tangle in her hair, yanking her head back so she has no choice but to look at me.
“Use your hands,” I order, my voice rough, void of warmth. She blinks up at me, mascara smudging, lips swollen and slick. Her tongue darts out to wet them, and for a second, I try—try—to pretend it is Willow’s mouth wrapped around me, Willow’s spit dripping down my cock, Willow’s voice moaning my name.
But it isn’t. It never is. Disgust churns in my gut. I push her off, my dick still hard, still aching, and stand up, grabbing the nearest towel to wipe myself off. She coughs, catching her breath, looking at me in confusion and irritation.
“You’re done,” I mutter, already reaching for my pants.
“Are you serious?” she rasps, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand .
I don’t answer. Don’t need to. I fish out my wallet and toss a few hundreds onto the table beside her.
“I’m not a fucking prostitute.” She squeals, wiping her forearm across her swollen lips.
“Don’t I fucking know it,” I snap, adjusting myself in my pants. Fuck, Willow, what have you done to me?
I glance at her again, debating if I care enough to make her leave or just walk out myself. But the irritation gnaws at me, the fact that she’s still here, still looking at me like I owe her. I pull out my phone, flick to the timer, and set it to three minutes.
“You have until that runs out to get out of my hotel room,” I say, voice cold, emotionless. "After that, Justin will handle you, and trust me, you don’t want him handling you."
Her eyes widen, but I don’t wait for the response. I grab my coat and stalk out of the room, my pulse pounding with a feeling far uglier than frustration.
My mind spirals the second I hit the elevator. I swipe my tongue over my teeth, jaw clenching as images of Willow flood me again. Willow in my arms. Willow beneath me. Willow fucking me. Willow being fucking done, and I know exactly who to blame.
Vincent.
The bastard took her from me. Pulled her out of my world and dropped her into his, like he had any right. Like she wasn’t mine as much as she was his. My fists curl at my sides as I step into the lobby, the ache in my chest twisting into a raw, violent heat .
I need a drink. I need a fight. I need Willow back in my fucking bed.
And Vincent? He needs to start watching his back, because the next time I see him, I am going to beat him into a bloody pulp for stealing my girl. He’s lucky I love Willow as much as I do, because if it wasn’t for her, he would be dead already.
I step out into the cold night, the winter air biting at every inch of exposed skin. The chill cuts through the remnants of heat clinging to my body, but I swallow the shiver threatening to crawl up my spine. I don’t fucking feel it. I won’t let myself.
My town car is already waiting at the curb, its sleek black exterior gleaming under the street lights. My chauffeur stands at attention, holding the door open, his expression neutral. I don’t acknowledge him, don’t need to. My mind is held hostage—stuck in the past, tangled up in black curls streaked with pink, in hazel eyes that once softened when they looked at me.
I slide into the backseat, the scent of leather and expensive cologne filling my nose. The door shuts with a quiet click, sealing me in. The city hums beyond the tinted windows, blurred neon lights casting fleeting colors across my face.
I drag a hand down my jaw, exhaling sharply.
Willow’s in my head, under my skin, burned into every fucking synapse. No matter how many drinks I down, no matter how many women I fuck, she’s always there, lingering like a ghost I can’t exorcise.
I let my head fall back against the seat, fingers flexing against my thigh.
Before her, I had control. Before her, I had an outlet. I used to spend my nights fighting, letting my fists do the talking, letting the pain strip away everything but the raw, primal instinct to survive. But now? Now, I’m drowning in a different kind of torment. One I can’t escape, no matter how hard I try.
The car pulls away from the curb, gliding through the city streets. “Jamil,” I call out.
“Yes, Jefe?” He responds instinctively.
“Take me to the ring.”
“Are you sure, Jefe?” His voice wavers, and I can see his eyebrows furrow as he glances at me through the rearview mirror.
The muscle in my jaw jumps as I grind my teeth.
“I said take me to the ring,” I repeat, my voice low, sharp enough to slice through the air between us.
Jamil doesn’t question me again. He nods once and presses down on the gas, the city blurring past us in streaks of neon and streetlight glow.
I close my eyes, inhaling deeply, but it does nothing to settle the storm raging inside me. The scent of leather and expensive whiskey lingers in the car, but my mind is full of something sweeter—vanilla, paint, and that faint trace of sweat she always carried after she spent hours in the studio.
Willow smelled like fucking temptation. Like home.
And now? Now all I can smell is my own fucking misery.
I drag a hand through my hair, my fingers twitching for something to break, to ruin, to destroy. I used to have an outlet. Before her, I had a purpose, even if that purpose was just surviving the night. I spent my nights in the ring, throwing punches, taking hits, letting the pain cleanse me in ways nothing else could. The cartel gave me something to fight for, but the ring? That was for me. That was where I became untouchable.
Before Willow, the pain was a necessity.
I close my eyes, pressing my head back against the leather seat. She’s everywhere. In the cracks of my mind, in the spaces between my ribs. I swear I can still smell her—vanilla and that same sweetness that always made me bury my face in her neck just to breathe her in.
Vincent took her. Stole her right from under me. And what did I do? Let him. Because she fucking let him. She left. Chose him.
My fingers flex, nails biting into my palms.
The driver pulls up to the warehouse, and I open my eyes, shaking off the ghost of her touch, her laughter, her everything.
The neon lights flicker above the entrance.
Time to bleed.
The underground fight ring is exactly as I remember—dimly lit, the air thick with sweat, blood, and desperation. A place where men like me come to bleed so we don’t drown in our own heads. Before Willow, before the cartel consumed every piece of me, this was my escape. I fought here every other night, letting my fists speak for me. Some fights I won. Some I lost. But no matter the outcome, the pain was an anchor, keeping my demons at bay—if only for a little while.
The crowd is already restless, drunk on violence, their cheers echoing off the concrete walls as another fight reaches its brutal end. I shrug off my jacket, rolling my shoulders as I step deeper into the pit.
The moment I cross the threshold, the energy shifts.
Men who thrive on bloodshed and broken bones turn their heads, their conversations faltering as they recognize me. Eyes track my movements—some filled with respect, others with wary caution, and a few with something closer to fear. Not because of the Castillo name. Not because of the empire I command. No, here, none of that matters. The only thing that does is what I’ve done in this ring. The damage I’ve inflicted. The men I’ve left twitching on the ground, barely breathing, barely alive.
No one challenges me. No one speaks. The crowd parts on instinct, like they know better. Because they do.
I stride forward, unbothered by the sweat-stained stench of adrenaline and desperation. Men twice my size shift out of my path. Fighters—killers in their own right—avert their gazes. Some nod in acknowledgment, others murmur my name under their breath like a warning.
“Castillo’s back,” someone whispers.
“Heard he put a guy in a coma last time.”
“No ref here to save him if he snaps again.”
They aren’t wrong.
Before Willow, I was a machine. I didn’t fight to win. I fought to destroy. To erase every ounce of emotion, every creeping thought of weakness, with the brutal symphony of knuckles against bone. I fought because it was the only thing that made sense in the chaos of my life.
And now ?
Now I’m back.
Now I need to remind myself what it feels like to be that man again.
The crowd presses closer, the noise swelling as bets are placed, drinks are downed, and the energy in the room turns feverish. I spot a few familiar faces—men I’ve broken, men who’ve tried and failed to break me. One of them, a fighter with a jagged scar along his temple, locks eyes with me. He swallows hard and turns away.
Good.
I roll my neck, shaking off the last remnants of hesitation. My fingers flex, eager for the first hit, the first snap of pain that will drown out everything else.
A rough chuckle cuts through the thick air.
“Shit, look who decided to crawl back into the pit.”
I turn my head, already recognizing the voice before I see the man behind it. Ramón Ortega—grizzled, scarred, and built like he’s been bench-pressing street bikes since birth. He’s been running these fights since before I was old enough to throw a proper punch, and unlike the rest of these fuckers, he doesn’t flinch when I meet his gaze.
“Figured you were too busy playing cartel prince these days,” Ramón drawls, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “What, the throne getting too soft for you?”
I snort, shaking his offered hand. His grip is firm, calloused, and familiar. “Needed to remind myself what a real fight feels like.”
Ramón barks out a laugh, clapping a heavy hand on my shoulder. “That’s funny—I was just telling the boys here how you damn near killed a guy last time. Thought maybe you finally grew a conscience.”
I smirk. “You know me better than that.”
He grins, showing a gold tooth. “That I do.” His eyes flick over me, sharp and assessing. “But I also know this ain’t just about the fight. This about a girl?”
My jaw ticks, and Ramón must see the answer in my face because he whistles low. “Ah, so that’s it. I should’ve known. It’s always about a girl.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I mutter, rolling my shoulders.
Ramón laughs, holding his hands up in surrender. “Hey, no judgment. Just don’t go murdering anyone in my ring tonight, yeah? You’ve already got the bookies scared shitless.”
I shake my head, exhaling sharply. “You got someone for me or not?”
He grins, stepping aside and motioning toward the cage. “Got a few fresh meat boys itching to prove themselves, but if you want a real challenge…” He jerks his chin toward the opposite side of the ring.
A massive man, all brute force and mean eyes, is cracking his knuckles, watching me like he’s already planning my funeral.
I roll my neck, grinning. “He’ll do.”
Ramón claps me on the back. “That’s my boy. Now go make me some money.”
The bell rings.
And just like that, I’m home .
The moment the bell rings, everything else fades away. The noise of the crowd, the thick stench of sweat and adrenaline, even Ramón’s knowing smirk—it all drowns beneath the sharp, singular focus of the fight.
The bastard across from me is built like a goddamn tank, thick muscle stacked on thick muscle, the kind of guy who relies on brute strength to win. He cracks his knuckles again, smirking like he already thinks he has me figured out. Like he’s expecting me to go down easy.
We circle each other, slow, measured, waiting for an opening. He strikes first—a quick, testing jab that I slip with ease. I don’t bother hitting back yet. Let him think he’s in control, let him get comfortable.
Ramón’s voice cuts through the air, thick with amusement. “You gonna finish him off, Cast? Or are you just gonna keep playing with your food?”
With a snarl, I grab him by the collar of his shirt and jerk him upright, my fist swinging through the air again, connecting with his jaw, cracking it with a sickening thud. He falls back, dazed, blood pouring from his mouth.
Wiping his mouth, he comes at me again, faster this time, fists flying. I take a few hits—a sharp one to the ribs, another glancing blow to my jaw—welcoming the sting, the clarity that comes with it. But then I see the opening.
He throws another punch, this one heavier, aimed straight for my ribs. I step inside it at the last second, absorbing the impact as I slam my fist into his stomach, hard enough to make him grunt. He stumbles back, surprised, but it barely slows him. Good. I don’t want easy. I want pain. I want this to hurt .
My fist connects with his face in a vicious hook, and the satisfying crunch of cartilage shatters through the air. Blood sprays as his head snaps to the side, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.
My knuckles split as I hammer another blow into his jaw, then another, knocking him back into the cage. He growls, spitting blood, and lunges forward in a last-ditch effort, aiming to take me down with sheer weight.
I let him get close before I drive my knee straight into his gut, stealing his breath. He wheezes, his body folding in on itself, and I grab him by the back of the head, yanking him forward as I smash it against my own.
Pain explodes through my skull, white-hot and blinding. But I grin through it, shaking the stars from my vision as he crumples to the ground. The ref moves in, checking if he’s still conscious. Barely. But it doesn’t matter. I already know I’ve won.
The crowd erupts, some cheering, some groaning over their lost bets. I barely hear them. My pulse is still roaring in my ears, my body vibrating with the high of the fight, the ghost of Willow’s name still burning in my throat. Ramón steps into the cage, whistling low as he looks between me and the bloodied mess at my feet.
Ramón grins wider, his voice thick with approval. “Damn, Cast, that was a show. You’re a fucking animal.” He tosses a towel at me, his eyes glinting dollar signs and excitement.
The ref steps forward, raising my arm in victory, but I don’t even acknowledge him. The fight is over but I want another one.
Just as the crowd’s cheers reach a fever pitch, someone hands me my vibrating phone. My fingers slick with sweat and blood, the glare of the screen making me squint. An unknown number.
“Who the hell—” I mutter, hitting the answer before the caller can hang up.
"Cast?" The voice is unmistakable. Vincent.
I freeze, my blood suddenly running cold. Before I can even growl at him, his voice cuts through, in a quick flurry of words.
“I’m still Damien’s emergency contact,” Vincent says, and every muscle in my body goes taut. “He’s in the hospital.”