17. Cast
17
CAST
S itting in the back of the town car, Willow stares intently at her phone. Her thumb hovers over the redial button as we make our way towards my house several days after the game. Her brows knit together, and she lets out a frustrated sigh as the voicemail recorder picks up for the fifth time.
“Damien’s not answering my calls.” Her voice is small, tinged with worry, as she drops her hand into her lap.
“That’s because he’s pissed, Princess.” Vincent’s tone is casual, though there’s an edge of amusement as he leans back, legs spread wide, his posture a study in careless confidence. His arm stretches out along the back of the seat, fingers brushing against Willow’s shoulder.
She turns her gaze to him, her lips forming a perfect little pout. Before I can say a word, Vincent tugs her wrist, pulling her into his lap. She crawls into his arms with a huff, the picture of reluctant compliance, her bottom lip jutting out in protest.
“Stop pouting, Carina,” I growl, my voice low, the reprimand laced with affection. Her big, doe-like eyes meet mine, full of something I can’t quite name—innocence, maybe, or trust. Too much trust. My chest tightens at the thought.
Vincent leans down, nuzzling her neck, a soft smile curving his lips as he whispers something I can’t hear. Her tense shoulders relax a little, and a small, begrudging laugh escapes her. The sound sends an unfamiliar warmth creeping through me, mingling with the darker parts of myself I’ve spent a lifetime trying to control.
My lips twitch. She’s already halfway there, isn’t she? So sweet, so innocent—and I can’t wait to see how much of that sweetness I can twist into something darker. Something that belongs to me.
Her scent—light and intoxicating—fills the car, and I lean back in my seat, watching the two of them like a predator sizing up prey. My Princess doesn’t realize how much power she’s given us, and she certainly doesn’t realize how much fun I plan to have with it.
She shifts in Vincent’s lap, the denim skirt she’s wearing hiking up just enough to show off more of her legs. My gaze lingers, unabashed, as my fingers drum idly against my thigh. A soft chuckle escapes me, the sound low and dark.
“What’s so funny?” she asks, her voice tentative, her gaze darting to me.
“Just thinking,” I say smoothly, my tone laced with amusement. “You have no idea what you’re walking into, do you?”
Her brows knit together, confusion flickering in her expression. “What do you mean?”
Vincent cuts in, his lips brushing against her ear. “Don’t worry about him, Princess. He’s just being dramatic.”
Dramatic. Sure. That’s one word for it. But really, I’m imagining all the ways I can chip away at the picture-perfect girl sitting in front of me, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but what I’ve made her into.
The car slows as we approach the gate to theCastillo’s estate, its towering black iron bars flanked by two armed guards. One steps forward, his hand resting lightly on the grip of his weapon as his sharp eyes scan the car.
I roll down the window, leaning against it with an easy smirk. “Tranquilo, hermano,” I say in Spanish, motioning toward Willow. “La princesa está conmigo. Anádela a la lista—acceso completo.”
The guard glances at her, his lips quirking in subtle amusement before nodding. “Por supuesto, senor Castillo. La princesa tendrá acceso completo.”
Willow’s eyebrows knit together as she leans toward me, her voice low. “What are you saying?”
I wave her off with a grin. “Nothing you need to worry your pretty little head about, Carina.”
Before she can press further, the guard steps back, signaling for the gates to open. They groan loudly as they swing inward, revealing the sprawling estate beyond.
Once we’re through, I open the car door and step out, adjusting my jacket. The crisp night air carries the faint scent of jasmine from the meticulously landscaped gardens lining the long driveway.
“Come on, Carina,” I call back to her, extending a hand. She takes it hesitantly, stepping out of the car with Vincent close behind.
Her eyes widen the moment she takes in the house. No, not a house—a fortress of modern luxury. The sleek glass walls reflect the moonlight, giving the illusion that the entire building is glowing. Armed guards patrol along the stone walkways, and cameras discreetly mounted on the building track our every move.
“This place is…” she starts, but words seem to fail her.
“A monument to indulgence?” Vincent offers, smirking.
“A security nightmare,” she mutters, still scanning the grounds, her gaze lingering on the guards.
I chuckle, the sound rich and low. “Don’t worry, Carina. I’ve got more than enough men to keep you safe. For now.”
She gives me a skeptical glance but doesn’t respond, distracted by the sheer scale of it all. The polished black doors in front of us are flanked by massive columns, and as I push them open, the soft glow of chandeliers spills out onto the marble steps.
Vincent snorts as he steps inside. “Every time I come here, I’m reminded that Cast’s ego needs a damn zip code.”
I laugh, unbothered, and glance back at Willow, who’s still standing on the threshold, wide-eyed. “Are you coming in, or are you going to stand out there gawking all night?”
She blinks, her cheeks coloring slightly, and hurries inside, her boots clicking against the floor. Her gaze sweeps over the luxurious interior—the marble floors, the velvet-upholstered furniture, the towering glass windows offering a view of the glittering city below.
“This isn’t a house,” she murmurs, turning in a slow circle. “It’s a fortress.”
“Correction, Carina,” I say, leaning casually against one of the columns. “It’s my fortress. Welcome home.”
I see the way she pauses, as if trying to decide whether to take my words seriously or not. But it’s that hesitation, that uncertainty, that draws me in more. I see Vincent stiffen beside me, and I know he’s preparing for whatever will come next. He doesn’t know her like I do. Not yet, anyway.
“She is living with me,” Vincent shoots me a sharp look, his tone laced with authority. Normally, I would take that as an invitation to cross the line. But tonight, I choose to play it carefully. I allow the tension to build between us, not reacting. I just smile.
“For now, hermano. For now,” I say, my gaze flickering over to Willow. I see the flush rise in her cheeks, the softness of her skin, and I feel a possessive tug that I have to suppress. I growl under my breath, just loud enough for her to hear.
I can tell she feels it too—this magnetic pull. It’s in the way her eyes flicker to me when she thinks I’m not watching, the way she tenses slightly when I speak. She’s not used to this world, to the pressure, the heat of it. But she will be. They all do. It’s only a matter of time.
The moment we enter the grand dining room, the air thickens. I catch my father sitting at the head of the long, polished mahogany table, his posture impeccable, as always. His eyes—dark, calculating—immediately lock onto Willow. There's no mistaking the way he watches her. It's not just interest. It's assessment. The kind of look that pierces, weighing everything and everyone around him.
Willow’s hand trembles slightly as my father takes it, his grip firm and steady, a silent reminder of the power he wields. She looks up at him, her expression steady, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty behind her eyes, an awareness of the depth of this meeting. My father doesn’t miss that, nor do I. It’s a silent test, and Willow is holding her ground well—her nerves only visible to someone who’s been trained to notice.
“Willow,” my father says again, his voice deep and smooth, a weight to it that carries the full force of his attention. There’s no mistaking the command beneath the pleasantries. "It’s a pleasure to finally meet you."
The tension in the room is palpable as she responds, her voice polite, almost formal. "Mr. Castillo."
A small chuckle rumbles in my father’s chest, and his gaze softens just a fraction. He’s not a man accustomed to formalities, not with people who’ve already entered his orbit, and I can see the edge of approval sharpening his features.
"Call me Tito," he says, his voice warm, but with an undertone that suggests a subtle command to drop the titles. His attention shifts back to me, his smile growing slightly wider, almost amused. “She is gorgeous, mi hijo,” he adds, his eyes twinkling as he looks between Willow and me.
I catch the weight of his words, the underlying meaning in them. He thinks she’s good enough to be mine. To stand by me on that gilded throne. My chest swells with pride at the thought, a sharp possessive hunger gnawing at me.
This level of approval from my father isn’t something he gives lightly, and I know damn well he’s done his research on Willow. He doesn’t just hand out compliments like this—he sees value, power, potential in her.
And now that she’s mine... there’s nothing that will change that.
I can’t help but let a smirk creep across my face as I move closer to her. My hand snakes around Willow’s waist, pulling her gently into me. She’s the perfect kind of softness, fitting seamlessly against my chest. I kiss her temple, feeling the heat of her skin against my lips. “She is the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen,” I say, my voice smooth and filled with a satisfaction that only comes with knowing something—someone—so completely and intimately.
She slumps against me, a little worn down by the weight of my father’s attention, and I can’t help but smile. My grip on her tightens just enough to remind her that she’s with me.
I hold her up, not just physically but in this world we’re building together.
It’s strange, this kind of possession, but I crave it.
I want her wrapped up in my world, unable to escape, drawn into my orbit as much as I am to hers.
“Will you sit now, mi hijo?” My father’s voice breaks through the moment, a touch too commanding, but I’m too lost in the sensation of her against me to care.
With a lazy grin, I nod and ease Willow gently into the seat next to me. She settles in, still a little too aware of the silent weight of the room, the pressure mounting on her shoulders. But that’s okay. She’ll get used to it.
My father takes his seat back at the head of the table, his eyes still flickering to Willow, weighing her silently. I sit to his right, the proximity enough to keep me in his line of sight—though I know this is as close as he’s going to get tonight. A silent show of respect.
“Mr. Castillo,” Vincent murmurs. My father greets him with a nod, and Vincent takes his seat across from us.
“Vincent, how’s your viper of a mother?” My father chuckles, clearly enjoying the question.
“Still poisonous,” Vincent responds with a grin, and my father’s smile widens, clearly amused by the banter.
Across the table, Vincent leans back in his chair, that damn Cheshire grin never leaving his face. He’s savoring the moment, enjoying watching us play our roles in this little exchange, knowing full well that he’s got a front-row seat to the drama unfolding around him.
He doesn’t say much, but his gaze never shifts from me or Willow, as though he’s studying us both, reading the unspoken tension and anticipating what comes next in this game I’ve only just started playing.
“Dinner,” my father says again, his voice soft but firm, as he looks toward the staff bringing out the first course. The air between us thickens, not from tension, but from the sense of anticipation that always surrounds these meals. Every glance, every word, is a game of its own. And I know I’m holding all the cards.
I watch Willow out of the corner of my eye, studying the way her body tightens under my father’s unrelenting gaze. She’s trying to maintain her composure, but I can see it in the way her posture shifts ever so slightly. The weight of this world is pressing on her, and I can feel the tension building within her.
She’s like a puzzle, one I’m determined to solve, piece by piece. The more I learn about her, the more I want to possess every corner of her, every layer of her.
I lean back in my chair, casually draping my arm around the back of Willow’s seat, pulling her just a little closer. Vincent grins across from us, that Cheshire grin of his spreading wider, as though he’s thoroughly enjoying the spectacle. But I don’t pay him any mind. I’m focused solely on Willow now.
“Relax,” I whisper lowly, just for her. “You don’t show your fear to anyone but me.”
She nods almost imperceptibly, straightening up as her walls slide back into place, all under my command. She forces a smile and looks over at my father with that same bright, calculated charm. “Tito…” she begins, her voice smooth, respectful—but with just enough warmth to show she’s finding her place in this world.
Before she can finish, the sharp, unmistakable sound of a knock echoes through the house. My attention snaps to the noise, and I can feel the atmosphere shift around us. It’s not just any knock. It’s too loud, too deliberate, too insistent. The FBI.
I can see my father’s eyes narrow in recognition of the threat at the gate. His eyes flicker toward me for a split second, assessing, calculating. I know what’s coming. The game is about to change.
I turn to my men stationed around the room, my tone cold and commanding as I speak in rapid Spanish. "Llévenselos, por el túnel. Limpien sus platos." Take them through the tunnels. Clear their plates.
The guards move quickly, without hesitation, their footsteps muffled as they approach Willow and Vincent. The moment I speak, they know what to do. They’ll get Willow out of here, and they’ll make sure she’s safe, hidden away from whatever’s about to go down.
Vincent’s grin falters for just a second, his eyes narrowing as he tries to gauge the situation, but he doesn’t protest. He’s smart enough to know when it’s time to step back. He’s in this world too, but he knows not to challenge me when it counts.
The knock at the gate rings out again, sharper, louder, like a call to action.
My father’s voice breaks through the silence. “Ve,” he says, his tone a low growl. “Go.”
The command is clear, but I don’t budge. I don’t even flinch. Instead, I meet my father’s gaze, steady and unwavering. The room feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for my next move. This isn’t just about the FBI—it’s about the Castillo name. And I’m not going to let anyone see us bend.
“No,” I reply, my voice cool and defiant. “Castillos stick together.”
The words hang in the air between us, heavy with meaning. My father watches me for a long, tense moment, the weight of years of unspoken history between us. Then, slowly, the edges of his lips curl upward just slightly, the faintest glimmer of approval in his eyes. He doesn’t argue. Instead, he leans back in his chair, a silent acceptance of my decision.
The guards begin to usher Willow and Vincent away, their hands gentle but firm. I keep my arm draped protectively around Willow as she stands, her eyes wide with confusion and uncertainty, but there’s a spark of something else too. Maybe fear, maybe something deeper.
I smile at her, that devil-may-care grin of mine creeping across my face. “Don’t worry, mi amor,” I murmur softly. “You’re going to love the tunnels.”
She snorts, a soft laugh escaping her lips as she looks at me, that mischievous glint in her eyes. I growl low in my chest, a sound that’s part warning, part desire. She jumps back, startled by the intensity in my gaze, but there’s something there in her—something she’s trying to hold back, to mask. Before I can speak, she leans in, her lips brushing my cheek in a swift, soft kiss.
It’s unexpected. Sweet. Tender.
And it drives me wild.
The shock doesn’t have time to settle. The moment her lips leave my skin, I’m on her, my hand shoots out, gripping her throat just firmly enough to steady her. I pull her into me, crushing her body against mine. My lips crash onto hers, hard, desperate, and every inch of me is consumed by the need to claim her. She’s mine. She belongs to me.
The kiss is wild, messy—a collision of hunger and control. Her breath catches, her hands grabbing at my shoulders as I deepen the kiss, tasting her with a possessiveness that burns through me. I want to feel every ounce of her, want her to know just how far I’m willing to go to keep her.
But then, too quickly, I feel the pull, the hands of my guards, ushering her away. A sharp tug at her waist, Vincent’s voice in the background as he’s already stepping in to help her move.
I pull away from the kiss reluctantly, my breath ragged as I stare down at her. Her lips are red, swollen from our kiss, and her eyes are wide with shock—or maybe something else. But I see it, that flicker of understanding in her gaze. She knows now, just a bit more, the kind of game I’m playing.
The moment passes, and I let her go, my grip loosening on her throat just enough to let her breathe. "Get her out," I command my men, my voice low but laced with urgency. “Now.”
Willow doesn’t fight. She glances at me, her expression unreadable for a moment, and I see that she’s learning the rules—learning what happens when you step into my world.
Seconds later, she’s gone—taken by my guards, hidden away through the tunnels, and out of sight. My heart is still racing, the taste of her kiss lingering on my lips when the door bursts open. I barely have time to react before two men step into the room, their guns drawn and trained on my father and me. The air thickens with tension, the oppressive weight of their presence making everything else feel irrelevant.
One of them steps forward, a cold, unreadable expression on his face. He holds up a piece of paper, the edges crisp and white against the dimly lit room. “Warrant for search, seizure, and arrest,” he says, his voice clipped. “On cartel-related charges.”
The words hit like a hammer to the chest. My father, Tito, doesn’t flinch. But I can see it in his eyes—the flicker of recognition, the knowledge that this moment was coming. The weight of his past, the sins of the Castillo family, finally catching up with him.
The agents move swiftly, no time wasted. One of them grabs my father by the arm, pulling him roughly to his feet as another watches me. There’s no question, no negotiation. It’s happening now.
“Get your hands off him,” I snarl, my voice low and dangerous. But I know it’s pointless. My father doesn’t even need me to intervene. He’s already resigned to the fate unfolding in front of him.
Tito casts me a glance, calm and collected despite the chaos unfolding. “It’s alright, mi hijo,” he says, his voice steady. “This is just business. We’ll see each other again.”
I don’t believe him, but I don’t argue either. There’s no room for emotion now.
The agents begin to lead him out, and I watch with a quiet fury building inside me. Every inch of my world, everything I’ve worked for, is about to change. My father—my king—taken away in cuffs, his empire crumbling with the flick of a wrist.
I stand there, my mind racing, but there’s no time to mourn, no time to waste. The moment the door slams behind them, I turn toward the other members of the cartel in the room—men I’ve known all my life, men who have sworn loyalty to my family. Now, that loyalty will be tested.
I motion for the room to quiet, my gaze sharpening as I look at each face before me. “Get everyone in here,” I say, voice low but commanding. "It’s time for the inner circle to convene."
Minutes later, the room is filled with the familiar faces of my trusted men, all standing tall in respect—some with caution, others with anticipation. The weight of the room presses down on me, but I don’t falter. I stride to the center, every step purposeful, my eyes cold as I address them all.
“The Castillo name doesn’t die today. It’s my name now,” I declare, my voice unwavering. “And I’ll be damned if anyone thinks they can take us down without a fight.”
A few of the older members shift uncomfortably, but they know better than to challenge me. I take a slow breath, gathering my thoughts, trying to steady my nerves.
“You all know why we’re here,” I continue, my voice low and controlled, but the weight behind it is undeniable. “There’s a traitor in our ranks. Someone tipped off the FBI. We need to find them. And we need to do it quickly.”
A murmur of agreement ripples through the group, but there’s uncertainty in their eyes. They’re wondering if I can pull this off. If I can hold everything together in the wake of this chaos.
I don’t give them a chance to doubt me. “We’re not backing down. We’ll fight this. We’ll rebuild. We don’t need my father to do that. We have each other. And we have me .” I let the words hang in the air, the certainty in my voice unwavering.
Ricardo, one of the older cartel members, steps forward. He’s been loyal for years, and I trust him more than anyone in this room. “?Viva el heredero! ?Viva la familia!” he says, bowing his head.
I nod sharply, my gaze never leaving his. “?Viva la familia!” I echo.