Chapter 16
VALENTINA
The penthouse sits in the heart of Dallas, forty-three stories up where the city sprawls beneath you like something you could own if you wanted it badly enough.
Cast has always preferred height—likes being able to see threats coming from miles away, likes the control that comes with elevation.
The glass and steel building is one of his legitimate holdings, the kind of property that looks clean on paper even if the money that bought it wasn't.
I park my bike in the underground garage and take the private elevator up, the one that requires a key card I've had since I was sixteen.
The same card that still works, which means Cast never revoked my access even after I left.
Even after I chose the Raiders over the cartel, over family, over everything he'd trained me to be.
The doors open directly into the penthouse.
Marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, furniture that costs more than most people make in a year.
It's beautiful in that cold, untouchable way that everything in Cast's world is beautiful—designed to impress, to intimidate, to remind you exactly who you're dealing with.
"Valentina." Willow's voice comes from the living room.
She's standing by the windows with that particular grace she has, that deadly elegance that makes you forget she could kill you six ways before you hit the ground.
But there's something different about her silhouette, something that makes me stop and really look—
"Holy shit," I say, the words coming out before I can filter them. "Are you pregnant?"
She turns fully and laughs—a real laugh, warm and unguarded in a way Willow rarely is. Her hand comes to rest on the small but unmistakable curve of her belly, visible even through the expensive silk of her dress. "Five months."
My brain does the math automatically, cataloging the timeline, the implications. "Yours?" I look around for Cast, because my brother has always been territorial about Willow in a way that would make this either very expected or very complicated.
"No." Her smile widens, and there's something soft in it that I've never seen before. "Vincent's."
The name lands with unexpected warmth. Vincent—one of Cast's best friends, and Willow’s other partner with the last being Damien. "About damn time," I say, and I mean it. "He's been in love with you since forever."
"I know." Her smile takes on a knowing quality. "Took me a while to catch up." She steps closer, studies my face with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. "You look terrible."
"Thanks," I mutter. "That's exactly what I needed to hear."
"I'm serious. When's the last time you slept? Ate something that wasn't from a vending machine?" She pauses. "Showered?"
"Yesterday. I think." The days have blurred together. "Maybe the day before."
She shakes her head. "Cast is in his office. Go. I'll have food sent up."
"I'm not hungry—"
"I don't care." Her voice takes on that edge that reminds you she runs security for one of the most dangerous men in Texas. "You're eating. And probably sleeping. But first, talk to your brother."
I make my way through the penthouse to Cast's office—the only room with actual walls instead of open concept, the only space where he conducts the business he doesn't want overheard.
The door is open. He's sitting behind his desk, dark hair perfectly styled, suit probably worth more than my bike, looking every inch the legitimate businessman he pretends to be.
Until you see his eyes. Vivid emerald and calculating, the eyes of a man who's killed more people than he's saved and lost sleep over exactly none of them.
He looks up when I enter, and something passes across his face—surprise, maybe, or the closest thing to it that Cast allows. "Valentina."
"Can I come in?"
"You're already in." But he gestures to the chair across from him. "Sit."
I close the door behind me and sink into the leather chair. It's too comfortable, the kind of comfort that makes you forget to keep your guard up. I force myself to sit straight, to meet his eyes.
We look at each other for a long moment.
We've never been close—not in the way siblings are supposed to be close. Cast only took me in because my mother abandoned me, and I was his only living relative, trained to kill by our father’s right hand man.
He knows that warmth was never part of the curriculum.
"What happened?" he asks finally. No preamble. No small talk. Classic Cast.
"What makes you think something happened?"
"You're here." He leans back in his chair, studying me with that unnerving intensity.
"You haven't been here in six months. You chose the Raiders.
Chose—" He pauses. "Xavier. So either something went catastrophically wrong, or you're here to tell me you're getting married.
And you don't look like someone who's getting married. "
Despite everything, I almost laugh. "No. Not getting married."
"Then what?"
I open my mouth to deflect, to make up some excuse about why I'm here that isn't the truth. But I'm so tired of lying. So tired of carrying this alone.
"I killed someone," I say. "Six months ago. Marcus King. Xavier's brother."
I watch his face for a reaction—shock, concern, anything. But Cast just nods slowly, like I've confirmed something he already suspected. "How?"
"Pipe to the head. He cornered me in an alley. Was going to—" I stop. Can't finish that sentence. "I defended myself."
"Good." No hesitation. No judgment. Just simple approval. "He deserved it."
"Xavier doesn't think so."
"Xavier found out?"
"A few months ago. In front of the entire club." I look down at my hands. "Johnson called a meeting. Had evidence—photos, witnesses. Exposed everything. And I—I told the truth. Admitted it."
"And Xavier?"
"Kicked me out. Told me to get out of his life." My voice cracks despite my best efforts. "Called me a liar. Said everything we had was built on lies."
Cast is quiet for a moment. "Were you? Lying?"
"I didn't tell him. For weeks after I remembered, I didn't tell him." The guilt sits heavy on my tongue. "I was scared. Scared of exactly what happened. So I kept it secret and let him fall in love with a version of me that wasn't carrying his brother's blood on her hands."
"You were raised to be an assassin," Cast says matter-of-factly. "Trained to kill without hesitation, without remorse. This is what we do, Valentina. This is what we are."
"But I've never cared before." The words come out raw.
"Everyone I've killed—and there have been plenty—I never cared.
Never lost sleep over it. They were targets, problems to solve, obstacles to remove.
" I look up at him. "But Xavier cares. He wanted revenge for Marcus.
Wanted to be the one to make the Vipers pay.
And I stole that from him. I killed his brother and then I lied about it and he'll never forgive me for either. "
Cast stands, and for a second I think he's dismissing me, ending the conversation because emotional confessions aren't his style. But instead he comes around the desk, and before I can process what's happening, he's pulling me to my feet and into his chest.
We've never hugged. Not once in all the years we’ve found out that he’s my cold and calculating brother. Physical affection isn't something Cast does. Isn't something either of us do.
But his arms come around me, solid and sure, and I feel something crack open in my chest that I didn't know was sealed.
I press my face into his expensive suit and cry—really cry, the kind of crying that's more about release than grief—and he just holds me.
Doesn't tell me to stop. Doesn't pull away.
Just lets me fall apart against him while his hand comes up to rest on the back of my head.
"I'm sorry," I manage through the tears. "I'm so sorry."
"For what?"
"For being weak. For caring about someone enough that losing them destroys me. For—for being bad at this." I pull back enough to look at him. "You taught me to be stronger than this."
"No." His voice is firm. "I taught you to survive. That's different." His hand comes to my face, thumb brushing away tears with surprising gentleness. "Don't give up on him, Valentina. On any of them."
"They don't want me—"
"Don't give up on the person who makes you feel alive," he interrupts.
"The people who make you feel alive. People like us—" He pauses, and something moves through his expression that might be vulnerability if Cast were capable of such things.
"We're hollow. Ice where other people have hearts.
We kill and we don't feel it. We destroy and we sleep fine.
" His eyes meet mine. "We need people we love.
Need them to remind us we're still human under all the training. "
"You have Willow," I whisper.
"I have Willow. And Vincent. And Damien. My best friends—I love them. Would die for them. Would kill for them." His hand drops from my face. "But I need Willow to feel alive. Need her to make me something other than the monster our father created."
The honesty in his voice cracks something else open in me. "I love Zay and Asher," I admit. "With everything I have. They're—they're essential. But Xavier—" I stop. Take a breath. "I feel most like myself with Xavier. Most real. Most—" I can't find the word.
"Alive," Cast finishes.
"Yeah." The admission hurts. "Which only makes this worse. Because the person who makes me feel most real is the person who'll never forgive me for what I am."
Cast steps back, leans against his desk, crosses his arms. Back to business mode, though something softer lingers in his eyes. "What do you want to do?"
"I don't know." The helplessness in my voice is embarrassing. "I don't know how to fix this. How to make him see that I'm sorry, that I was scared, that I never meant—"
"Fight for him."
The words land like a command. "What?"
"Fight for him. For all of them. Don't give up just because it got hard." His expression hardens slightly. "You're my sister. You were raised by the most ruthless man in Texas before I killed him and took his place. You don't quit just because someone told you to leave."
"He doesn't want me—"
"So change his mind." Cast's voice takes on that edge that reminds you he built an empire on knowing how to get what he wants.
"You're an assassin, Valentina. You've infiltrated organizations, manipulated targets, survived things that should have killed you.
And you're going to let one angry man in a wheelchair defeat you? "
"It's not about defeating —"
"No. It's about fighting for what matters." He leans forward. "You love him. You love all three of them. So fight. Make them see that you're worth the complication. Worth the pain. Worth forgiving."
"And if they don't? If Xavier can't—"
"Then you tried." He straightens. "And you'll always have a place here. With me. With family." His expression softens fractionally. "But don't give up without fighting first. You're better than that."
I look at my brother—this cold, calculating man who just gave me the first real brotherly hug of my life, who's telling me to fight for love like he believes it's something worth bleeding for. And I realize he's right. I've been running, hiding, accepting Xavier's judgment as final.
But I'm Valentina Torres. I was raised to fight.
"Okay," I whisper.
"Okay?"
"Okay." Louder this time. More certain. "I'll fight."
Something that might be pride flickers in Cast's eyes. "Good. Now go shower. You smell terrible."
Despite everything, I laugh. "Thanks."
"Willow's right—you need food. Sleep. To take care of yourself before you can take care of anything else." He moves back around his desk, settling into his chair. Back to the untouchable businessman. "Stay here tonight. Tomorrow you can start figuring out your battle plan."
"Cast?"
He looks up.
"Thank you. For—" I gesture vaguely. "For this. For letting me fall apart."
"You're my sister." He says it simply, like it's obvious, like I should have always known that meant something to him. "You can fall apart here anytime you need to."
The words settle something in my chest that's been unsettled for months.
I'm about to respond when the door bursts open and a small tornado in the form of a seven-year-old crashes into the room.
"Auntie Val!" Penny—Vincent and Willow's daughter, all dark curls and enormous brown eyes—launches herself at me with the complete faith that I'll catch her. Which I do, automatically, swinging her up even though my arms are tired and my heart is heavy.
"Hey, Pen," I manage, and her arms wrap around my neck in that strangling-tight way kids hug when they really mean it.
"You're here! You're finally here! I missed you so much!" She pulls back enough to look at me with those serious eyes. "Mama said you were sad. Are you still sad? Because dinner is ready and Mama made your favorite and food makes everything better."
Out of the mouths of babes.
I look at Cast over Penny's shoulder. He's watching us with an expression I can't quite read—something between amusement and that same softness from earlier.
"Dinner sounds perfect," I tell Penny, setting her down. "Lead the way."
She grabs my hand with complete confidence and pulls me toward the door. "We're having pasta! And garlic bread! And Mama made that chocolate cake you like!"
I let myself be pulled from the office, from the conversation, from the weight of decisions I'm not quite ready to make. Let this seven-year-old with her unconditional love and simple solutions lead me toward something as basic and necessary as dinner.
Behind me, I hear Cast's voice, low and certain: "Fight, Valentina. Don't give up."
I squeeze Penny's hand and follow her down the hall.
Tomorrow I'll figure out how to fight for what I lost.
Tonight, I'll eat pasta and let a child remind me that sometimes the simplest comforts are the ones that keep you alive.