CHAPTER: 23
*
Castle.
My car smells faintly of Angel, or maybe it was just me.
Maybe I was tainted by the scent of his skin and those quiet, desperate sounds he made when he came undone.
I should've left earlier. Hell, I shouldn't even have gone there in the first place.
Driving to Angel's house in the early hours of the morning like some heartbroken drunk?
That wasn't me. That was a man who had lost control, and I'd lost it the moment I saw my father's broken body strapped to that chair.
Still, I should have walked away as soon as I woke up to find Angel asleep in that armchair with his head tilted back, his mouth parted, and exhaustion carved into every inch of his face.
I should've left and yet, I didn't.
Because the moment I saw him so unguarded in the early light, my blood had stirred.
So I made a stupid decision again. As if showing up at his house wasn't stupid enough.
Slipping out through the back door of his house, I had circled around to bring the car out back, and parked it quietly behind his building with the engine running. The exit had to be clean, no delays.
I left the back door open just a crack, and when I stepped back inside, I observed him for a moment. Goddamnit, he was beautiful.
And then, I dropped to my knees between his thighs and worshiped him.
The plan went off without a hitch. I got out before he could come down from his orgasm.
I don't know what thrilled me more. The way he moaned with that sinful mouth, or the way he didn't fight me.
He could've stopped me if he wanted to, but he didn't.
Because Angel might be an FBI agent—cold, calculated, and disciplined—but with me? He was weak.
I glanced into the rearview mirror when I drove out and for a split second, I saw him standing by the door, running his hand through his hair in visible frustration.
"You want me more than you want to stop me, little Falco," I murmured to myself, smiling.
***
My smile died when I parked my Porsche at my club's parking lot, and reality returned like a punch to the chest.
My father was dead—tortured and butchered to send some kind of message. And all I had done was run to Angel instead of investigating his death.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter, making the skin around my knuckles turn white.
The rage I'd buried beneath shots of whiskey and Angel's dick was starting to claw its way back to the surface.
Whoever did this thought they sent a message, but they were wrong.
They signed their death warrant, because Castle Lucchese never ran from war.
No, I hunt it down and finish it.
***
Tomas was already waiting at the club entrance when I got out of the car. He didn't say a word—just opened the door and took one long look at me like he was trying to assess whether I was going to collapse or kill someone.
Honestly? I wasn't sure either.
We walked inside together in silence, the weight of death hanging between us.
When we reached my office, I dropped into the leather chair behind the desk with more force than grace.
My limbs felt like steel, and my head was finally catching up to the gallons of whiskey I'd consumed the night before.
Tomas shut the door behind us and finally spoke.
"You want me to call the others and set up a meeting?"
I let my head fall back against the chair. The leather was cool against my skull, but it didn't soothe the hangover pounding through it.
"No," I muttered. "Not yet."
Tomas nodded slowly, but his gaze was sharp. "You're crashing."
"Yeah," I said with a bitter laugh. "Took long enough."
What I really wanted was my bed, my own space, but I wasn't sure what—or who—I'd find waiting for me at the mansion.
I looked over at Tomas. "Is she home?"
"No," he replied instantly, already knowing who I was referring to. "She left last night, took the driver, and didn't come back."
That small piece of news settled some of the weight on my chest and I nodded.
"Call the others," I said, standing up and straightening my jacket. "Tell them we will meet at La Iglesia, 7 p.m."
Tomas gave a sharp nod. "Done."
Without another word, I left the club and drove home. The mansion loomed like a dark castle against the morning sun.
Inside, the air was thick with silence. I walked through the halls, every step echoing off the marble tiles.
When I reached my father's wing, the door was open, and the scent of fresh linens and antiseptic hit me first.
I peered inside and there he was, lying on the bed—washed and dressed in dark sleepwear, with his hair combed back.
If you didn't look too close, you might think he was resting. But I knew better.
I stared at him for a long moment as I tried to come to terms with his death. He looked smaller in death, like the weight of everything he carried had finally caught up to him and crushed him.
The ache returned, and my fists clenched by my sides. I couldn't bear to look at him anymore.
So I stepped out and shut the door behind me, my breath catching in my chest as the sound of the latch echoed like a gunshot in the hallway.
Leaning forward, I pressed my forehead to the cool wood and closed my eyes, breathing in deeply.
And that's when I felt arms sliding around my midsection from behind as they pressed into my shirt.
I could feel the swell of her stomach telling me exactly who it was.
Adriana molded her body to mine like we were lovers, like this was an everyday occurrence between us.
Fighting against my repulsion, I didn't move and somehow, she took it as consent.
"I'm here for you," she whispered against my back. "Whatever you need, whatever you want, I'll give it to you."
Her hands began to slide lower, her fingers brushing dangerously close to the one part of me that she had no right to touch.
But just before she could wrap her hand around me, my hand shot down and clamped around her wrist.
She gasped as I turned to face her with cold eyes, and fury radiating from every pore.
"You think this is what I want?" I hissed. "Seriously?"
Her mouth parted, lips trembling as if she wanted to say something but I didn't give her the chance.
"You're standing outside my dead father's room, Adriana," I snapped. "And the only thing on your mind is your fucking thirst."
She blinked. "I was just trying to comfort you—"
"Don't," I growled. "Don't insult me or yourself."
I dropped her wrist and stepped back, shaking my head as I walked away.
She always found new ways to make me hate her, and the time was coming that I wouldn't consider her father anymore.
**
Hiya, Lovers!
If you enjoy reading this little piece then don't forget to leave your votes and comments! It really does encourage.
Thank you!