Chapter 8 Mad Heir

• Castle.
• It had been three days since the ball. Three days since I left Adriana standing in the center of that ballroom, surrounded by people who were too bored or too drunk to care that the King of New York’s underworld had slipped away for a night of anonymity and sin.
• Three fucking days and still, no word about Dean Rosa.
• Tomas had combed through every private and commercial flight manifest leaving the state, checked every alias Dean had ever used, and still nothing.
• It didn’t make sense. If Dean Rosa was dead, someone would’ve bragged by now.
• If he was hiding, he would’ve left some sort of trail. But there was radio silence, and that was more dangerous than noise.
• I stood in my office at Enchante, staring out the two-way glass window that overlooked the club floor.
• It was too early for the crowd to be in yet, just the cleaning crew vacuuming beneath the chandeliers and the bar staff restocking shelves.
• Behind me, my desk was buried in paperwork—contracts, invoices, inventory reports—bullshit that came with running a legitimate business while laundering the sins of half the city through it.
• But all I could focus on was the meeting scheduled for 6 p.m with Dean Rosa’s second-in-command, Luciano.
• I didn't trust the bastard—never had. He smiled too much and spoke too little, and men like that were either hiding something or planning something.
• Still, it was the only lead I had, and if there was anything left of Dean Rosa to recover, this man would know. Or at the very least, he’d be dumb enough to give something away.
• “Still no hit on Rosa,” Tomas said as he entered, holding a folder in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.
• “I figured,” I muttered without turning to face him. “Any new intel?”
• He shook his head. “No sightings, no aliases flagged. Either the bastard's gone dark or someone helped him disappear.”
• “Someone like the Feds?”
• Tomas didn’t answer, but the slight twitch in his jaw told me he was thinking the same thing.
• I closed my eyes and exhaled through my nose, willing myself to focus. “Let me know when Luciano gets here. I want him brought directly to the back room.”
• “You got it,” Tomas said before leaving, and the silence returned with a vengeance that got my head spinning.
• Thoughts filled my head but it wasn't thoughts of Rosa, and surprisingly, not thoughts of Angel either.
• It was Adriana.
• She’d been calling nonstop, texting, dropping by the club uninvited, all smiles in public but simmering with resentment beneath the surface.
• She wanted answers. She wanted commitment. And I didn’t have the time—or the energy—for any of that.
• It wasn’t that I hated her. I didn’t. But I couldn’t breathe when she was around anymore.
• Her voice grated on me, and her perfume clogged my nostrils. Every time she spoke, it felt like someone was pressing a pillow over my face.
• I had given her time, space, gifts, and respect—despite what I knew—but it was never enough.
• She wanted all of me, and unfortunately for her, someone else had already taken what's left of my heart and soul.
• I slammed the drawer shut when I saw her name light up my phone again. That was the fifth missed call in two hours.
• I stared at the screen for a long second before tossing the phone onto my desk, the sound muffled by the unfinished contracts beneath it.
• I had a meeting to focus on, a business to run, a family name to protect, and somewhere in this damn city—a missing mob boss to find.
• But even the times that I somehow managed to get Adriana out of my head, Angel’s voice would somehow start echoing in the corners of my mind like a slow, haunting song.
• I clenched my fists, jaw tightening.
• It was supposed to be a one-night thing, a release after years of yearning for him.
• But here I was—three days later—dreaming of gray eyes that cut through my sleep like a nightmare.
• If this was what being haunted felt like, then maybe I’d been cursed the moment he touched me.
• The knock on the door pulled me back to the present.
• “He’s here,” Tomas said as soon as he entered.
• I nodded once, and he opened the door fully to let the man in.
• The second Luciano walked in, I pushed Angel out of my head and let the King of New York take the wheel again.
• This man owed me answers, and I was going to collect.
• ***
• The floor was sticky with Luciano’s blood. He wasn’t dead—that would've been too merciful—but he was barely alive.
• He was slumped against the chair where he was bound in the far end of my office, where the plush rug had been rolled.
• His eyelids were fluttering, his skin was pale from blood loss, and his fingers twitching as if his body still hadn’t caught up to the pain I’d dealt him.
• I cleaned Carmilla slowly as she glinted under the fluorescent light, slick with blood. Carmilla was a beautiful thing—black matte handle, seven inches of handcrafted, curved steel. She had a bite, and she always told me the truth.
• Luciano had only lasted two hours under her torture.
• That was the thing with men like him. Cocky at first—always talking about loyalty and honor—until the knife met flesh and they remembered they were made of soft things like nerves, tendons, and flesh.
• And in the end, I got what I was looking for. Rosa had been talking to the Feds, he’d cut a deal, and he was in witness protection now—tucked away in some government condo with a new name and no balls.
• I paced the office, adrenaline still coiled tight beneath my skin. My shirt was streaked with blood—some dried, some fresh—and I hadn’t bothered to change yet.
• I didn't know where to begin. Do I kidnap a Fed and make them talk? Rumors will soon circulate and if I hadn't done anything by that time, I'd look weak.
• I turned toward the window, needing a distraction, and that’s when I saw Angel. My heart stuttered as I came to a halt.
• He was in the VIP lounge. I hadn’t even realized he was here, but now that I saw him, everything else stopped mattering.
• He was laughing with his head tilted slightly, as he sat beside someone in a tailored white shirt. The man he was smiling at had hair that was too long for his own good, and hands that touched too comfortably.
• They sat in their own little world—shoulders brushing, drinks half-finished, heads leaned in too close like they were whispering secrets. Like they belonged to each other.
• What the actual fuck?
• I stalked closer to the glass, jaw tight, fingers twitching at my sides. Angel’s smile was small, almost soft. It wasn't the cocky smirk he wore with strangers, nor was it the guarded one he used on the job. This one… this one was real.
• And it didn’t belong to that long-haired, half-assed little shit next to him.
• My throat tightened.
• Angel was mine.
• The man beside him leaned in—said something that made Angel laugh again—and that was when I knew that I hated him.
• Whoever he was, it didn’t matter. He was breathing Angel’s air and that alone was enough for me to wish he was buried six feet deep.
• I turned away from the glass as I gritted my teeth.
• This club was mine, the city was mine as well. And now, I had to remind a certain agent that he was mine too.
• Because there was no way in hell I was letting anyone else touch what belonged to me.
• Not now. Not ever.