12. NO REASON.

Castle.

The morning light spilling through the windows of my room was already too bright for the mood I was in.

I sat at the edge of my bed, shirtless, elbows on my knees as I rolled the silver cufflinks between my fingers, watching them catch the light like knives.

Across the room, my phone buzzed on the table—confirmation. One of New York’s major mob leaders under me had agreed to the meeting. Not at La Iglesia—our usual neutral ground—but at Enchante, my club.

I pulled my shirt over my shoulders, buttoned it slowly, the tension in my neck already building. This meeting wasn't just about business. It was about control, power, and territory.

I was slipping into my suit jacket when Adriana walked in.

She was wearing a cream blouse stretched just enough to remind me that she hadn’t been lying about being pregnant. Her makeup was subtle today—less claws, more sweetness.

But I knew better. She always wore her softness like armor.

“I made an appointment with Dr. Leroux,” she said, voice calm but careful. “For the prenatal check-up. It’s later this afternoon.”

I said nothing as I adjusted my cuffs, fixing them in place.

“I thought maybe you’d come,” she added, trying to sound casual. “It would mean something to me.”

I looked up and her eyes shifted about, not really meeting mine. She was playing the long game—measured, manipulative. Using the unborn child like a pawn on a board I never agreed to play on.

“That’s not how this works,” I said simply, grabbing my watch from the dresser. “You don’t get to ambush me with guilt and expect me to drop everything.”

Her lips pressed together. “It’s our child.”

I turned fully, my tone sharpening. “And it’s your appointment. Next time—if you want me to show up—don’t drop it on me the same morning and expect me to cancel business.”

Her mouth opened, then closed. No sass or yelling—just that meek look again. And I hated it.

“Castle, I just—”

“Not today, Adriana.”

And with that, I slid my jacket on, smoothing down the lapels. The suit was charcoal gray, tailored to precision. The kind of suit that demanded respect the second I walked into a room.

I didn’t give her a second glance as I passed her on the way out.

She was still standing there when the door shut behind me.

By the time I arrived at Enchante, the club was stirring to life, but not in the way most people knew it.

The underground mechanics of the place—the books, the trades, the favors owed and collected—were what kept it breathing.

And in my office, I was king.

The windows overlooked the empty VIP lounge and memories of seeing Angel there with another man last night assaulted my senses.

It wasn't until Tomas came in, bearing a glass of scotch for me that I snapped out of my angry haze. He also brought intel for our guest, in a matte black file folder.

The man coming today was no lightweight. He was an old-school mobster with new-age investments. One who still believed in loyalty, blood oaths, and honor among thieves.

Too bad I believed that the mob world has evolved from blind loyalty and shit like that.

I sat in the high-backed chair and leaned back, cracking my knuckles, gaze flicking to the security feed that showed the entrance downstairs—as I waited for Rowan Casablanca to come.

***

Rowan Casablanca arrived in typical fashion. He walked into my office with that same damned air of quiet superiority he always carried, like nothing ever truly shook him.

He was dressed in Brioni, and his salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back, his cufflinks glinting beneath the light as he extended a hand.

“Castle.”

“Rowan.”

We shook hands, brief but firm. He was a close friend of my father's, but family friend or not, this wasn’t a social call.

He settled into the chair across from mine, legs crossed, fingers laced over one knee. “You look like hell.”

I smirked, just as Tomas poured a glass of scotch and set it at the edge of the desk for him.

I watched him take a sip before I leaned back in my chair and tossed the black folder across the glass surface. It landed with a satisfying thud.

“Luciano talked,” I said simply.

Rowan’s eyes flicked to the folder, but he didn’t open it. “About Rosa?”

I nodded.

“He's gone federal. Witness protection. Deal with the feds is already sealed.”

Rowan’s brows lifted slightly. He leaned forward now, opening the folder slowly, eyes scanning the pages—surveillance images, financial records, transcriptions of the interrogation. My knife work had inspired some honesty, apparently.

“You're sure about this?”

“I bled him for it,” I said with a shrug. “He had no reason to lie. Not after Carmilla and I had our chat.”

Rowan chuckled darkly. “Ah. The infamous Carmilla.”

“She’s persuasive.”

He flipped another page and let out a low whistle. “This puts everything into perspective. If Rosa turned, then it explains the silence, and the sudden panic moves from the Vercetti ring.”

“It also puts a target on my back,” I said. “If he talked about me, or my businesses…”

Rowan finally looked up, eyes sharp behind his glass. “So what do you want from me?”

And there it was. We might’ve shared cigars and war stories once upon a time, but now, everything had a cost. Even loyalty.

I didn’t answer right away. I let him look at me as I contemplated my request.

“You still have people in the police force,” he said slowly. “Contacts. Have you asked them for intel?”

I blinked.

Because I hadn’t. Not once since Luciano coughed up Rosa’s betrayal had I thought of reaching out to my sources in law enforcement.

Because all I’d been thinking about was Angel. Oh, and Adriana.

I swallowed hard, jaw tightening.

“No,” I said at last, dragging my attention back. “I haven’t.”

Rowan raised an eyebrow. “Then I suggest you do so, quickly. Before someone else gets there first.”

He closed the folder and pushed it back toward me.

“I’ll help,” he said finally. “But only if this doesn’t get messy.”

I laughed under my breath. “It’s already messy, Rowan.”

“Then clean it up before it becomes uncontainable.” He stood without finishing his scotch and just like that, he left.

Five minutes later, I grabbed my phone and called Tomas. He picked up on the first ring.

“Boss.”

“Set a meeting tonight with the CID informant. Use the back route through Mercer Street. I want no tails.”

“Understood. Anything else?”

“No,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose.

I ended the call, staring out the window at the Manhattan skyline. The sun was starting to set, bleeding orange into the gray.

If Rosa had talked to the Feds, there was a bigger game in motion. And if I was going to protect my empire, I had to find out what the hell he’d said.

Before someone else got the chance to use it against me.