All Chapters of Castillo Del Angel: Marked By Vengeance. : Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

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,”

Castle. It was a little past 3 p.m., and I was still buried in logistics. Crates of imported rum from Havana were sitting in the lower lot, waiting to be cleared through customs—Tomas would handle that. What I was dealing with was less volatile, but still more personal: expansion. The concept had been floating in my head for months now. To turn part of Enchante’s exclusive VIP wing into something darker and more indulgent. A pleasure den for the city’s elite. A controlled environment where sex and shadows could coexist—and be monetized with taste. My financial advisor, Julian, was seated across from me, legs crossed, pen tapping against the leather-bound budget planner he brought with him like a lifeline. “Look, Castle,” he said, adjusting his glasses, “the numbers check out. But if you’re looking to pivot the space into a private, members-only sex club, you need permits, discretion, and an architect who can build it like it was always meant to be hidden.” Next to hi

Castle. I was still hard. Harder than I’d been in days—and that was saying something, considering the amount of self-control I had to summon around Angel earlier. The security feed was grainy, but it didn’t matter. I watched him sit in his car like he was holding back a scream. His head was in his hands, shoulders hunched, probably swearing at himself for letting go. For needing it. For needing me. And fuck, it was beautiful. I leaned back in my chair, one leg hooked over the armrest, ignoring the mess of blueprints and expense files scattered across my desk. My mind wasn’t here anymore. It was still in the hallway as I pressed against his back. Felt his thighs tighten under my palm, the way he gasped. The way his hips bucked into my hand like his body had been waiting for me. My cock throbbed in my boxers, straining for attention, and I didn’t fight it this time. Not when I could still taste his scent on my tongue. A groan slipped from my throat as I cupped myself, f

Castle. The sunlight cut through the floor-to-ceiling windows like a blade to my skull. I groaned, rolling over onto the cold sheets of the penthouse suite at The Marquette, my temples throbbing in sync with every beat of my pulse. The stale aftertaste of whiskey lingered on my tongue, and I could still feel the faint sting in my knuckles from the underground match I’d indulged in last night. It hadn’t helped. After storming out of the house and leaving Adriana half-naked in her room like the manipulative brat she was, I’d driven to the underground ring, hoping a few rounds in the pit would burn off the rage curling in my chest. But the fight had been too easy. The guy I went up against barely lasted two rounds. He’d hit the mat gasping, and I was left standing there, bloodied, victorious and still pissed as hell. So I drove to my club, took a bottle upstairs to a VIP booth, and let the numbness coat everything. After being heavily drunk, Tomas had driven me here and I had co

Castle. The scent of cigar smoke lingered heavily in the air, curling toward the cathedral ceiling as I took a drag of a Behike 56. We were deep inside the back chamber of La Iglesia. The light was low, but the tension was even lower. Around the round table sat the four heads of New York’s organized underworld, all dragging a breath of smoke. Rowan Casablanca, calm and silent as ever. Raymond D'Onofrio, whose patience could never be trusted and whose tongue was loose when drunk. Fernando Reyes, lean and sharp with eyes that missed nothing. And seated to my left—Kaito Tanaka, the quietest of the four, but easily the most dangerous. There was an empty seat for Dean Rosa, and I was frustrated with what I had gotten from the informant. It was definitely not what I expected, and at the same time, it was more than expected. I didn’t bother with small talk. We all knew that we didn’t gather under this roof unless it was serious. “The cleanup crew is done with the snitc