All Chapters of Castillo Del Angel: Marked By Vengeance. : Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

Castle. My phone kept buzzing on the table but I refused to answer it, knowing it was Adriana. She had been calling for the past 30 minutes but I refused to pick up. She had probably heard that her father was dead. Words did travel around fast when it came to the New York mob. I kept on ignoring her calls. Let her stew in her designer sheets with the weight of her father’s sins pressing into her chest like a steel fist. I had enough on my plate, and the pieces were finally clicking into place—the ugly, jagged pieces that made a complete picture the moment I realized that Rowan had orchestrated it all. That bastard had fed me a lie about my father’s death, had turned my blood cold for nothing, and had tried to steal power by feeding me grief. “Get the car,” I said to Tomas, my voice calm but humming with a fury that tasted metallic in the back of my throat. “We're going to see my father.” We rode in silence as the city blurred by outside the tinted windows. I remembered once

Castle.I hadn’t stepped foot into the mansion in days, although it felt like weeks. Monday morning found me parked out front, staring at the place like it might open its mouth and spit me back out. The silence was heavier than usual. Even the breeze had the decency to hush as I walked in.Rowan's people were planning his funeral, and I allowed them. It was going to be a closed coffin burial, no procession and no eulogies carved from lies. It was just something to mark the end, tie a black bow around betrayal and call it grief. His body was already gone though, taken care of quietly, the way things like him should be.Still, I figured Adriana should be the one to sign off on the details. For all his sins, and there were many, I had the sense Rowan did love her, in whatever twisted, backward way he was capable of.But as I got to left wing in the mansion, I discovered that she wasn’t home. I then wandered through the halls as I made my way back to my part of the mansion. When I got

Angel. Desk duty was the official label for “we don’t trust you with a gun right now.” And although I still had my badge, it didn't hold much weight as my gun would. I had been flipping through case files for hours, eyes scanning names, dates, redacted lines that led nowhere. The flickering fluorescent light overhead buzzed like it knew that I was this close to snapping. My eyes burned from hours of cross-checking the files, hoping that I would see one that was related to the Mendez case. But Cyrus was too thorough and made sure there was no chance that I'd know what was going on with the case. The clock on the wall blinked past 4:32 pm. I leaned back in my chair, massaging the knot at the base of my neck, and I had just started wondering if an FBI agent could file a complaint for psychological warfare against its own bureaucracy, when the door creaked open. And in walked the last man I wanted to see on a bad afternoon, Daniel Flair. He strutted in like he owned the damn buildin

Angel.It's been a week since the interview and they've cleared me. Well, not exactly. They didn’t slap a medal on my chest or throw a parade. There were no apologetic back-pats or speeches about how they “should’ve trusted me from the start.”Hell, Cyrus didn’t even look me in the eye when he nodded at me after I heard the information. But the message was clear: I was too useful to be kept on the bench. So I was back.The elevator ride to the third floor felt like stepping barefoot into a war zone. I was practically bouncing with nerves. I had barely gotten two steps out when Carla, a short but very smart agent, appeared out of nowhere and shoved a file into my chest.“You’re on a task force now,” she said, not bothering with greetings. “It's fieldwork, so you might want to get acquainted with the case.”“A task force,” I echoed, flipping open the file as I made my way to my office, but the title on the first file hit me like a sucker punch to the ribs.Organized Crime Division: N

Angel.I hadn’t slept right since the call.Every time I shut my eyes, I heard his voice again—distorted, calculated and dangerous.He said his name was Jackal.The same Jackal that dropped anonymous tips for the FBI had called me out of the blue to warn me that the place I called home was infested.“There are traitors in your precinct,” he had said, like he was handing me a lit match and daring me to find the gas leak.I replayed the call every morning while brushing my teeth, while tying my tie, while locking the gun into its holster. I used to walk into the Bureau with certainty, but now I walked in with suspicion burning in my gut like rot.Every agent's face became a question mark. Every “good morning” was now a potential performance.As I passed by agents, my mind always went: “Is it Derrick in counterintelligence that's the traitor?” He always looked away too quickly when we held eye contact.“Was it Dan, my partner, who had started taking his personal calls outside?”“Was it