You're A Fucking Informant.

                                        

                                              
CHAPTER: 18
*

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 collapsed into this bed that smells vaguely like expensive cologne and lavender.
I didn't want to go back to the Lucchese mansion because of Adriana. 
I could just tell her to leave, but it would start a war I wasn't prepared for, considering the fact that her father was Rowan Casablanca.
A dull ache throbbed behind my eyes as I sat. I'd promised myself I wouldn't ever let alcohol touch me like this again.
Not after watching what it did to my father.
The once-formidable head of our empire, now a breathing corpse propped up in an overpriced care facility—his brain gone, his body wasting slowly, and his legacy now resting squarely on my shoulders.
And me?
I'm hungover in a penthouse at noon, haunted by the echo of Angel's voice still moaning my name in that hallway.
Fucking pathetic.
My phone rang, shrill and merciless. I cursed under my breath, fumbling for it.
"Tomas," I barked, not bothering with pleasantries.
"Boss," he said, his voice low. "I've got something from our informant. He refused to talk to me last night, and said he wanted to speak with you directly. You'll want to hear it sooner than later."
"How urgent?"
"Now, boss."
That got my attention.
Swinging my legs off the bed, I groaned slightly as the room spun. "Come pick me up. Side entrance. Twenty minutes."
"Got it."
The line went dead, and I let the phone drop onto the mattress as I dragged myself to my feet.
I passed the mirror on my way to the bathroom and paused, just for a second.
I looked like shit.
Bruise on my jaw from the ring. Shadowed eyes. Lips still swollen from biting them in frustration.
But underneath all of it was the same thing that always burned there—control. And right now, I was dangerously close to losing mine.
I stepped into the shower, turned the water on scalding hot, and let it strip last night off me inch by inch.