Open The Goddamn Door.

                                        

                                              
CHAPTER: 21
*

Castle
After the call, I left La Iglesia with Tomas and said nothing throughout the entire drive.
Three hours was all I had. That's how long I had to get to the address the woman gave me. I only had three hours to prepare for whatever game this was.
Because I didn't trust it.
Which was why the moment we got to the club, I poured myself a glass of whiskey and told Tomas to gather every man we had on standby. 
I needed eyes, bullets, and backup. Because if this was a setup, someone was going to bleed for thinking they could get close to me.
The whiskey burned its way down my throat, but it did nothing to calm the unrest crawling beneath my skin. 
Something didn't sit right. My father hadn't spoken a full sentence in months. His brain had become useless long before the call came through.
So why now? Unfortunately, no one could give me an answer, except my father.
Three hours later, we pulled up to the address. It was an abandoned textile warehouse on the outskirts of the city. 
The windows were shattered and the roof partially collapsed, while paint peeled around the building like dried skin. It was the kind of place that people forgot, the perfect place to bury a secret. 
I stepped out of the car and adjusted my coat, then I flicked my fingers.
On my signal, my men fanned out, forming a silent perimeter around the building. They had their automatic rifles loaded. No one said a word—they all knew this was personal.
Tomas fell in step beside me as we entered the building. And the moment I saw my father, all the strength drained from my body and I almost collapsed.
Colt Luca Lucchese was tied to a rusted chair with thick industrial chains, his head was slumped forward and his body was motionless.
He was dead.
The breath caught in my throat and the world tilted sideways, but I held myself still, because now was not the time to grieve.
Pain ripped through me anyway and my knees buckled for half a second before I forced myself to straighten. 
My father's face was unrecognizable—bruised and swollen, with blood trailing from his ears. His once powerful hands were blistered and all ten fingers were twisted. 
"Search the fucking building!" I roared, voice cracking as it bounced off the hollow walls. "Every corner! Find the bastard that did this!"
My men scrambled, their boots echoing through the building but I didn't move.
I dropped to my knees beside my father's corpse, staring at what was left of a legacy.
Colt Luca Lucchese might've been half-alive for the better part of the year, but before that, he was a monster in a tailored suit. He was a king with bloodied hands. And beneath all that cruelty, he was my father.
"You didn't deserve this," I whispered, fists clenched. "Not like this."
He had enemies. God knew we both did. But this torture and humiliation wasn't just about power. It was a message.
Someone wanted me to feel this.
"Boss!"
I turned sharply as one of the men came running in. "We found a vehicle behind the building with three bodies inside."
I stood up fast, wiping the grief off my face as a cold expression settled in its place.
"Show me," I demanded. He nodded and walked out while I followed with Tomas behind me.
The car was still running when we found it, parked in a thicket behind the warehouse as dead branches hid it from view.
And inside it were three corpses.
The driver was slumped over the wheel with a bullet hole through the temple. There was a man in the passenger seat with blood leaking from his nose and his jaw was shattered.
And in the back seat there was a woman with her eyes open but lifeless. Her throat was slit open.
My eyes scanned the scene as my brain digested the information.
Without a doubt, I knew this was the transport that moved my father. 
I screamed in anger as I punched the hood of the car. The real killers were already long gone.
The question now is: Was the killer part of the transport team? Or had they come in a separate vehicle? Was it just one person or were they much? 
Was this what my father had wanted to tell me? Did he know they were coming? Had he asked for me because he knew he wouldn't survive the night?
There were so many questions and I didn't have an answer to any of them. I was burning with rage as I walked back into the building. 
"Get his body out of that chair," I ordered. "Bring him home. He deserves better than this."
My voice barely held together as I spoke.
My men nodded, moving with reverence as they worked to remove the chains binding him to the chair. 
As the body was loaded into a black van, I stayed behind, walking around the warehouse slowly. I was looking for a clue. Anything will do at this point—footprints, casings, a mark, a sign—but there was nothing.
Whoever did this... they were meticulous.
They didn't just kill my father. They made sure I found him, and they made sure to cover their tracks very well.
A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I would find them and they would pay.
When Tomas pulled out and set for home, I turned back from the passenger seat and watched the building where my father was murdered go up in flames. 
I whispered a promise to him that this won't be the only thing going up in flames.
***
Even after returning to the club, I couldn't sit still or think. The walls were too tight, the whiskey was too weak, and the music was too loud.
I needed something that would ground me. I needed him.
By the time the clock neared 2 a.m., I was half out of my mind, reeking of grief and whiskey. I stumbled into the driver's seat, ignoring Tomas' warning, and took off into the night.
I barely remembered the drive. All I know is that by the time I pulled up to Angel's apartment, the engine was overheating and my head was pounding from the alcohol, but I didn't care. I needed him.
I rang the doorbell twice but there was no answer.
My knuckles slammed into the door next.
"Open the fucking door," I muttered, jaw clenched. "Angel, please open the goddamn door."
The door finally cracked open, and there he was—hair mussed with his eyes bleary from sleep. He was wearing a thin white tee and joggers that clung to him like a sin.
Relief hit me like a freight train, and my body gave out.
Collapsing forward, I slumped into him, my breath catching somewhere between a sob and a sigh.
His arms caught me before I hit the floor, strong and warm and steady.
I pressed my forehead to the crook of his neck and whispered the only word that made sense in the chaos:
"Little Falco." 


**
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