I want her back. No, I need her in my life more than I could ever fathom and it was foolish of me to think otherwise. She's one thing I'm starting to believe that I can't fully live without—survive even. I've tried to bend my will, break my own heart in the process, burn my most wanton desires too, just to keep her away from my existence and the danger surrounding it, but I don't think she's someone I can simply cage and control as I please.

Not Arabella Lincoln, and I should've known best.

Roberto was right; she's a remarkable woman. Although foul-mouthed, repugnant and obstinate at times, she is still the kindest, brave, and loving sort of a woman only a fool would let her slip away. I have been that fool, and as much as I detest letting my emotions reign supreme over my mind, I think I'd rather live each and every remaining day of my life loving and protecting her as close as I desire instead of losing her in any possible way.

Maybe loving her and being with her isn’t too much of a mistake, is it?

“Fuck,” I mutter out loud, and four pairs of nosy eyes slant my way like vultures. “What?” I pull the tray of warm Italian bread from the tiny basket on the table, trying to ignore my father and brothers who are seated at either side of the table having the so-called, long forgotten, family breakfast.

“That should be my question, boy,” says our father, his sharp, eagle-like gaze pierced deep into my soul like a damn mind-reader. “Did you sleep at all last night? I could swear on my old lady that I heard you wandering through the halls like you needed melatonin more than I did.”

“I'm fine,” I reply stoutly. I'm in no mood to be questioned again by him after the long, unusual chat he and I had about my personal affairs. “Made up your mind about the surgery? Dallas insists that we're running out time and hence the shrinking chances for you. Besides, I have only two days before I fly back to New York so please tell us now.” Eyes on him, I take a big bite of the bread while hoping to have injected sense into his stubborn head.

Nicolai, Z, and Lance give him the same sheer attention because even after the long debate we all had regarding this situation, the old man hasn't clearly stated his stand on it. Truthfully, we all want him to go through with it but, as it's what will most likely keep him alive for much longer, but in the end it's a choice only he can make for himself.

As usual, Roberto clears his throat, embraces his imperial gestures of firm, unbent resolution in his grey eyes that used to scare the shit out of us many years back. As though he's not the one who's having a weak heart that's threatening to give him up, he leans back in his chair that's facing mine from end to end, while resting his left hand on the table—he's still wearing the pentagon ring of honor.

“I may do it, but under a few conditions specifically for Adrian,” he states.

I feel my eyebrows hardening in my eyes before asking, “What conditions?”

“Very well. First, you officially take over the Castle management,” he says, and as I'm about to argue, he swiftly adds, “and before you say no, I need you to understand that it's very important for everyone to know you are in charge of the Castle Group upon my absence… even if you won't have to be there physically for that matter. Your name alone is an immunity and sometimes fealty and loyalty goes hand to hand. It shall not be that difficult given the way you run your M&A business without a trace and still manage to leave an invincible mark.”

It feels stuffy in my chest but I just breathe it out through my nose while staring at him, wordless. I never, ever, wanted to be part of my family business again because in one way or another it's still tied to the Pentagon and the people I'm still hunting down.

“And secondly,” Roberto goes on, interrupting my thoughts. “I want you to marry her.”

“Excuse me?”I snap, and at the same time I hear, “Say what?” coming from Lance, or Z, I don't know.

“Marry her. Arabella. You need to have a family now, don't you? Every other normal father I know has grandkids now except me,” Roberto repeats, clearly this time.

Silence swells in the room for the briefest moment before a collective fit of laughter erupts like a burst of balloon in the air.

But I don't laugh along with my brothers even as I ask, “Are you on drugs, old man? Who said I need a family? And why would I marry her, or anyone else really, just so you could do something to save your own life, huh? And for Christ sake, father, you are not even normal. None of us is normal.”

“Well…” Casually, while everyone is still having fun at my expense, Roberto leans forward toward the table to grab his tea cup as gracefully as an emperor on the throne. Before sipping, he says, “I always wanted to do that at least once in my life.”

“Do what exactly?” I frown. “Blackmail your children so you get to have your way?”

“Yeah?” he answers coolly. “All great kings in History did force their children into profitable alliances, right?”

“Well, she's not some princess from the neighbouring kingdom, father! And I'm not some silly prince in your imaginary kingdom so stop this madness and give us your decision already!” I take a long sip of my coffee to flush out my father's terrible jokes.

When did he turn into this jolly, wishy-washy old man attracted to mundane things?

Seemingly regaled enough, Roberto laughs and mutters, “Well, it was worth a try. And if I go through the surgery, the chances are... I may live or die at the fuckinh table, so why should I risk it, huh?” He's asking us, staring at each one of us in turn, and I think he makes a fair point and the immediate silence after a pearl of laughter affirms my thoughts.

Everyone can feel his fear and it's funny because he's played with death several times and in much more violent circumstances any mafia leader may encounter but none projected him as afraid as he seems now.

“Because there's still a chance to survive longer,” Nicolai replies sternly, his voice stark with gravity. All the jokes aside. “Even if it's one percent chance against nothing, we take it. That's what you taught us. The Castles must survive even when the odds are playing against them.” His engrossed black eyes never flinch and that's what makes him formidable.

“Plus, we don't want to be orphans again, with all due respect, sir,” Lance chimes in, wearing a denim vest, his blond hair recently trimmed to perfection despite his exhausted eyes that scream drinking and sex hangover. A typical party animal. “Not without giving it our all to make sure you live, right? I mean, who will bark orders in this big kingdom if the king is gone? Think about it.” His blue eyes reflect deep concerns, regardless.

Roberto chuckles lightly, shaking his head to the sides in a similar design. And then, slowly, his gaze shifts and turns toward his right side where Z, the one brother who seldom talks in our father's presence, looks up at him.

“What about you, Zachariah?” he asks, always using his full name. “Do you also think I should go through with the surgery?”

“We all think you should,” Z replies instantly. His long fingers are curled around the coffee mug, with some band aids on two or three of them, probably from tangling with his guitar strings if he's still into that shit. “Not that my opinion matters or anything, does it?” he adds cynically.

And there must be an unresolved problem between him and Roberto now—again.

“It certainly does, Zachariah,” Roberto returns. “Don't you ever think otherwise simply because I'm not in favour of you wasting your life playing music in some bars, entertaining the drunkards, while you can do so much more with all the opportunities you have at your disposal! You're a—”

“A Castle! I know the drill, father. I get it!” Z lashes, his high cheekbones tight and tense despite the long raven hair framing his face. “I'm supposed to be what? Some big shot boss pissing and scaring everyone off whenever I set foot in some ground like Falcon and Adrian here? Or like Nicolai and Lance, running the important divisions while walking with their daggers and the fucking 9MM ready to give hell to whoever crosses them?” His voice floods the dining room and he's already up his feet with both hands slammed on the table.

“Sit. Down.” Roberto's words seep through gritted teeth.

“No, I’m out of here!” Z rebukes. “I'm gonna be whatever the fuck I want to be and I don't care if I don't live up to your name, SIR!”

“I said,” Roberto repeats, his voice harder, “SEDERE!”

Without repulsion, Z sits down and my squinted, observant eyes slowly return to their usual form after hearing and listening to my family drama. I’ll need to talk to him privately before I get back to New York. Unfortunately, Z is the most sensitive and human among us.

“Good morning, the Castles! Am I late for breakfast?” Saved by the bell, Camilla walks in surrounded by the strong scent of her prominent perfume. “I couldn’t wait in the hotel a minute longer so here I am, how are you, Roberto?” She leans in to kiss my father on the cheek and it lights him up like magic.

“Good, my dear. Even better now I have the company of a pretty lady at the table of savages.” Roberto smiles amicably, throwing his Italian gentleman manners at her as he usually does to all the ladies. “Come, join us, please.” He grabs the arm of a chair next to his and pulls it out for her.

“With pleasure, thank you!” Camilla replies, but I find her too chirpy to be fine and I'm suddenly concerned about this uncommon hype of hers.

We proceed with breakfast, letting Camilla restore the peace with her rather beautiful voice everyone prefers to hear right now given the situation.

In a short while, Roberto enunciates, “I will have the surgery and all the essential preparations are being made as we are speaking. I already informed Dallas this morning when I woke up but I needed a little flair of dramatics. You are all welcome!”

I scoff.

Frankly, we're all surprised.

—-

Later in the day, we fly back to Milan for the board meeting that actually brought me here in the first place. The sun is scorching outside as Camilla and I make our way into the Castle HQ building, my eyes glued on the phone while typing away Mario's contact ID to give him the set of very important instructions for today.

“I talked to Arabella. Was it really necessary? You know how she is; she won't let this go without giving you hell.” Camilla breaks the long, unbearable silence as we stand before the elevator door, waiting.

“I despise loose ends,” I reply simply, placing my phone against my earlobe. “But I only hope I'm wrong. I can deal with Arabella’s rage later.”

We leave it at that when Mario's voice comes through. Even while speaking with my hand dug into the pocket of my navy blue armani suit pants as though I have it all under control, there's too much in my head. And as outlandish as it is to me, there's also a desperate amount of hidden worries buried deep within my cores making this day a little harder than it should be.

I need to be back in New York. To her.

“There she is! My little wild goose!” Falcon's incredibly perplexing voice ragards us from behind the second the elevator doors break apart and an old couple steps out.

Camilla's face blanches as she turns around. A very anticipated reaction, frankly speaking, but I remotely want to believe that she can still manage these few moments of interaction with my brother without untying the old strings whether voluntarily or not.

“After you, sweetheart.” Falcon, while grinning at her, flings a hand toward the elevator, beckoning her to step in following my lead.

After a lungful of air, Camilla's red high heels clatter against the floor until she's standing beside me looking pristine in her white office dress and those tall shoes. It still puzzles me as to how possible do women handle the walk in twelve-inches heels and never fall.

I end the call with Mario to fully focus on this short elevator ride that won't be so short after all, as long as my brother is here. Falcon's grin widens as he walks nonchalantly into the cabin, followed by his two bodyguards all dressed in black suits. I don't move an inch from the middle of the cabin, trying to keep him into a safe distance with my associate.

“Hello, brother. Thank you for the christmas gift, I suppose,” Falcon states with acid in his voice, standing behind us but somewhere in the middle of us while fastening the single button of his suit jacket. “Seems like Santa came early to Napple, huh? And I've been a baaaad boy, haven’t I?” He makes sure to whisper this close to my ear.

I don't flinch. I simply say, “You're welcome, I suppose.”

He breaks into a diabolic, anger-infested laugh. “You still think you can run the show here, don’t you? You believe you're gonna win today and take everything?”

“No, I don't,” I reply. Giving him a bit of a glance as he nods in agreement with my answer, I flatly add, “Because there's nothing to win, only to take.”

Another boisterous laughter fills the elevator and the only other thing I hear is Camilla's hushed breaths, especially when Falcon's hand reaches for the strings of her straightened hair cascading softly in her back.

“We'll see if you'll still think the same in about ten minutes to come,” he tells me, but his eyes and attention stays with Camilla whose jaw keeps flexing uncomfortably. “And you, wild goose, better choose a better side quickly”—he's leaning into her, taking her hair toward his nose savagely yet longingly—“because as much as you think I hate you, you’d be surprised to know that I still have a very soft spot for you, mi amor. But we’re at war, and only one winner shall be, so choose wisely, huh?” 

I'm tempted to knock him off but I still want to believe Camilla Alves can handle herself. It's important that she learns her strength and limits when it comes to fighting the ghost called her past that won’t quit haunting her.

Poised, she swings her head and breaks Falcon's hand full of her hair which leaves him insatiable with closed eyes as though he was just getting started with the pleasure. As he opens them, his dark grin returns.

“I already have a side and you are miserable, Falcon,” she says to him with a gentle smile. “Fighting wars you can’t win is as miserable as clinging to the past. Wanna know something?”

“Enticing. Do tell,” he replies joyfully.

“Priorities change, and people change too. Try it sometimes; it's good for your mental health.”

“Oh, there she is!” Falcon retorts, lending her a stern, pitiful look. “Camilla Alves. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? And she actually thinks changing her name could make the sweet island girl from San Pedro change too.” He sneers and looks at me, asking, “You also think she has changed, brother?” he asks, provoking me and her on purpose.

“Just. Fuck. Off!” Camilla barks and in a split second Falcon grabs her by the throat, her back pressed hard against his chest, breathing into her hair passionately and possessively. “Let me go, you bastard! Leave me alone, Falcon!” 

A surge of anger rises in me but I still keep my composure. Not yet, Adrian. I don't interfere, not until she gives me a pure distress sign to save her from him, which I do not see or hear right now even if she's struggling to get him off of her while yelling and shouting profanities with the two bodyguards already pointing their pistols at me expectantly.

“You think you have changed, wild goose,” Falcon whispers in her ear, his eyes staring deeply into mine as he does it. I still wait for Camilla's sign, an SOS, but as an experienced dom, I don't see it yet. “Not a chance. You haven’t changed shit, wanna know why?” He leans into her ear and whispers something that I cannot hear but feel it in Camilla's eyes and the gradual decrease of her protest against him. And he finishes with, “La Isla Bonita.”

I squint my eyes, observing them—both of them. Eventually Camilla’s screams die, and Falcon frees her with a satisfied grin on his face after laying a kiss on top of her head. Elevator pings into a halt; he smiles at me and beckons his bodyguards to follow him while Camilla stays there motionless with glistening, intoxicated eyes and trembling lips like a fallen leaf on the wet ground, almost helpless.

My heart breaks for her because I sincerely believe I know what has just happened. Falcon has managed to put her into a “subspace” with nothing but mere spoken words whispered like venom in someone's ear, and when they go straight into their head, it makes them surrender to their drug-like effect and that’s not even close to what the actions can actually do especially in the playroom.

A bond between a true dom and his sub, or master and a slave, is too deep and dark and almost unbreakable in a normal sense of existence. That's the hidden truth about the BDSM world no one speaks of, or seldom does, which is why I never committed myself to any woman as my submissive or lover—not until I met Arabella who broke my walls.

______

A/N: Happy New Year 2025!