Ryle Castellano. A name that haunted me since we were 15. Cold, calculating—untouchable. My dad worked for his father, Luka Castellano, back when they ruled like kings. Ryle treated my dad like a disposable pawn, and I hated him for it. But even then, there was something between us. A tension. Suffocating. Infuriating.

Years passed, and I buried those memories. At 23, I was at Yale, chasing dreams far from the Castellano shadow. But one phone call shattered my world.

“Your father’s been shot.”

The words left me breathless. My perfect dad, now fighting for his life because he’d taken a bullet for Ryle Castellano. In the hospital’s chaos, machines beeped, nurses rushed, and my dad lay pale and struggling. Then came the bill—$10,000. An impossible number mocking my helplessness.

Fueled by anger, I stormed to the Castellano mansion, the epitome of luxury, a cruel contrast to my father’s suffering. I didn’t knock. I wasn’t here to be polite.

Ryle lounged shirtless by the pool, his dark hair damp, skin glistening in the fading sun. His cold, piercing eyes widened slightly at the sight of me, tear-streaked and furious.

“Your money,” I spat. “It’s the least you can do after my dad took a bullet for you. Or do you treat loyalty as disposable too?”

Ryle sat up, his face unreadable, his gaze sharp. “He’s alive because of me,” he said evenly. “And he’ll stay that way. The bill’s already paid.”

I froze, stunned. But before I could respond, he leaned forward, his tone turning sharp. “Next time, don’t barge into my house crying. It’s dangerous.”

His words stung, but his eyes lingered, betraying a flicker of something unspoken. For a moment, I wondered if I’d misjudged him—or if Ryle Castellano was far more dangerous than I ever imagined.