LUCAS' POV
Pain seared my skull as I jolted awake, a coarse sack smothering my face, reeking of mildew and sweat. My wrists throbbed, bound tight with rope behind a creaking chair, the knots biting into raw skin. My boots scraped cold concrete, body sluggish, head spinning like I'd been drugged. Voices buzzed around me, sharp and low, slicing through the fog. Mafia talk—killings, deals, blood.
"…the hit went smooth," a gruff man said, voice clipped. "Torres' dealer took a bullet to the brain. Body's in the bay."
"Clean work," another replied, older, colder. "Sofia's casino's next. Boss wants it burned to the ground."
My heart slammed against my ribs, breath catching in the sack. Sofia Torres. Vincent's rival. These were his men, his world. I'd been dragged back into it, kidnapped from my own home driveway, that voice hissing The Shark sends his regards before the trunk swallowed me. Vincent Delgado, out of prison, had found me. One year of hiding—new home, new phone, detective badge—couldn't save me. I was fucked.
I strained to hear, my breaths rasping, trapped in the suffocating fabric. A voice cut through, gravelly, familiar—Raul, Vincent's consigliere. "Boss says lock the docks," he growled. "One fuck-up, and you're fish food."
Raul. My stomach twisted, nausea rising. If he was here, Vincent was close. For eighteen months, I'd played "Liam," Vincent's right-hand man, feeding intel to the Miami PD, fucking him raw at The Coral Sting, then watching him cuffed. I'd thought he'd rot in prison, witnesses vanishing, his empire crumbling. I'd buried myself in work, dodged Clara's forced engagement, lived free of taunts for being bi. But Vincent was out, and I knew what he did to traitors—fingers sliced, screams choked in blood. I wasn't a woman or child, the only ones he spared. I'd lied, betrayed, fucked him, then sold him out. My body shook, sweat soaking my shirt, panic clawing my throat.
I tried to still my trembling, to play dead, but my breaths betrayed me, loud and ragged. Stay cool, I thought. Don't piss him off. But fear gripped me, raw and relentless, my bladder tightening, a humiliating urge building. I clenched, shivering, but terror won, a warm trickle seeping into my jeans, shame burning my face. I bit my lip, holding back a sob, praying they didn't notice.
The voices stopped. Silence smothered the room, heavy, unnatural. Footsteps echoed, slow, deliberate, boots clicking on concrete. My skin prickled, every nerve screaming. Vincent. I felt him, his aura a dark storm, choking me even though the sack. My bladder gave, piss pooling under the chair, the stench rising. I whispered, tears stinging, body convulsing in shivers.
"Take it off," Vincent commanded, voice low, lethal, a blade in the dark.
Hands ripped the sack away, fabric tearing. Light blinded me, a bare bulb glaring overhead, searing my eyes. I squeezed them shut, gasping, tears spilling down my cheeks. My hands, bound behind me, couldn't shield my face. I blinked, vision blurring, the chamber swimming into focus—crates stacked high, shadows lurking, four men staring. Raul, stone-faced, arms crossed, gun at his hip. Three others, faces hard, weapons glinting. Then, Vincent.
He stood before me, a predator in black—long-sleeve shirt, three buttons undone, revealing a chiseled chest, tucked into tailored pants. His scar sliced his jaw, hair swept back, hazel eyes piercing like bullets. He wasn't ragged, not a man broken by prison. He was power, raw and terrifying, carved from sin. My breath caught, fear tangling with a traitor's pulse of desire. He was gorgeous—biceps straining, chest sculpted, every inch ravishing. I hated myself for noticing, for remembering his body pinning mine, his groans filling me. My tears flowed, snot dripping, shame choking me.
Vincent stepped closer, boots echoing, and I flinched, chair scraping. He towered, gaze raking me, cold and unyielding, stripping me bare. My shivers deepened, bones rattling, piss stench sharp. "Well, Lucas," he said, voice a guillotine, each word dripping venom. "Or should I call you Liam? Cop's got a lot of names for a dead man."
I swallowed, throat dry as sand. "Vincent," I croaked, voice cracking, tears blurring him. "I—"
He lunged, grabbing my jaw, fingers bruising. I yelped, head snapping back, sobs breaking free. "Don't," he snarled, inches away, breath hot with cigar and rage. "You don't get to speak my name, traitor."
My heart pounded, vision swimming. "Please," I whispered, voice shattering, tears soaking my chin. "I didn't—"
His grip tightened, pain exploding in my skull. "Didn't what?" he mocked, eyes blazing, spit flecking my face. "Didn't lie for eighteen months? Didn't fuck me, then call your pigs?" He shoved my jaw aside, and I slumped, sobbing, piss pooling, jeans clinging wet.
Raul smirked, leaning against a crate, but Vincent's glare silenced him. The room spun, my chest heaving, fear choking me. I'd seen Vincent kill—a dealer, gutted slowly, begging, blood slick on concrete. My fate would be worse. "I'm sorry," I gasped, tears streaming, voice raw. "I didn't sell you out that night. I swear, I didn't call the raid."
Vincent crouched, eye-level, his stare a death sentence. "Liar," he hissed, pulling a knife from his belt, blade flashing. I screamed, thrashing, ropes cutting wrists, blood trickling. He pressed the flat edge to my cheek, cold metal kissing skin, and I froze, whimpering, tears flooding. "You think I'm stupid, Lucas? You think I don't know a cop's stench?"
"No!" I sobbed, shaking, snot mixing with tears. "I sent intel, yeah, but not that night. Someone else did, I swear! Please, don't kill me!" My body convulsed, chair rocking, piss stench choking me. I was pathetic, broken, begging to live.
He tilted his head, knife tracing my jaw, teasing, not cutting. "Begging already?" he said, voice low, cruel, lips curling. "Thought you had balls, detective."
"I'll do anything," I blurted, desperation clawing, voice a wail. "Anything to make it right. I'll help find who sold you out, I'll work for you, anything! Don't—" I choked, sobbing. "Don't cut me, please."
Vincent's lips twitched, not a smile, something darker, predatory. He stood, knife twirling, pacing, boots clicking like a countdown. "Anything," he repeated, voice mocking, slicing me open. "Hear that, Raul? Cop's selling his soul."
Raul snorted, but Vincent's glance shut him up. I panted, chest tight, hope flickering, fragile. Maybe he'd listen. Maybe I'd live. Vincent stopped, towering, knife sheathed, but his presence deadlier. "You think I want your blood, Lucas?" he said, voice cold as steel. "Your spit, your sweat? Killing you's a waste of my precious time."
I blinked, tears slowing, confusion cutting fear. "Then… what?" I whispered, trembling, voice small.
He leaned down, hands gripping the chair's arms, caging me, his face inches away. His scent—leather, smoke, sin—flooded me, my body stirring, shameful, wrong. "I got better plans," he growled, eyes burning, voice a blade. "You got 365 days, Lucas. One year to fall in love with me."
My jaw dropped, breath stalling. The room froze—Raul's eyes widened, men shifted, murmurs rippling. Love? With him? The man I'd betrayed, the criminal I'd hunted? My mind reeled, shook drowning fear, heart racing. "What?" I rasped, barely audible, staring at his scar, his lips.
Vincent straightened, smirking, cold, ruthless. "You heard me," he said, turning, boots echoing. "Clock's ticking, cop."
I sat, bound, soaked in piss and tears, ropes cutting, staring at his back. Confusion crashed over me, fear twisting into something unnameable. Love him? In a year? A trap, a game? Raul watched, silent, men's eyes boring into me. I was Vincent's now, and I didn't know why—or what he'd do if I failed.