LUCAS' POV
My wrists burned, ropes biting into raw skin, the chair creaking beneath me in the dim warehouse chamber. Sweat stung my eyes, my jeans still damp with shame from pissing myself, the stench clinging. Vincent's words—365 days to fall in love with him—echoed like a gunshot, splintering my mind. I shook, chest heaving, fear and confusion choking me. Dead. I should've been dead. Vincent "The Shark" Delgado didn't fucking spare traitors no matter who they are to him, not even a man like me who'd consistently lied to his face for eighteen solid months, not a man like me who'd fucked him raw and then watched him get cuffed. Yet here I was, alive, his prisoner, with his ridiculous demands of love. It felt like I was at the mercy of his twisted game that had just begun.
The bulb overhead flickered, casting shadows on crates stacked like tombs. My heart raced, thoughts spiraling. One year. A whole fucking year locked away, my life on pause—the detective badge that I'd worked so hard to earn would be useless, my foster family's taunts would be silenced, Clara's forced engagement would be irrelevant—at least that would be the only blessing this will kidnap would bring me.
No one would find me. Vincent's reach crushed witnesses, bribed cops, and owned Miami. If he said 365 days, then he meant it, and begging him wouldn't change shit. I'd learned that during my undercover days that pleading with Vincent only sharpens his rage, and his only answer to you would be his fist or knives. I'd seen his enemies beg, their fingers sliced, their tongues cut off, their screams wet with blood.
No more begging. All I need is a way out, now.
I knew this mansion—Vincent's fortress, all steel gates and guarded halls. I'd been here before, several times over the eighteen months I worked with him, I knew the exits, I'd memorized the guard shifts because I was in charge back then, while I played his loving and trusting right-hand man but now I'm back here as a prisoner.
This was my moment to escape, because I had to. I mean there's no miracle to save me from this hell long 365 days—this is no Miracle in Cell No. 7 bullshit. It's just me, my wits, and a chance to run before Vincent's game sank its teeth deeper. The terms still made me scuff; a love story between a detective and a mafia don? That was a sick joke. I hunted criminals; he was the fucking king of them all, Miami's top don, his syndicate's a machine of coke, guns, prostitutions, bodies and money laundering. Our worlds didn't mix—they bled.
The door creaked, and I froze, pulse hammering. A thug lumbered in, face scarred, eyes dull, shoving a tray of food—Cuban sandwich with plantain chips, with a grilled fish, congri and churrasco with chimichurri on the side—onto a crate.
"Don says you should eat up," he grunted, voice thick, turning to leave.
I glanced at my bound hands, ropes cutting, then at the tray. "How am I supposed to eat?" I said, voice hoarse, forcing calm. "My hands are tied, man."
He paused, scowling, hand on his gun. "Don didn't ask me to let you free," he snapped, stepping closer, his breath sour with whiskey.
"I'm starving," I lied, leaning forward, eyes wide, desperate. "I haven't eaten all day. You have to untie me or you hand feed me. Come on, man."
He hesitated, glancing at the door, then he muttered, "Fucking cop." But he knelt, pulling a knife, the blade glinting as he sawed the ropes. My wrists stung, blood trickling, but my hands were free. He stood, pointing at the tray. "Eat fast."
I nodded, rubbing my wrists, heart pounding. He trudged to the door, leaning against the frame, his back to me, gun loose at his hip. My chance. I scanned the tray—fork, spoon, no knife, but the fork's tines were sharp enough. I grabbed it, fingers trembling, and tiptoed across the concrete, breath shallow. He didn't turn. I lunged, slamming the fork into his neck, blood spraying, hot and slick. He gurgled, clawing at his throat, eyes wide, then crumpled, dead before he hit the floor.
My stomach churned, but I didn't stop. I was a cop, not a killer, and my survival didn't care for anyone's life. I snatched his gun, heavy in my hand, and crept to the door, peering out. The hall was dark, empty, the mansion's hum distant—guards patrolling, voices faint. I knew the layout: left to the service stairs, down to the kitchen, out through the loading dock. Barefoot, I moved, gun raised, sweat dripping, every creak spiking my fear. The stairs loomed, narrow and unlit. I descended, steps cold, heart a drumbeat, expecting a bullet any second.
The kitchen was silent, pots gleaming under a single bulb. I slipped through, the loading dock door ajar, night air seeping in. Freedom. I pushed it open, stepping into the mansion's sprawling yard, grass wet under my feet. The gate—steel, electrified—glinted far across the expanse, floodlights sweeping. Too far, too open, but I ran, legs burning, breath ragged, gun slick in my grip. Barefoot, shirt torn, I sprinted, the gate growing closer, my only shot.
Shouts erupted, sharp and angry. "Hey, catch him, he's running away!" a thug roared, floodlights snapping to me, blinding. Boots pounded, men swarming the mansion, guns drawn. I pumped my legs, sweat blinding me, the gate still distant, a taunting mirage. Bullets pinged, dirt exploding near my feet, and I dove behind a fountain, stone chipping, heart sizing.
"Hold him!" another yelled, voices closing in.
I fired blindly, gun bucking, a thug grunting as he fell. My clip was short—five rounds left, maybe. I scrambled up, running, zigzagging, the gate looming but unreachable. The yard stretched, a killing field, Vincent's fortress mocking me. My legs were now becoming jelly and numb as I continued running, but before I could throw another step, my left leg hit a rock my eyes had skipped and I fell to the ground groaning in pain. Before I could stand a goon tackled me, air rushing out, my gun skidding across grass. I thrashed, elbowing his jaw, but another piled on, fists slamming my ribs, pain exploding.
"Fucking bastard!" one snarled, his boot cracking my cheek, blood flooding my mouth.
More fists rained, my nose crunching, lips splitting, vision blurring. I curled, gasping, weak, famished, every hit felt like a sledgehammer. My body screamed, hunger gnawing, blood streaming from my nose, soaking my shirt. I was done, broken, the gate a cruel dream. They dragged me up, knees buckling, their grips bruising, laughter bitter in my ears.
A voice sliced through, low, lethal, freezing the air. "How dare you hit him?"
The thugs stilled, hands loosening, fear rippling. Vincent. I sagged, blood dripping, eyes swelling, but forced my gaze up. Men parted, boots scuffling, and he stepped into the floodlight's glare—black suit, scar stark, eyes blazing with authority. His mafia demeanor was iron, a don's wrath, but beneath it, something flickered—care, sympathy, raw and unguarded. My breath hitched, pain throbbing, confusion drowning me. Why the hell did he even care?
I swayed, legs failing, blood pooling in my mouth. Vincent's face blurred, his eyes locking on mine, fierce, protective. My body gave out, exhaustion and pain winning, and I collapsed, grass cold against my cheek, darkness swallowing me whole.