VINCENT'S POV
I stormed out of the chamber, Lucas' eyes wide with shock, his body slumped in that piss-soaked chair, ropes cutting his wrists. My boots pounded the concrete, each step a hammer, rage and hunger twisting in my gut. I'd just thrown him a chain—365 days to fall in love with me—and even I knew it sounded fucking deranged. But I didn't give a shit. Lucas Harper wasn't slipping away again, not after I'd hunted him for years, not after I'd tasted him, owned him, lost him. He was mine, and I'd break him before I let him go.
Raul trailed me, his boots scuffing, his silence loud with questions he didn't dare ask. The night air sliced my face as we climbed the spiral staircase to my study in the mansion, Miami's neon veins pulsing below. I shoved the oak door open, the hinges groaning, and crossed to my desk, fingers snatching a Cuban cigar from a silver case. I lit, the match's flame dancing on my scar, smoke curling bitter on my tongue.
I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, staring at the city I clawed back from Sofia Torres—docks, clubs, half the PD in my pocket. One year in prison hadn't dulled my edge. I was Vincent "The Shark" Delgado, and this was my fucking kingdom.
"How's my welcome-back package for Sofia?" I asked, voice low, not turning. The cigar glowed, ash dusting my sleeve, my reflection a ghost in the glass.
Raul stepped closer, his salt-and-pepper beard catching the dim light, his eyes wary but steady. "Delivered, Don," he said, voice clipped. "Her dealer's dead, we pulled a bullet through his skull, his body was dumped in Biscayne Bay. Her casino's next, wired for fire. She'll feel it."
I smirked, smoke stinging my lips, the city's glow sharpening my hunger. Clean, brutal work. Sofia's man hadn't blinked before my crew ended him, a message carved in blood: I was back, and her empire would burn. That hit was my signature, a warning to every rival in Miami. I didn't negotiate, I didn't bend—I broke. Sofia thought she'd gutted my syndicate while I was rotted in a cell, but she'd choke on her mistake. Her docks, her deals, her life—all mine to crush.
"Good," I said, puffing the cigar, letting silence choke the room.
Raul shifted, his boots creaking, his loyalty a steel wire stretched tight by curiosity. I felt his question burning, his hesitation thick as the smoke curling around me.
He coughed, bowing his head, voice low, coded. "Permission to speak freely, Don?"
I turned, slow, pinning him with a stare that had snapped spines. My scar twitched, eyes narrowing, the cigar smoldering between my knuckles. "Careful, Raul," I warned, voice a blade, cold and jagged. "You know my rules."
He swallowed, jaw clenching, sweat beading on his brow, but he held my gaze—brave, stupid, or both. "Forgive my disrespect, boss," he said, voice steady but tight, "but why's the cop breathing? Lucas fucked your over, sent you to jail, lied for eighteen months. Now you're giving him a year to… love you? That ain't your code. Traitors bleed."
My grip crushed the cigar, embers sparking, rage surging like a tide. I stepped into his space, boots clicking, looming, my shadow swallowing him. "Are you telling me how to run my empire?" I growled, voice low, lethal, each word felt like a bullet. "You think I'm weak?"
Raul's eyes widened, his breath hitching, hands twitching at his sides. "No, Don," he stammered, head dipping. "I'd never—"
"Then shut your fucking mouth," I roared, slamming the cigar into a crystal ashtray, glass cracking, ash scattering like bones. "I got plans you don't touch. Question me again, and I'll carve your eyes out, brother or not."
He flinched, sweat rolling down his temple, body rigid. "Understood," he whispered, voice cracking. "My apologies, Don."
I glared, letting fear sink into him, my pulse cold, steady. Men trembled at my name because I delivered—traitors gutted, rivals buried, no mercy. In prison, I'd bribed feds, vanished witnesses, orchestrated hits from a cell. My syndicate ran on fear, my orders law. Cops took my cash, judges knelt, enemies bled. Raul knew it, felt it, his shiver proof of why I was the Shark—untouchable, unrelenting.
"Get out," I snapped, voice flat, turning to the window, city lights glinting like knives.
Raul hesitated, boots shuffling, then retreated, the door clicking shut. I exhaled, tension coiling, and sank into my leather chair, the study's silence heavy, dark. My fingers drummed the desk, restless, until I yanked open a drawer, pulling out the manila folder Marquez slipped me in prison. Lucas' file. I flipped it open, his photo hitting me like a punch—seventeen, gray eyes fierce, face soft but scarred, a kid who'd seen too much. My chest tightened, a memory clawing free, raw and jagged.
Seventeen years ago, I'd been trapped in a burning car, blood oozing from a gash on my forehead, flames licking the dashboard. My uncle's betrayal—a rival's hit—left me for dead, metal crushing my leg, smoke choking my lungs. I'd been sixteen, life slipping, fire roaring. Then, a kid—skinny, bruised, fearless—smashed the window with a brick, glass shattering, his hands burned as he dragged me out.
His breath rasped, eyes wild, blood smearing his arms. He'd risked his life, no reason, no gain, pulling me to safety before sirens wailed. He vanished, a shadow in the night, and I'd hunted him ever since—through foster homes, street fights, dead ends. My savior, my obsession.
Lucas Harper. The kid in the photo, the man I'd had the best sex with, the cop who'd lied to me and even betrayed me. I traced his face, thumb grazing his cheek's scar, my pulse hammering. For eighteen months, he'd been "Liam," my shadow, his laugh, his touch pulling me in, a connection I couldn't name. I'd fallen for him, hard, without knowing why.
That night at the club—his moans, his body clenching, my name on his lips—burned in my skull, a brand I couldn't shake. His grunts, his sweat, the way he'd begged, surrendered, it wasn't just sex. It was peace, a moment the world didn't claw me apart. I couldn't kill him, not when he was mine, not when I'd found him.
I leaned back, relighting the cigar, smoke curling like my plans. Lucas' shock downstairs, his body crumping, told me my deal didn't land soft. He didn't want it, didn't believe it. Good. I didn't need his consent, just his cage. 365 days wasn't mercy; it was control, a chain to keep him close. I'd lost him once, I wouldn't lose him again, not to the PD, not to Sofia, not to his own fucking fear. He'd love me, or he'd break, and I'd savor every second.
The city sprawled below, a chessboard I'd mastered. Sofia thought she'd checkmated me, her mole in the PD feeding her scraps, her cartel deals swelling her ego. But I'd flip the board, burn her pieces. Lucas thought he could hide, changing his address, his cell number, but I'd hunted him down, my bloodhound's nose sharper than his lies. I puffed the cigar, ash falling, my smirk cold, cruel.
My gaze flicked to the folder, Lucas' photo staring up, those eyes pulling me back to that night—fire, blood, his hands saving me. I'd loved him then, a kid too dumb to know what love was, and I loved him now, a man too broken to admit it. That's why he lived, why I'd chained him instead of gutting him. Not weakness, but hunger. I'd waited years to find him, and now he was mine—traitor, cop, savior, all of it.
I crushed the cigar, embers dying, and stood, boots heavy on the floor. Sofia's war waited, her blood my welcome-back gift to myself. Lucas waited, his fear my fuel. Miami was my board, and I'd play every piece—Sofia's head, Lucas' heart, all of it. The Shark didn't lose, and I'd prove it, one body at a time.