LUCAS' POV
Miami's air choked me, thick with salt and diesel, as I leaned against a rusted shipping container on the docks. The Miami River lapped like a restless beast below. My name was Lucas Harper, but here, I'm known as Liam, right-hand man to Vincent "The Shark" Delgado, the mafia kingpin who ruled Miami's cocaine, casinos, and blood.
Two years ago, at twenty-six, I swore an oath to the Miami PD, badge gleaming, to uphold justice. Now, I stood neck-deep in the underworld, tasked with gathering dirt to lock Vincent away. 18 months undercover, and I still breathed, but everyday tested me. Vincent's hazel eyes cut too deep, and I wondered how long I could keep my cover—or my sanity.
Shadows darted under flickering sodium lights, crates stacked high, hiding secrets. A speedboat's hum sliced the silence. I adjusted the Glock in my waistband, its weight grounding me in the lie. Liam never flinched. Lucas might.
Vincent strode ahead, lean muscle and menace, black jacket snapping in the humid breeze. At thirty-two, he moved like a predator, scar slicing his jaw, hair swept back like he owned the night. He did. His pansexual edge, sharp as a blade, made men and women flinch. Me? I stayed in his shadow, trusted but never fully seen. I hoped.
"Stay sharp, Liam," Vincent said, voice low, cutting the dark. "Torres' boys are itching for a fight."
Sofia Torres, head of the rival Torres Clan, craved Vincent's empire. I fed the PD scraps about her deals, but tonight centered on Vincent's cash drop—a Cuban supplier, a duffel of bills, a handshake to keep the coke flowing. My job was to watch his back. My mission was to log every move, every name, for the feds.
I nodded, scanning the docks. "Got it, boss."
He glanced back, eyes locking on mine, and my pulse surged. Something in that look lingered—too long, too heavy, like he peeled me apart. I jerked my gaze away, heart pounding. 18 months, and I hadn't cracked his inner circle. Worse, his world pulled at me—the adrenaline, the power. Him.
A whistle pierced the air—Raul, Vincent's consigliere, signaling from a crate stack. The supplier's boat glided in, a sleek shadow against the water. Four men climbed out, led by a wiry Cuban in a linen shirt, gold chains glinting. Vincent stepped forward, swagger easy, hand hovering near his Beretta.
"Carlos," Vincent greeted, voice smooth as sin. "You're late."
Carlos grinned, teeth flashing. "Traffic, amigo. You got the cash?"
Raul tossed a duffel at Carlos' feet. The Cuban knelt, unzipped it, and thumbed through stacks of hundreds. My fingers twitched, itching to signal the PD, but I stayed wired to wait. No backup tonight. Just me, playing Liam, memorizing faces.
A glint flashed in the dark, metal catching light. My gut screamed. "Vincent, down!" I yelled, diving for him.
Gunfire exploded, bullets pinging off containers, sparks flying. I slammed Vincent behind a crate, his body hard against mine, breath scorching my neck. I yanked out my Glock, firing blindly at shadows. Carlos' men scattered, but more figures surged from the dark—Torres' crew, masked, AKs blazing.
"Fucking ambush!" Vincent snarled, his Beretta barking, dropping a shooter. His arm shielded me, pinning me to the crate, too close, too protective. "Stay with me, Liam."
I shoved off, adrenaline roaring. "I can handle myself!"
He grabbed my jacket, yanking me back as a bullet grazed the crate, splintering wood. "Don't play hero, idiot," he growled, eyes blazing. His grip clamped like iron, and for a second, I froze, chest tight, his scent—leather and smoke—flooding me.
I twisted free, firing at a masked figure sprinting for cover. The guy dropped, clutching his leg, blood pooling. Raul covered our flank, his Desert Eagle roaring, but we stayed pinned. Carlos' boat revved, fleeing, leaving us in chaos.
"Raul, cover left!" Vincent barked, then turned to me, voice low. "You hurt?"
I shook my head, pulse hammering. "Fine. You?"
His lips twitched, almost a smirk. "Peachy."
Gunfire raked the crates again, and Vincent's hand clamped my shoulder, shoving me toward a forklift. "Move, Liam. Now."
I sprinted, boots pounding, ducking as bullets whined past. Vincent stayed close, his shots precise, felling another of Torres' men. We slid behind the forklift, metal dented but solid. My chest Vincent's calm—too calm—unsettled me.
"Torres wants my head," he muttered, reloading with a flick of his wrist. "This is personal."
I stole a glance, his profile sharp, scar catching the light. "She's not wrong to try," I said, testing him.
His eyes snapped to mine, dark and dangerous. "Careful, Liam. Sounds like you're picking sides."
My throat tightened. Liam would laugh it off. Lucas couldn't. "Just saying she's got balls," I quipped, forcing a grin.
He leaned closer, breath brushing my ear, and my skin prickled. "You've got bigger ones, staying with me." His voice cut like a blade, and for a second, I swore he saw through me. Tension sparked, my body hyper-aware of his heat, his bulk.
Gunfire, jolted me back. Raul, pinned twenty yards off, shouted, "They're circling right!"
Vincent's jaw clenched. "We're not dying here." He grabbed my arm, dragging me toward a stack of barrels. "Stay low, Liam. I mean it."
I bristled—he protected me like I was fragile, not his second-in-command. "I'm not your fucking damsel," I snapped, breaking free.
His eyes flashed, fury mixed with hunger. "Prove it," he challenged, tossing me a spare clip.
I caught it, slammed into my Glock. We moved, back-to-back, firing to shadows. A Torres thug lunged from the dark, knife gleaming. I was pivoted, shot center-mass; he crumpled, blade clattering. Vincent's Beretta cracked, dropping another behind me, his shot so close I felt the air shift.
"Too slow," he taunted, but his hand grazed my back, steadying, possessive. My pulse spiked , not just from the fight. His touch burned, and I hated how it made me want to lean closer.
We pushed forward, barrels to crates, closing on Raul. The gunfire thinned—Torres' men retreated, or their ammo ran low. Raul joined us, blood streaking his arm, but he stood steady.
"Boat's gone," Raul panted. "Carlos fucked us."
Vincent's face hardened. "He'll pay. Torres too."
I wiped sweat from my brow, holstered my Glock. My mind raced, cataloging details for the PD: ten hostile, AK-47s, Cuban supplier's betrayal. But Vincent watched me, too close, his gaze stripping me bare.
"You did good, Liam," he said, voice softer, dangerous in a new way. He stepped in, crowding me, his chest brushing mine. "Most would've bolted."
I swallowed, mouth dry. "I'm not most."
His lips curved, slow, predatory. "No, you're not." His hand lifted thumb grazing my jaw, smearing blood I didn't know was there. The touch jolted me, wrong, and my breath caught. I was a cop. He was the enemy. But my body didn't care, not with him so close, not with his eyes promising dark things.
He chuckled, low and dark. "Let 'em come. I own half of 'em."
I stepped back, broke the spell. "We need to move," I said, voice rough. "Cops'll be here soon."
He chuckled, low and dark. "Let 'em come. I own half of 'em."
My stomach twisted. He wasn't wrong, and that was why I stood there—to root out the rot, starting with him. But as we slipped into the shadows, Vincent's arm brushed mine, deliberate, and I felt his obsession, his need to keep me close. It wasn't just protection. It was possession, and it messed with my head.
18 months by his side, and I walked a tightrope. I saw him kill, saw him spare, saw how he commanded fear and loyalty. I hated him for what he was, for what he stirred in me. Hated how my skin hummed when he drew near, how my dreams twisted with his face, his hands. Enemies, sure, but the line blurred, and I wasn't sure how much longer I could lie—to him, or myself.
We melted into the night, the docks fading behind us, but Vincent's presence clung, heavy as the gun at my lip. He was the devil I hunted, the man I betrayed. And if he ever learned who was, I'd be dead. Worse, I started to wonder if I'd care.