VINCENT'S POV
Rage simmered in my gut as I stood in the prison's changing room, the air stale with sweat and bleach. One year behind bars, and I burned to break something—someone. Lucas Harper, the cop who'd played me as "Liam," my right-hand man, my fucking obsession. I'd fucked him raw in The Coral Sting, his moans seared into my brain, only for him to betray me minutes later, his precinct storming in, calling him "Detective." One year, and I still tasted his lips, still felt his body clench around me. I wanted answers. I wanted him.
Wardens hovered near the door, their eyes darting, hands twitching near batons. They feared me, even cuffed, even in this shithole. Vincent "The Shark" Delgado owned Miami's underworld—cocaine, clubs, half the PD—and a year in a cell didn't change that. I had my people bribe the judge, paid off feds, made witnesses vanish. Some got threats, others got bullets, buried where no one looked.
The court had nothing concrete, so they slapped me with a year for some bullshit charge. I could've walked free day one, but I stayed. Sofia Torres, that snake, thought she'd won, seizing my docks while I rotted. Let her. I hid in here, plotting, digging into Lucas, into her. Now, I was out, and Miami would bleed.
Raul, my consigliere, stood by my side, passing me a tailored black suit. His salt-and-pepper beard twitched, eyes steady despite the wardens' nervous shuffling. My lawyer, a slick weasel named Marquez, leaned against the wall, clutching a manila folder. The room's fluorescent buzz drilled into my skull, but I kept my face stone, letting the silence choke them.
I slipped on the shirt, buttons cold under my fingers, and caught Raul's gaze. "How's the syndicate?" I asked, voice low, coded. No need for specifics with ears around.
Raul glanced at the wardens, then back at me. I didn't need to speak. I pulled a Cuban cigar from my pocket and lit it, the flame casting shadows. I exhaled, the smoke curling, and locked eyes with each warden. My stare promised death, slow and messy, if they lingered. They got it. Boots scoffed, and they bolted, the door slamming behind them.
Raul relaxed, stepping closer. "Sofia's crowing, boss. She thinks she's queen. She hit three of our docks, rerouted our coke lines. She's being extremely loud and reckless ever since your arrest."
I puffed the cigar, ash falling like my patience. "Does she know I'll be out today?"
He shook his head. "We followed your orders. We've kept quiet, no pushback. Let her think you're down."
"Good." I smirked, smoke stinging my lips. I'd told Raul to stay dormant, let Sofia's ego swell. A quiet syndicate sold the lie I was caged, helpless. But I planned, always. Like a chess master, I moved pieces in the dark. Sofia was a pawn, not a queen. I'd crush her when the time came.
I turned to Marquez, who flinched under my gaze. "And you? What about the chico?" Lucas. The name burned my tongue, but I kept it locked inside.
Marquez straightened, sliding the folder across the table. "Got everything on him, Mr. Delgado." His voice quavered, but he held his ground.
I grabbed the folder, cigar clamped in my teeth, and flipped it open. A photo stared back—Lucas Harper, younger, maybe seventeen, gray eyes wide, face softer but unmistakable. My chest tightened, a memory scratching at the edges, too faint to grab. I traced the photo's lines with my thumb, his jaw, his lips, searching. I knew this face, buried deep, but where?
The file spilled his life like blood. Lucas Harper, not Liam Russell. Abandoned at birth in Miami, shuffled through foster homes, each crueler than the last. His foster mother mocked his sensitivity; his foster brother broke his arm at sixteen for being gay. No real family, just scars.
I paused, my own past clawing up—foster homes, fists, cigarette burns from my uncle. I'd clawed out, built an empire. Lucas had too, in his way, joining the PD to prove something. They'd tasked him with taking me down, feeding intel for the past 18 months. He lied about his name, his badge, but not his past. The abandonment, the pain—that was real.
I exhaled smoke, jaw tight. Lucas hadn't just betrayed me; he'd bared himself, and I'd fallen for it. That night at The Coral Sting, his body under mine, his moans, the way he'd begged—it wasn't just sex. It was peace, a rare fucking moment where the world didn't claw at me. I fucked men, women, anyone when boredom hit, but Lucas was different. His hunger matched mine, raw, desperate. I'd wanted to own him, keep him. Then he'd gone ahead and shattered it.
Marquez cleared his throat, nervous. "There's something else, sir. About your arrest."
I snapped the folder shut, eyes narrowing. "Speak."
He shifted, loosening his tie. "Harper didn't call the raid. He did send intel, but not for that night. Someone else tipped the PD off. Someone linked to Sofia Torres."
My blood ran hot. "Who?" I growled, stepping into his space. He shrank back, paling.
"I—I don't know yet," he stammered. "But I traced payments. Sofia's got a mole in the PD, not Harper. They used his intel but moved early to screw him over too."
I froze, cigar burning low. Lucas hadn't sold me that night? He'd played me for 18 solid months, sure, but the raid wasn't his call. Sofia's hand, not his, had pulled the trigger. My anger shifted, splitting between her and the mystery cop. Lucas was still a liar, but the betrayal stung less, twisted into something else—curiosity, maybe. I needed to see him, confront him, unravel him.
Raul watched me, arms crossed. "What's the play, boss? Sofia's out of control, and Liam—Harper—whatever the fuck his name is, he's a loose end."
"For Sofia," I said, voice cold, "she's a brat throwing a tantrum. I'll handle her." I tapped the cigar, ash hitting the floor. "She's nothing."
Raul nodded, then hesitated. "And Harper? We could end him. Quick."
I spun, rage flaring, and pinned Raul with a glare that could cut steel. "Touch him, and you're dead," I snarled, low and lethal. Raul's eyes widened, a shiver running through him. I stepped closer, voice dropping to a hiss. "Nobody lays a finger on him. Understand?"
He swallowed, nodding fast. "Yeah, boss. Clear."
I clapped his shoulder, easing the tension, but my grip lingered, heavy. "Lucas is mine," I said, smirking. "To kill or keep. My call."
Raul didn't argue. I turned, grabbing my jacket, and slipped it on, the suit fitting like armor. The cigar burned to a stub; I crushed it under my heel, the scent clinging to me. Lucas' file went into my pocket, his photo a weight against my chest. I'd find him, strip him bare, learn every secret. He'd fucked me over, but he'd also fucked me like no one else, and that wasn't nothing. I'd decide his fate—death or something sweeter.
We strode out, Marquez trailing, the prison's gray halls parting for us. Wardens averted their eyes, sensing the storm I carried. Outside, Miami's heat hit like a fist, the sun glinting off my Rolls-Royce. I paused, glancing at the sky, free but tethered to Lucas' face, that nagging memory. Where did I know him from? I'd tear the city apart to find out.
I tossed the cigar stub, slid into the car, and let the engine's purr drown my thoughts. Lucas was out there, and so was Sofia. One I'd crush, the other I'd claim. Miami was mine again, and I'd make them both feel it.