LUCAS' POV
I stepped into the Miami PD's precinct, the air sharp with coffee and ink, my detective badge heavy in my pocket. One year had passed since Vincent "The Shark" Delgado's arrest, and I'd buried myself in work, clawing for normalcy. At twenty-eight, I wasn't the rookie anymore—promoted to detective after cracking case after case. My life sparkled, a rare calm after years of torment for being gay.
No one whispered slurs behind my back now, not since Clara, the woman my foster mother and brother forced on me, started showing up at the station, playing the doting fiancée. I didn't love her—her plastic surgeries and shrill laugh grated me—but I couldn't say no. My foster family's grip tightened like a noose, exploiting my weakness, my inability to fight back. I'd always bent under their weight.
The precinct buzzed, but something felt off. Officers clustered in corners, their glances darting my way, voices hushed. I caught snippets—side-talk, eyes narrowing as I passed. My gut twisted. I'd attended Vincent's trial months ago, watching witnesses vanish, one by one, until I stopped showing up, fearing his reach.
He was a mafia kingpin who crushed betrayers, and I'd betrayed him, fed intel to the feds, slept with him, then watched him cuffed. I'd seen him torture traitors—fingers sliced, screams echoing. I thought he'd rot for years, not knowing he'd bribed his way to a one-year sentence. Oblivious, I'd moved, changed my phone, rebuilt my life, thinking I'd escaped.
"Hey, Martinez, what's with the whispers?" I asked, a uniformed cop by the coffee machine, keeping my tone light.
He shrugged, avoiding my eyes. "Nothing, Harper. Just talk."
Bullshit. His twitchy fingers betrayed him. I pushed past, heading to my department, where my colleagues huddled, voices low. Words slipped through—"…he's out… Lucas is his target…"—and my blood ran cold. Out? Who?
They froze as I stepped in, faces blank, like I'd caught them stealing. "What's going on?" I demanded, voice sharper than intended.
The group scattered, muttering excuses, but Chief Ramirez, a grizzled man with tired eyes, waved me over. "Detective Harper, my office. Now."
I followed, heart pounding, the precinct's hum fading behind me. Ramirez shut the door, sank into his chair, and slid a folded letter across his desk. "Vincent Delgado's out," he said, voice flat. "He got released three days ago. He was only given a one year sentence."
My knees buckled, and I gripped the chair to stay upright. "Out?" I croaked. "I thought he was gone for years."
Ramirez sighed, rubbing his temples. "The Feds had nothing to hold him down for years. Witnesses that were supposed to testify against him disappeared, some were threatened into hiding, others were killed, maybe. The judge had no choice but to pin him on a more minor charge. He's free, and we got this." He tapped the letter.
I snatched it, hands shaking. Scrawled in sharp ink: 'Eyes on you, Russell, or should I just call you Harper? Sleep light, my butterfly.'
There was no signature, but the threat sank like lead. Vincent sent this, I mean no other person knows me as Russell or Butterfly except him. My breath hitched, memories flashing—his hazel eyes, his body pinning mine, then his rage as cops called me "Detective." He'd trusted me for eighteen months, made me his right-hand man, and I'd fucked him over. Worse, I'd fucked Jim, raw and desperate, and couldn't forget it—his muscles, his groans, the way he'd owned me. Now, he'd come for blood, my blood.
"Protection," I said, voice cracking. "Witness protection, anything?"
Ramirez shook his head. "No resources, Harper. Budget's tight, and your case isn't active. Be careful—lock your doors, avoid late nights, watch your back."
"Careful?" I snapped, fear morphing to anger. "He'll cut my fingers off one by one, Chief. I've seen it countless times."
He leaned forward, eyes hard. "Then don't give him a chance. You're a detective now. Act like it."
I stormed out, his words useless. One year of peace—smiles, respect, success—gone. Vincent haunted me, his face in my dreams, his tough lingering. I'd relocated, changed my number, thinking he and his men couldn't find me. But he was the Shark, relentless, and I was his prey.
Back at my desk, colleagues' whispers followed, their eyes pitying, judging. My phone pinged, and I flinched, fearing Vincent's reach. It was just Clara, her third text today after so many unanswered calls: 'Miss you babe. Can't wait for you to come take me home.'
I grimaced, tossing the phone into a drawer. She repulsed me—fake tits, fake everything. We'd tried making out, her hands clumsy, and I'd felt nothing, my body dead to her. My foster mother's voice echoed, calling me broken for loving men, forcing Clara to "fix" me. I hated them all.
Work was my escape. I dove into case files—robberies, assaults—typing reports, chasing leads. Vincent's shadow loomed but I pushed it down, convincing myself he wouldn't find me. My new apartment, miles from my old place, was a fortress. He'd known my old address, not this one. The PD was my only weak spot, but he wouldn't dare storm a precinct, not unless he wanted cuffs again.
Hours blurred, and I didn't notice the precinct emptying. By nine p.m., I was alone, fluorescent lights buzzing. I packed my bag, grabbed my keys, and headed out, the night thick with Miami's humid pulse. My car waited in the lot, a beat-up sedan, my gun on the passenger seat. I slid in, started the engine, and drove, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. Vincent's name echoed, a warning.
The drive felt endless, streetlights blurring, my pulse unsteady. Vincent hunted what he wanted, and I topped his list. I'd seen his cruelty—men begging as he carved them, their screams wet and final. Our sex, that night The Coral Sting, might fuel his rage more. I gripped the wheel, knuckles white, fear gnawing.
I pulled into my driveway, the house dark, quiet. Too quiet. My skin prickled, a chill cutting through the heat. Something was wrong. I killed the engine, stepped out, and froze. A shadow shifted near the garage, subtle but there. My hand hovered over my pocket, but my gun sat in the car, passenger seat, out of reach.
"Who's there?" I called, voice steady despite my racing heart.
No answer, but the air thickened, charged. Footsteps crunched, faint, behind me. I spun, reaching for the car door, but a cold barrel pressed against my temple, freezing me.
"Drop it," a voice rasped, low, unfamiliar. "Step out."
I raised my hands, heart hammering, and stepped away from the car. Darkness cloaked the figure—no face, just a silhouette. "What do you want?" I asked, voice tight.
No reply. Pain exploded at the back of my skull, a blunt strike dropping me to my knees. My vision swam, asphalt biting my palms. A black bag yanked over my head, fabric choking, as hands hauled me up. I thrashed, but my limbs sluggishly betrayed me.
They shoved me into a trunk—my car or another's, I couldn't tell—the slam of the lid swallowing my world.
A voice, muffled but sharp, cut through the dark. "The Shark sends his regards."
My blood iced. Vincent. He'd found me, faster than I'd feared. The engine roared, tires screeched, and I lay curled in the trunk, bagged and bound, his name a blade in my chest. What did he want—torture, death, or something worse?