VINCENT'S POV
Rage boiled in my veins, a wildfire I couldn't name, scorching my chest as I stared at Lucas, crumpled on the grass, blood streaming from his nose, lips split, face swollen. My boots crunched the earth, my fists clenched, knuckles white. Why the fuck was I so angry? Lucas had played me, killed one of my men, stabbed a fork into his neck, and bolted like a rat. He'd sprained his ankle, stubborn as a mule, running barefoot through my yard. But worse—my own thugs, these filthy dogs, had dared lay hands on him, beating him like some street punk, something I'd never done. My man. Mine.
I spun, facing the goons, their eyes wide, frozen under the floodlights. "Who gave you the permission to do this?" I asked calmly, my voice sounded like a blade slicing the night. "Who said you could put your filthy hands on my man?"
Silence choked the air, their breaths shallow, faces pale. They stood like statues, guns limp, no defense, no balls. My blood surged, vision narrowing, fury clawing my throat. "Answer me!" I bellowed, steeping closer, my scar twitching. "Who gave you the right to touch him?"
Nothing. Not a word. My rage snapped, a taut wire breaking. I snatched Raul's Glock from his hip, the weight cold, familiar. I zeroed in on the thug who'd swung the hardest, whose fist cracked Lucas' jaw minutes ago. Without blinking, I aimed and fired, the shot cracking, his skull exploding, blood and bone spraying. He dropped, dead, on a heap in the grass.
The others gasped, stumbling back, eyes bulging. Raul tensed beside me, but I didn't care. "Answer me!" I screamed, voice raw, gun swinging, spit flying. "Who told you to beat him up like a criminal?"
They collapsed, knees hitting dirt, hands raised, begging. "Don, please!" one stammered, voice shaking. "He was running away! We thought… We thought beating him was the only way to hold him down! We… are sorry, Don!"
I laughed, a harsh, jagged sound, my chest heaving. "Y'all thought that was the only way to stop him from leaving, huh?" I mocked, gun steady, finger itching. "You think that's an excuse?"
I aimed at another, his face drained of color, eyes pleading, but a weak grip clamped my leg. Lucas, sprawled, bloodied, his fingers digging into my calf, stopping me cold. God I hated how quick that touch made me fold.
My breath hitched, rage stuttering. I lowered the gun, chest tight, and glared at Raul. "Take care of the bodies now," I snapped, jerking my head at the body of the man I'd just killed as Raul gave orders to some men to handle the body of the thug Lucas killed in the chambers.
I turned to another thug, cowering. "You," I growled, pointing at Lucas. "Take him to my suite. Touch him wrong, and you're next."
The thug nodded, trembling, and scooped Lucas up, his limp body swaying, blood smearing the man's shirt. The mansion blurred around me, fury hammering in my chest with each step, my pulse hammering, Lucas' defiance, fueling my fire. He'd tried to run, he thought he could outsmart me, Vincent Delgado, The Shark of Miami's underworld. He'd learn—nobody left me.
In my private suite, the door slammed, the thug dropping Lucas on the leather couch before scrambling out. Lucas groaned, face battered, ankle swollen, shirt torn, blood crusting his lips. I loomed over him, fists shaking, voice a snarl. "What's wrong with you, Lucas?" I yelled, pacing, shoes thudding. "What do you think you are? A slick man, huh? You killed my man, and tried to run like a coward? How stubborn and selfish can you be?"
He glared, gray eyes flashing, pain twisting his face but defiance burning. "Let me go, Vincent!" he shouted, voice cracking, leaning forward, wincing. "You think you can chain me for a year and I'll love you? I'm a cop, Vincent, not your fucking pet."
My rage erupted, a volcano, unstoppable. I slammed my fist into the wall, plaster cracking, pain exploding in my knuckles, blood trickling. Again, again, I hit, skin splitting, crimson streaking. "I own you!" I roared, spinning, blood dripping, eyes locked on his. "This mansion's your only home now, Lucas! You've got no life outside of this place, no badge, no family, there's nothing waiting for you on the outside!"
He laughed, bitter, broken, his voice cutting deeper than any knife. "You're desperate," he spat, eyes blazing, blood smearing his chin. "It's not my fault that you're a sad and unloved man who thinks kidnapping me will make me love you. Get help, sick weirdo and leave me the fuck alone!"
The words landed like bullets, piercing my chest, shattering something I didn't name. Unloved. The truth stung, raw and bleeding—foster homes, fists, screams, a kid no one wanted, a man no one dared love. My breath hitched, vision blurring, rage and pain colliding. I wanted to hit him, break him, make him bleed for seeing me, but my fists froze, trembling. I turned, staggering to the room's corner, chest heaving, blood dripping from my knuckles, the wall's dent mocking me.
He's right. Unloved. Always have been. The thought clawed, unbidden, my heart a bruise. Lucas' words weren't just venom—they were truth, and they fucking broke me. No one's words ever touched me, not rivals, not cops, but his sliced through, leaving me raw. Why him? Why does he control me, even now?
I sucked in air, forcing calm, my hands shaking as I rummaged through a drawer, grabbing balms, ointment, bandages. Lucas' voice cracked behind me, soft, hesitant. "Vincent," he said, almost a whisper, guilt lacing the word.
I ignored him, jaw tight, blood smearing the jar. I dragged a chair close, the scrape loud in the silence, and sat, his swollen ankle inches away. He shifted, wincing, eyes wary. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, voice low, cracking. "I didn't mean… those things."
I said nothing, my throat locked, pain and anger churning. I grabbed his ankle, gentle despite my fury, and he yelped, trying to pull back. I gripped tighter, yanking his leg onto my lap, his hiss of pain sharp. Stubborn bastard. I opened the balm, fingers slick with my own blood, and massaged his ankle, slow, deliberate, the cream cool against his swollen skin. My touch was soft, careful, a contrast to the storm in my chest.
He tensed, breath hitching, but didn't pull away again. I worked in silence, fingers kneading, his skin warm, pulse faint under my thumbs. He's breaking me, and I can't stop it. No one got to me—not Sofia's hits, not Raul's doubts, but prison's cage, not even my depressed childhood—but Lucas did, his words, his eyes, his fucking existence. I hated it, hated him, hated how my hands gentled for him, how my rage bowed to his pain.
His breath softened, a low moon escaping, not pleasure, just relief, and it twisted something in me, tightening my chest. I kept massaging, moving to his calf, my blood smearing his skin, my knuckles throbbing. I should've killed him. Should've ended this. But I couldn't. He'd saved me once, a kid pulling me from a burning wreck, and now he owned me, body and soul, whether I admitted it or not.
I finished, wrapping his ankle tight, my hands steady despite the chaos inside. He watched, eyes heavy, blood crusting his face, but said nothing. I stood, chair scraping, and turned away, my back to him, fists clenched, blood dripping to the floor. He's mine, but he's breaking me, and I don't know how to make him stop.