2. Love Or Betrayal

Chapter 2: Love Or Betrayal

ETHAN’S POV

I slipped the burner phone back into my pocket, my fingers trembling as I hit send, the FBI handler’s message still burning in my mind: “Shipment details, now. Don’t fail.” 

I stood in the shadows of the alley near Pier 12, the echo of gunfire from the Salazar ambush fading into the night. I’d done it—sent the intel, details of the arms shipment, Lucian’s routes, his contacts. My chest tightened, guilt clawing at me, but I had to. 

Lucian turned, his silhouette sharp against the pier’s flickering lights, his voice cutting through the chaos as he barked orders to his men. His tone was steel, but his shoulders sagged, a weariness I’d never seen before. He’d lost three loyal men in the ambush, and the weight of it hung heavy on him. I watched him dispatch his crew—half to guard the west side stash, the other half to set up snipers and patrols around his key spots. 

He wasn’t taking chances, not after Salazar’s surprise attack. An hour later, one of his scouts relayed intel: Salazar’s crew had pulled back, no attack planned for the night. The tension in my gut eased, but the guilt of what I’d just done—betraying Lucian—twisted deeper.

“Let’s go,” Lucian said, his eyes locking on mine, his voice softer, almost broken. “I need a drink.” 

I nodded, following him to his black SUV, my Glock heavy at my hip. We drove in silence to The Black Fang, a bar owned by him, a sleek fortress of dark wood and red velvet nestled in Chicago’s underbelly. He didn’t say why he wanted to drink, but I saw it in the slump of his shoulders, the way his fingers tightened on the steering wheel—he was grieving. It made my chest ache, seeing him like this, but I pushed it down. I’d already crossed a line by sending that intel.

We settled into the VVIP lounge, a private space at the back of the bar, just the two of us, the air thick with the scent of leather and whiskey. The main bar buzzed with low chatter, but here, it was quiet, the red velvet curtains muffling the world outside. Lucian sank onto a leather couch, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a silver of tanned skin that made my throat go dry. 

“Pour,” he said, his voice a low command, gesturing to the bottle of whiskey on the counter. I grabbed the bottle, my hands steady despite the storm inside me, and poured a shot, sliding it across to him. 

He drowned it on one go, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and pushed the glass back. “Keep ‘em coming, Evan,” he said, his gray eyes glinting with a raw edge that made my stomach flip. 

I poured again, my fingers brushing the glass, but then he grabbed a second glass, filling it and sliding it to me. “You should have a drink,” he said, his tone firm, his gaze pinning me in place.

I hesitated, my pulse racing—I wasn’t a drinker—but I couldn’t refuse, not without breaking the fragile trust between us. I took the shot, the whiskey burnin down my throat, my eyes watering as the heat spread.

“Another,” he said, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his stare never leaving me. 

I poured, my hands starting to shake, the alcohol hitting me fast. We kept going, shot after shot, the room tilting, my stomach churning as the liquor burned through me. I wasn’t used to this—six shots, maybe seven—and the nausea clawed up my throat, sharp and bitter. I needed to puke, needed air, anything to stop the spinning.

“I—I need the bathroom,” I muttered, setting the bottle down with a clunk, my voice slurring as I stood, my legs unsteady.

I didn’t make it two steps before Lucian’s hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around my waist from behind, yanking me back against him. My breath caught, his chest hard against my back, his arm a steel band around me. 

“Not so fast,” he murmured, his breath hot against my ear, whiskey and smoke filling my senses. 

He dragged me toward a back room, the door swinging shut behind us with a heavy thud, sealing us in darkness lit only by a dim red bulb. My back hit the wall, the impact jarring, and Lucian loomed over me, his body caging mine, his face inches from my own. His gray eyes burned, pupils blown wide, desire written in every line of his face. 

“Boss—” I started, my voice shaking, my hands pushing against his chest, feeling the heat of him through his shirt. “I’m not interested,” I said, the words sharp, but they felt hollow even as I spoke them.

I couldn’t do this—I was FBI, he was a criminal, and I wasn’t supposed to want him, I wasn’t supposed to break every code I’d sworn to uphold. But Lucian’s hand slid up my side, his thumb brushing the edge of my ribs, and my resolve shattered, a shiver racing down my spine, heat pooling low in my gut.

He smirked, his lips brushing my jaw, the scrape of his stubble igniting sparks across my skin. His hand tugged at my shirt, pulling it free from my jeans, his fingers grazing my stomach, and I gasped, the sensation overwhelming. I melted into him, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer as my resistance crumbled, the alcohol blurring the edges of my control. His lips crashed against mine, hard and hungry, and I kissed him back, a desperate edge to it, my moan muffled against his mouth as his tongue swept in, claiming me. 

He groaned, the sound vibrating through me, and his hands moved fast, yanking my shirt over my head, tossing it aside. I mirrored him, my fingers fumbling with his buttons, tearing his shirt open, revealing the hard planes of his chest, scars criss-crossing his skin. 

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he muttered, his voice rough, his hands roaming my chest, thumbs brushing my nipples, making me arch into him with a whimper. 

I tugged at his belt, my hands shaking, but he beat me to it, unbuckling mine with a swift motion, shoving my jeans down, his own following.

We stumbled to a small couch in the corner, our movements frantic, hungry. He pushed me down, his body covering mine, his lips trailing down my neck, biting, sucking, leaving marks I knew I’d feel tomorrow. 

“You’re mine tonight,” he growled, his hand sliding between us, gripping me, stroking me through my boxers, and I moaned, loud and broken, my hips bucking into his touch. 

“Say it,” he demanded, his voice a low rumble, his fingers tightening, teasing. 

“I…I’m yours,” I slurred, the word slipping out, my body on fire, my mind a haze of want. 

He smirked, shedding his boxers, his cock hard and heavy, and I swallowed, my own boxers gone in a flash. He positioned himself, his hands spreading my thighs, his eyes locked on mine, a question there, but I nodded, my breath ragged, my body aching for him. 

He thrust into me, slow at first, the stretch burning, but then he moved, deeper, harder, and I cried out, my nails digging into his shoulders, pleasure and pain mixing in a way that made my head spin. 

“Oh… fuck baby, you’re tight,” he groaned, his voice raw, his lips snapping against mine, each thrust drawing a moan from my lips. My body trembled beneath him, nerves and lust twisted into one, the world reduced to the rhythm of his hips and the heat of his mouth.  

“You feel so good,” he growled, one hand gripping my hip, the other stroking me in time with his thrusts. I was lost, undone—my moans echoing in the dark room, my body surrendering completely. 

But then— 

BOOM. 

A muffled crash from downstairs. Shouting. The sound of boots pounding the floor.

Lucian froze mid-thrust. “What the fuck—”

My heart stopped. I knew that sound. Tactical boots. Shouted commands. The unmistakable chaos of a raid.

“FBI! Hands in the air!” someone yelled from the main bar below. 

Lucian yanked out of me, breath ragged, eyes wild. “What the hell is going on?”

I scrambled off the couch, adrenaline surging. My stomach churned. This wasn’t the plan. The bust wasn’t supposed to happen now. It was supposed to be next week—after the next shipment.

“Shit,” I muttered, dragging on my boxers and jeans, hands shaking.

Lucian was already moving, shirt open, belt undone, snatching his gun from the nearby counter. We stumbled into the hallway just as footsteps thundered up the stairs. Lucian raised his gun, but before he could aim—

“FBI! Drop your weapon!”

A team of agents burst into the hallway, rifles raised, bulletproof vests gleaming. Lucian froze, gun still in his hand, fury blazin in his eyes. 

Then one of the agents turned to me.

“Agent Ethan Caldwell,” he said. “Nice work. We’ve got the whole crew downstairs.”

Time slowed. 

Lucian’s head whipped toward me. “Evan?” he breathed. “You’re a fucking fed?” His eyes—those gray eyes I’d fallen into too many times—filled with confusion, then realisation, then betrayal so sharp it sliced through me like a blade.

“Lucian Moretti, you’re under arrest,” an agent said, cuffing him. I watched as they dragged him away, his glare burning into me. Not confusion. Not heartbreak.

A promise. One I’d never be able to outrun.