3. The Reaper's Release

Chapter 3: The Reaper’s Release

LUCIAN’S POV

One Year Later

I stood in the dim light of my cell at Cook County Jail, the morning sun slicing through the barred window, casting jagged shadows on the concrete floor. 

One year. 

One year I spent in this hellhole, locked away because of him—Ethan Caldwell, the snake I knew as Evan. I adjusted the cuffs of the crisp black suit my lawyer brought, the fabric smooth against my skin, a stark contrast to the scratchy prison jumpsuit I’d worn for twelve months. 

My fingers brushed the silk tie, tightening the knot with a sharp tug. I was Lucian “The Reaper” Moretti, Chicago’s most feared mafia kingpin, and even in this cage, they trembled at my name. Prisoners averted their eyes when I passed. Wardens flinched at my glance. I thrived on their fear, but today, it did nothing to fill the hollow ache in my chest.

The betrayal stung worse than any blade. Ethan. I trusted him, let him into my inner circle, made him my right-hand man, and he turned out to be a fucking FBI agent. Two years he played me, gathering intel, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. That moment came at the bar, right after I fucked him, his moans still echoing in my ears when the feds burst in. I didn’t expect it—not from him. I built my empire on mistrust, never letting anyone close, but Evan broke through, and I paid for it.

My trial was a farce. The feds charged me with everything—drug trafficking, arms dealing, murder—but my lawyer, Vincent, and my second most trusted assistant, Marco, worked their magic. They bribed witnesses, destroyed evidence, and planted doubts. The judge sentenced me to one year, a slap on the wrist, because they couldn’t pin the big crimes on me. I served every day of it, my rage simmering, my thoughts consumed by Ethan. I wanted to kill him, to carve out his heart for what he did, but the memory of his body under mine, his gasps, his surrender—it haunted me. I hated him, but I still wanted him.

The cell door clanged open, pulling me from my thoughts. Marco stepped in, his broad frame filling the doorway, his shaved head gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Vincent followed, his silver hair slicked back, a thick file tucked under his arm. “Boss,” Marco said, his voice gruff, holding out a polished pair of shoes. “You’re ready.”

I took the shoes, slipping them on, the leather cool against my feet. “About time.” My voice was ice, each word a blade, my arrogance a shield I’d perfected over years of ruling Chicago’s underworld. I stood taller, my broad shoulders squared, my piercing gray eyes locking onto Vincent. “You did what I asked?”

Vincent nodded, placing the file on the metal table bolted to the floor. “This file contains everything on Special Agent Ethan Caldwell, as requested.” His tone was clipped, professional, but I caught the unease in his eyes. He still feared me, like they all did, and I relished it.

I opened the file, scanning the pages, my fingers gripping the edges. Ethan Caldwell, a 26, FBI agent, joined the agency after a rough childhood—foster homes, no family, a loner. I froze at a grainy photo, a teenage boy, maybe 14, his hazel eyes wide with fear, a bruise darkening his cheek. My breath caught. I knew those eyes. 

Twelve years ago, that boy saved me from a foster father’s brutal beating, distracting the bastard long enough for me to escape. There was a painting of him, hidden on the doors of my secret hideout in my mansion, that was a reminder of the only kindness I’d ever known. Ethan was that boy. 

My mind reeled, torn between fury and something softer, something I refused to name. I wanted to kill him for betraying me, for making me trust him, for letting me fuck him only to stab me in the back. But I also wanted him—wanted to feel him again, to hear him moan my name, to reclaim what we had in that back room before the feds ruined it. I slammed the file shut, my jaw tight, my heart pounding with the conflict. 

I remembered the first time I met him, two years ago at the club. I was in the VIP lounge when Marco dragged a scrawny guy in, blood dripping from his lip, his clothes torn. “I caught him sneaking around the senior member’s area,” Marco growled, his fist raised to strike again. 

Marco had been beating him, suspecting he was a spy, but I stepped in, my voice cutting through the chaos. “Stop.” I towered over the guy, his hazel eyes meeting mine, defiant but scared. “Who are you?”

“Evan,” he’d said, his voice steady despite the blood on his chin. “I got lost. I’m not a spy.” He looked desperate, his story flimsy, but then he added, “I don’t have a family. I’m alone, please don’t kill me.” 

Something in his tone hit me, a raw honesty I couldn’t ignore. I ordered my men to back off, and right there I took him under my wing, where he proved himself to be sharp, loyal and cunning. He won my trust, my heart, and I made him my right-hand man. Now I knew it was all a lie. 

“Boss,” Marco said, pulling me back to the present, his hand on the cell door. “We need to move. The warden’s waiting.” 

I nodded, stepping out, the prison corridor stretching before me, inmates watching from their cells, their whispers hushed. I walked with purpose, my suit pristine, my presence commanding, the weight of my name heavy in the air. A guard flinched as I passed, his hand hovering over his baton, but he didn’t dare meet my eyes.

We reached the release area, a sterile room with peeling paint, the warden standing by the gate, his face pale. “Mr. Moretti,” he said, his voice tight, handing me my release papers. “You’re free.” 

I took the papers, my gaze cold, and he stepped back, fear etched into his features. I didn’t acknowledge him, my thoughts still on Ethan, the file burning a hole in my mind.

Vincent followed me to the parking lot, where a black SUV waited, Marco already at the wheel. “What now, boss?” Vincent asked, his voice low, careful. I slid into the backseat, the leather cool against my suit, and stared out the window, the prison shrinking in the distance. 

“Now,” I said, my voice a low growl, my fingers tightening around the file. “Find Ethan Caldwell. And I decide if I kill him—or make him mine again.” 

My heart pounded, torn between vengeance and desire, the boy who saved me and the man who destroyed me now one and the same. I wouldn’t rest until I had him, one way or another.