Owned by biker enemy

The air in the FBI safe house always smelt like sweat, and anxiety, a scent that have imprinted itself in Rafe Santos head after two years of hard strategic trainings. Now, standing before the full-length mirror, as he studied the finished product… a lie woven from custom leather and calculated silence.

The dark suit fit with the kind of ruthless tailoring that screamed competent… but kept the observer at a professional distance.

“Eliminate them all.”

Derek’s voice echoed in his head, tight and professional. The order had become the backbone of his existence.

Then Camila Vega’s voice followed.

“Be smart. I trust you, buddy.” She’d said it with a tap on his shoulder and a crooked smile.

Camila Vega… his handler, his closest friend, the one person who knew him well enough to notice the little changes in him, the slight stiffness in his posture. The humor that no longer reached his eyes. The subtle shift in his dialect when he slipped into cover.

She gave him loyalty,Affection,and Trust.and Rafe always tries to repay her by never failing her.

He adjusted the tie in his shirt because now he  wasn't just Rafe Santos, he was now the FBI asset. As he was set on a mission to the Crimson Devils MC. a suspect money laundering gang for the Moretti family.

Camila hugged him hard, almost crushing his bone. her composure finally cracking. As tears soaked into his shoulder.

“I’m gonna miss you, Rafe.”

“It’s okay,” he said, patting her back. “I’ll be back soon. I just have to get them down on time.”

The drive across the city was a very long one. The urban grit of the office blocks gave way to the sprawling, industrial edge of the docks… the Devils’ territory. The clubhouse, a brutalist brick building disguised as a shipping yard warehouse, loomed ahead, marked by the red bold words of a devil’s head bolted to the entrance.

“This is it.” he muttered.

He parked, inhaled slowly, and felt the switch flip inside him. “You’ve got this,” he murmured before stepping into Devils territory. Inside, the clubhouse was nothing of what Rafe had expected. Rather, It was an expansive, well maintained club. Bikes gleamed under harsh, industrial lights, and the men moved with a practice move and discipline, There were less gang members as at the time he stepped in.

The second thing he notices is the smell. Everywhere smelt like Oil, Sweat, and dust. Old dark marks clinged  to walls that have seen too much and forgotten nothing. This place isn’t pretending to be civilized. as it doesn’t care who’s watching.

Rafe keeps his head down and his shoulders a little bit  loose as he walks in, a posture he had mastered from his two years of hard training. he moved in style; Not too confident, and not too submissive. Just another man looking for a job, for belonging, and for a reason to stay.

The Devils are monsters, but he wasn’t afraid because he was trained to dismantle monsters.

Eyes followed him anyway.

Curiously and calculating his every move.

Rafe gives them nothing as he walked passed them. Because he knows men like these don’t ask questions out loud.

He reaches the bar where he was asked to wait and he sat there waiting,,, “maybe this is also part of the test.”

Suddenly, a crackling sound came from behind him.

Then it happens.

Rafe suddenly feels it, a looming shadow behind him even before he sees who was there. Rafe shifted as silence bends around a single presence.

Rafe turns and his eyes came in contact with the man that commands respect without a word.

Dante Moretti standing at the center of the room.

solid and unmovable, like everything else rotates round him. He looks older than Rafe had expected and Scarred in ways no file ever captures properly. Power clings to him without effort.

Dante’s gaze lands on him and it doesn’t slide away.

It stays and lingers for long.

Rafe suddenly felt uneasy been stared at by him. His stare cut sharp through him like he could see through him and for a second he thought he was caught.

Dante finally speaks, and the room listens.

“Who’s the new blood?”

The question isn’t sharp. But it held so much power and that’s what makes it worse.

Rafe steps forward before he’s asked to. Confidence radiating from him. He meets Dante’s eyes, steady, and respectful.

“My name is Rafe.”

Dante studies him slowly. Like he was searching for something.

“Hm,” Dante says quietly.

Surprisingly, that single sound does more to Rafe’s nerves than shouting ever could.

Rafe stood in front of him, praying silently the man could just go and stop staring at him like that.  Dante’s voice came in again.

"You're quiet," Dante said, his voice low, unreadable. "Men who are quiet usually hide something."

Rafe met his gaze, suddenly forcing steadiness into his expression. "Or they just listen."

A corner of Dante's mouth curved quit. "Good. Listening keeps you alive."

Dante rested his hand briefly on Rafe's shoulder as he walked passed him. His hand was firm and grounding, the kind of touch meant to test boundaries. It lasted no more than a second, but Rafe felt it everywhere. As heat curled low in his stomach, sharp and unwelcome, dragging his focus somewhere it had no business going.

Later that night, Rafe was seated alone trying to set up some things when Marcus came. the Vice President of the Devils. Marcus was in his late-thirties but he looked so cold, with eyes that assessed Rafe like a balance sheet.

"Hey new boy?” Marcus grunted, his voice sharp.

"Yes sir." Rafe replied, letting his voice carry the precise, calculated arrogance required for his cover.

Marcus’s lips barely twitched, but a flicker of something passed through his eyes.

"Follow me, Dante wants you in his office." Marcus said. As he lead the way.

He led Rafe through the main floor, past the bar and the pool tables where other members were seated. The atmosphere was tight and controlled. No drunken chaos or unnecessary noise.

Marcus stopped before a heavy, unmarked steel door at the back. "Don't waste his time."

Rafe stepped into Dante’s office, and his world tilted.

The room was sparse, dark wood, a long conference table, and a single, large desk at the middle. And behind it sat Dante Moretti. Who was seated with his glued on some papers,

Dante was not just powerful; he was controlled made in flesh. His suit… perfectly tailored,though  slightly softer than Rafe's own but still didn't hide his physique. Rather it emphasized the underlying strength. His hair was slicked back, his expression utterly calm, lethal, and unshaken. Rafe stared him focused as if everything revolved around him.

Rafe's training screamed at him to maintain distance, to establish professional boundaries. But when Dante’s gaze lifted and landed on him, it was like a hand dragging slowly down his bare skin.

Dante’s eyes, a startling shade of deep brown, lingered for a second too long, taking note, accessing him deeply. It was as if Dante already knew Rafe was dangerous, just not in the way the FBI expected.

"Santos," Dante's voice called. his voice carried the weight of unquestioned authority.

"Boss," Rafe returned, his voice loud, sharp, and  professional. He walked to the conference table and placed his briefcase on it, the sound deliberately loud in the sudden silence.

Dante leaned back, folding his hands over his midsection. "You were highly recommended by my family's associates that you have a reputation for being thorough, discrete, and expensive."

"Thoroughness is a virtue sir,”  Rafe agreed. “And discretion is a necessity and a price ensures loyalty."

Dante smiled a brief, chilling flash of teeth that vanished instantly. "Loyalty is earned here, Santos. Not bought."

Silence

"You'll be working closely with Marcus, and directly with me on all ledger balances, but you’d fully be our clubs bookkeeper.” Dante stated, the formality masking the inherent intimacy of the access being granted. "I like to keep things tight."

"I understand," Rafe said, closing his case.

Dante finally rose. He didn't approach the table, but the atmosphere in the small room shifted, the space tightening around Rafe.

“Get a proper rest Santos,” Dante murmured, his eyes piercing deep into Rafe’s own. “ you look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

Rafe bowed slightly and turned to leave.

“Rafe Santos.”Dante’s voice stopped him.

But this time, his voice didn’t come as the polished boss tone, Nor the measured authority he used for his men.

Rafe turned back slowly.

Dante was standing behind the desk now. He hadn’t moved closer but somehow the room felt smaller, and tighter, like the walls were listening.

Dante’s eyes narrowed, a faint smile plastering the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t make me regret trusting you,” he said quietly. “And remember… this is the Devil’s Crimson.”

The words settled into Rafe’s bones.

They didn’t come out as a threat, But he could that was a warning.

Rafe swallowed with a quick nod and stepped out of the office.

The door shut behind him with a final, echoing click.

Rafe put a deep breathe when he was out, and only then did his pulse spike… hard, and violent.