72

72
Mateo didn’t flinch. He tilted his head, voice low .

“Before you celebrate… why don’t we check the ship?”

The agents froze for a beat, trading quick glances. Radios buzzed louder as orders barked back and forth. The senior agent narrowed his eyes.
“What’s on that ship, Woods?”

Mateo’s lips curved into the faintest, most dangerous smile. “Why don’t you go see for yourselves?”

The water slapped against the hull, the ship looming dark and silent in the distance.

The agents exchanged quick, sharp glances—should we trust him?

After a beat, the leader jerked his chin. Two juniors broke off, jogging toward the ship to check.

Mateo stood still, his hands raised, his jaw locked tight as the rest of the agents closed in on him.

The juniors climbed aboard, flashlights slicing through the darkness.

They swept the deck, the beams catching on ropes, crates, and oil-stained steel. Step by step, they pushed deeper, checking corners, opening compartments, shining light into every shadow.

One called out, “Clear up top!”

The other descended below deck, the narrow stairs groaning under his boots as he flashed his light through the cargo hold.

The juniors returned, boots thudding against the dock. One shook his head.

“No sign of any hard drugs,” he reported, breath short from the search.

“Nothing hidden either,” the second added. “It’s clean.”

A murmur rippled through the agents, their grips on their weapons easing just slightly.

Mateo let out a rough laugh, shaking his head.

“See?” he said, voice sharp, eyes burning into the leader. “I told you already—nothing. You drag me out here like I’m some fucking criminal, but the ship’s clean. No drugs, no stash, no shit. Just me standing here, taking all your heat for nothing.”

He dropped his hands slowly, chest heaving. “So what now? You gonna keep pointing your toys at me, or admit you got the wrong guy?”

Out of nowhere, camera flashes cut through the night.

Reporters came rushing down the dock uncontrollably, mics waving, questions firing like bullets.

The agents stiffened, caught off guard. Their faces twisted in shame, wondering how the hell the press had gotten wind of this. Whispers flew between them, curses under their breath as the reporters closed in tighter.

“Mateo! Mateo Woods! Were you arrested tonight?”

“Is it true you were caught with drugs on this ship?”

“Why are the agents detaining you if you’re innocent?”

Microphones shoved in his face, flashes exploding like fireworks.

Mateo’s jaw tightened, but he stood confidently, letting the chaos swirl around him. The agents tried to hold the crowd back, but it was useless—the press swarmed uncontrollably.

Off to the side, one journalist had already gone live, hand pressed to her earpiece as the cameraman zoomed in.

“Breaking news tonight at the docks,” she said breathlessly. “After an intense investigation and what appeared to be a dramatic raid, the FBI has found no evidence linking Mateo Woods to drug trafficking.

Sources confirm the ship was searched top to bottom—nothing illegal was discovered. Viewers, you heard that right. The notorious name tied to countless rumors has just been cleared.”

Her voice sharpened, almost theatrical, feeding the frenzy. “This raises questions about the credibility of the FBI’s investigation and the smear attempts against Woods.

Why was he publicly humiliated if there was no proof? Who leaked this so-called operation? And most importantly—has Mateo Woods been framed?”

Back at the docks, reporters shouted over one another, questions piling higher.

“Mateo, how do you feel about being dragged into this?”

“Do you plan to sue the FBI for wrongful arrest?”

“Are you going to reveal who set you up?”

Mateo tilted his head, a sly smirk tugging his lips despite the heat.

Cameras caught it instantly. He let the silence linger just long enough before finally speaking, his voice carrying above the madness.

“You all saw it yourselves,” he said, slow, steady. “They stormed me like I’m guilty, but when the smoke clears? I’m the one standing. Clean.”

The crowd erupted—reporters scribbling, cameras rolling, agents burning under the weight of their own embarrassment.

Mateo barely heard the reporters anymore, their voices blurring into noise.

His mind had already drifted away, past the flashing lights, past the shame on the agents’ faces.

He thought only of one thing—his pretty boy. The image was so sharp it nearly pulled a groan out of him: soft skin, lips parted in sleep, snuggled up warm, waiting for him to come home.

A heat burned low in his gut, sharp and possessive. Can’t wait to get back, can’t wait to put my hands on him, can’t wait to taste what’s mine.

The chaos around him faded, the dock dissolving until all he could see was that bed, that body, that boy. And it made his smirk stretch wider.

Mateo finally shoved through the chaos, agents glaring, reporters still shouting as he slid into the backseat of his black car. The door shut with a heavy thunk, sealing him off from the madness outside.

His phone buzzed immediately—Aaron’s name lighting the screen. He answered, voice smooth.

“Sir,” Aaron said, still sounding half in shock, “how the hell do you manage to pull that off?”

Mateo leaned back, a dark laugh spilling out of him. “Remember who you’re talking to. I’m the Mateo Woods.”

And with that, he hung up, the smirk never leaving his face as the driver pulled away from the docks.

His head fell back against the leather seat, and instantly, he was imagining—no, craving—what Silas would be doing right now.

Probably curled up under the sheets, bare skin pressed against the pillow, hair messy, lips soft and pouty in his sleep.

Maybe tossing a little, restless without him there. Maybe wearing one of his shirts, swallowing his small frame whole, smelling of him.

Mateo’s chest tightened, heat spreading low and dangerous. God, my pretty boy. Probably waiting, probably aching, probably touching himself thinking about me.

The thought had his pulse hammering. His fingers flexed against his thigh, like he could already feel Silas there—warmly, needy and perfect.

.