Page 10 of Stricken

"Don't you think you've had enough?" Ivan rumbles quietly in Russian from the corner of the room where he's melted into the darkness, ever-present, ever-watchful.

"Ne seychas, Ivan," I reply in my mother's tongue. I've been forgetting it lately, forgetting how beautiful it could sound.

Ivan doesn't grace me with a reply, which I appreciate. His silent eloquence is part of the reason we get along so well.

Ricky, immaculate in his suit, taps away at his phone, no doubt managing the labyrinthine finances of our little empire or checking his Fortnite stats. The man really stepped it up despite being a six-foot-three softie who tends to cats and dogs in a local shelter.

Seven, Marco, and Ocho lounge on the leather couches. Their trusting faces have me forgetting about the lethal skills that make them invaluable.

"Where's Hector?" I ask, my voice cutting through the low hum of conversation.

"Running an errand," Ocho replies, his gaze flicking to mine. "Said he'd be back when he has news for you, boss."

I nod, leaning back in my chair. This group, the Hellhounds, as they've christened themselves, have proven their worth time and again. At first, I had my doubts about these men who came with the club when I took over. They were remnants of the infamous Thoreau's reign, used to the way he ran things. But Isaac Thoreau is gone now, and I made him a promise—to take care of his kingdom and its subjects, so that's what I'm doing. In return, these men have shown their loyalty, their willingness to get their hands dirty in service of my cause—to find my mother's murderer. They don't know what he truly did. To them he is just a target. A person of interest. But the fact that he tried to use my little brother to get to me is enough of a reason for them.

They are all important in their own way.

Especially Hector. The man has a talent for extracting information, for sniffing out the trails others try to conceal. He's become an integral part of my operation, a hunter constantly on the prowl.

"So, no news on Shtyk then?" Seven comments carefully. "Are the Arellanos holding up their end of the deal?"

I swirl the liquor in my glass, watching the play of light on the cut crystal. "Shtyk's gone to ground. The cartel's contacts haven't been able to track him down…Yet."

"He could be anywhere in Mexico," Ocho muses, his brow furrowing. "And if the cartel can't find him there, it's going to be a fucking needle in a haystack."

"They'll find him," I say, my tone allows no room for doubt.

The men nod, a somber silence descending upon us. I can feel the weight of our shared purpose in the air.

They all know what's at stake. They all know Shtyk won't stop just because he's hunted. They are aware he's bounced back way too many times. However, the blood debt must be paid. Bastard can run, but there is nowhere on this earth he can hide from my wrath. And I'll use whatever means necessary to get to him before he plans his next move.

Just thinking about him has my anger flowing back. Red spots dot my vision. The alcohol doesn't help to soothe the ache in my chest. This LA trip was a waste of time. Except for the hot one-night stand with the handsome stranger, which was pleasant but unessential. Even if I want a do-over.

It would have been so easy—to ask his name and number, to ask if he would be interested in seeing each other again. But this is not the kind of luxury Vlad Solovey can afford right now, not when he's on the verge of war. And war always means casualties. So why bring more people into the circle?

No, I need to get my mind off all this heavy shit for a minute. "Ricky?" I call, reaching out for a bottle of scotch to refill my glass. "You have a lead on the event we talked about before I left?" From the corner of my eye, I can see Ivan's disapproving expression as he looks at my drink. He's right to be concerned.

"So you're dead set on buying that Aperta, boss?" Seven asks from across the table.

"Could use some distraction," I mutter, taking a sip. The buzz in my head is pleasant. I'm not a drinker. As a matter of fact, I hardly ever allow myself to indulge in anything but years of watching my father and his dog ruin lives have taken their toll. I'm not the same man I was fifteen years ago. I've become weaker. I want earthly things like a nice glass of whiskey or scotch or even wine. I want another sports car. I want my brother to be happy. There's a fraction of me that wants to be happy too, wants that warm, fuzzy feeling back. But it's such a small piece that all the other pieces manage to bury it every single time.

"The date is set for next week. Saturday," Ricky replies after checking his phone.

"Time and place?"

"Not yet." He shakes his head. "But I'll get it for you."

"You do that."

"One of those ghost, invite-only posh auctions for the ultra-rich?" Ocho, who sits right next to Ricky, releases a mocking chuckle.

"Well, we'll see how posh it is." I find myself smiling a little bit at the thought of adding another car to my extensive collection. "Besides, I made you rich too." I raise my tumbler to salute all my men gathered here.

They do the same.

"You better let Ricky take it for a spin when you bring it," Seven supplies with a grin, nursing his own beer.

"Yeah, my boy jumped through a lot of hoops to get you the info, boss," Ocho says, clapping Ricky's back.

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