Page 111 of Stricken

Vlad, with his calculating mind and guarded heart, doesn't deal in apologies. In vulnerability.

And that's the crux of it, isn't it? The fatal flaw in the story of us.

CHAPTER37

VLAD

I pace the confines of my office. Here, the weather is always the same, just the right temperature for my comfort, unlike outside where a collection of storm clouds have been gathering on the horizon all morning while I was on my way to the club.

In a way I'm glad I'm hidden away inside–my mood is already shitty. No need for the nature to shove it into my face with its gloom.

The glass of vodka in my hand this time of the afternoon is a rare occurrence. I've always tried to keep drinking to a minimum by not having stock in my house for long stretches of time, but lately, I've been unsettled. I've been finding myself indulging in liquor more than I'd like to. But the grasp of expensive, imported alcohol on my throat and stomach doesn't help me to feel better right now.

I shouldn't have gone to the Enclave. Shouldn't have risked my life like that over a silly argument and that stinging slap. Should have listened to Ivan. Having Jun Serra know my weakness is dangerous. He won't do anything about it, but he can sell that info to the highest bidder if that benefits him.

The memories of the reckless drive down the racetrack wash over me. But it only distracts me for a second.

Frustration simmering beneath my skin is an itch I can't scratch.

Pulling out my phone, I tap out a message to Nico.

The Armenians are getting impatient. They want their cut of the Brazilian money. And we still haven't dumped the shipment.

My finger hovers over the button, a hairsbreadth from sending.

Is it enough?

Will this olive branch span the sudden void between us?

Did he see that I called?

Did he hear my voicemail from earlier?

I hit send before I change my mind.

Two minutes later, when I look back at the screen, the message sits on read, mocking me with its lack of response. I fire off another text, an afterthought wrapped in practicality.

What do you want me to do with it?

Silence.

I grit my teeth and resume my pacing, the vodka sloshing inside my glass.

"Chyort voz'mi, Nico," I mutter under my breath, downing the rest of the drink in one burning gulp. The alcohol is like a quiet apology lodged in my throat, apology for not being able to fix my problem. But my pride is a tyrant, an immovable force that keeps the right words at bay.

I slam the empty glass down on my desk. How did we come to this impasse? One misstep, one careless comment, and the delicate balance we'd achieved lies shuttered at our feet.

I halt to a stop in the center of the office and run a hand through my hair, tugging at the strands as if I could physically pull the solution from my mind.

The phone remains silent like a vicious reminder of the distance between me and him. I resist the urge to throw it against the wall, knowing that killing the messenger won't actually fix the problem. Instead, I shove it back into my pocket.

A sudden thought seizes me.

I pull out the phone and dial Hector's number.

"Boss?" Hector's voice crackles through the speaker, a question in his tone.

"I need you to do something for me. It's urgent and has to be discreet. Are you available?"

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