Page 113 of Stricken

"I didn't ask about his alliances. It doesn't matter. You sure it's not a ruse?"

"No. Word is one of the Italians who met with El Jefe was Salvatore Morelli. That's all I know."

I close my eyes, the information is threatening to crush me. La Alianza's greedy hands are here in Vegas, helping to shove Tony Morelli head into the grave prematurely. And if they take out Tony, it will be chaos, a power vacuum that will swallow us up.

And Nico... My heart clenches at the thought of him caught in the middle of this, a pawn in a game he never asked to play.

I have to warn him, to keep him safe, no matter the cost.

And then it hits me again. Something doesn't add up. "What do you mean, Salvatore is 'one of the Italians' behind this? Who else is involved?"

Hector shakes his head. "My guy says they were both Italians. But he couldn't get any more than that."

Two Italians. A sinister whisper appears in my head. If not just Salvatore, then who? Salvatore's security details? Or a mole within the Morelli family itself?

Dreadful cold settles in the pit of my stomach. The room feels too confined, the walls closing in around me.

Betrayal, ambition, power. It's a toxic cocktail, one that can bring even the strongest empire to its knees. And now, with Nico in the crosshairs, the stakes have never been higher.

I shift my attention back to Hector, my decision made. "Find out any extra details you can about this. We need to know what we're up against."

Hector nods. "I'm on it, boss. I'll let you know as soon as I have something."

The moment he leaves, I dial Nico's number. The line rings once, twice, three times. Each unanswered call is a twist of the knife.

Goddamn this stubborn Italian asshole.

"Hey, Nico, it's me." My voice is rough, urgency bleeding into every word as I leave him a message. "I need you to call me back. Right now. It's important."

Frustration runs through me. I'm helpless, powerless, reduced to a collection of emotional begging.

I try again. Still no answer. The tension builds, a pressure cooker ready to explode.

Fuck it.

I'm not a man of the words anyway.

Solovey men are men of action.

* * *

Ivan is in my office, quickly summoned. His eyes are sharp, posture alert. He knows trouble is coming before I say it.

"Prepare the car. We're going to Royal Arms." I'm already moving, my strides purposeful as I head for the door. Ivan falls into step beside me, as always having him near is like having a constant in the chaos. Nice.

We make our way downstairs and rush through the starting drizzle and to the SUV. I climb into the back and Ivan slides into the driver's seat.

The engine roars to life.

As we pull away from the curb, I try Nico's number again. Still no answer.

The city lights outside the raindrop covered window remind me of an optical prism—the mysterious combination of color and motion. Mother gave me one when I was perhaps five or six. I spun it for hours in front of the sun, looking at the way the light changed.

I lean back against the seat, my eyes closing for a moment as I squeeze the bridge of my nose. The weight of the past few days presses down on me, exhaustion seeping into my bones. And I can feel it trying to latch on to me for good.

But no. I can't rest yet. Not until I know Nico is safe. Not until I figure out how to help him salvage some of his family.

Even if this goes against my very being.

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