Page 117 of Stricken

Without any kind of preamble, Vlad begins talking. "Hector received intel that Tony Morelli will be taken out tomorrow."

Whispers echo through the warehouse.

Several heads turn to Hector.

He nods slowly to confirm the news.

"Shit, boss," Seven mutters, shaking his head and glancing at Vlad. "Those are some shady dealings."

"The old-timer is on foot in the grave anyway," another voice says from the back.

"Yeah," Seven goes on. "Do we know who wants him this dead?"

"His younger son," I supply.

Another wave of whispers rolls through the crowd.

"And why are you here?" Marco asks, coming to stand next to Ricky. As soon as the question leaves his mouth, Ricky elbows him in the ribs.

"Shut up, you dumbass," Ocho laughs into his fist.

"Hey Marco, you're the only one who still doesn't know the boss is dating," someone from the back cackles.

I feel blood rushing to my face. Fuck. Blushing in front of all these men would be equal to saying goodbye to my own dignity.

"That's enough," Vlad demands.

The warehouse goes silent.

"We are going to find a way to get inside the Morelli mansion tomorrow morning," Vlad continues speaking, "and make sure Tony remains alive and well. As well as he can be." He pauses for a second to let the information sink in. "Any ideas on how we're going to do that?"

"I say we pose as a gardening crew," Ricky suggests.

"Yeah. We still have the uniforms from the last job," Seven pipes up.

Hector shakes his head. "Too short notice," he counters. "We won't be able to get a crew inside tomorrow without a good cover story. And a good cover story takes some time."

"Plus who gardens in this weather," Ocho says, jerking his chin up to the ceiling to point out the rhythmic drone of rain against metal.

Marco's eyes light up, a spark of excitement animating his features. "What about a power outage?" he proposes. "I've got a contact at the power company that handles the entire Seven Hills. I can call him up right now. Makes sense with the rain and all."

The group exchanges glances, a mix of skepticism and intrigue rippling through their ranks. The risks are high, the stakes even higher. But desperation breeds innovation, and in this game of life and death, we simply can't afford to play it safe.

"Not the worst idea you had, man," Ricky muses.

One of the Hellhounds thumps Marco on the back with his meaty hand. "Guess, you know how to work that head of yours, Marco."

Marco socks him in the ribs with an equally solid punch. "Fuck off, eh?"

It's a strange language only they understand—a gritty camaraderie made up of bruises and crude jokes.

"Can this contact of yours be trusted, Marco?" Vlad asks.

"Yes. This guy is good. He owes me one too many favors and he knows I'm coming to collect one of these days."

Hector nods, a grudging respect in his eyes. "Solid plan," he admits, looking at Vlad. "But we'll need to move fast. Time is not on our side, boss man."

I step forward. "I know the layout of the house," I offer. "I can show the weak points."

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