Page 139 of Stricken

The world tilts on its axis. His words twist my gut, and puncture my lungs.

A cloud of dust billows in the distance, growing larger by the second. The roar of an engine fills the space all around me. A sports car skids to a stop in front of the warehouse, and I catch a glimpse of Ivan's grim face. He's behind the wheel.

"Let's get out of here," Vlad says, already moving toward the vehicle. The passenger door swings open and closes, the car swallowing him up.

Marco and Hector release me right when the crack of gunfire splits the air. One of Tony's men has drawn his weapon, desperation overriding common sense. The Hellhounds respond in kind, transforming the quiet desert into a war zone.

Vlad's eyes meet mine one last time through the windshield, and for a split second, I think I see a splash of... something. Regret? Pain? But then it's gone, replaced by that impenetrable mask. The mask he had on when I met him and the mask he's put back up now that he's leaving me.

"Down!" one of Tony's men orders, emerging from out of nowhere to shove me to the ground. I don't have it in me to fight. I simply drop on my belly, face in dirt. For a second it feels like I'm surrounded by a rain of lead. I hear the dull thud of bullets striking the truck filled with worthless sugar. A mockery of the sweetness I'd tasted on Vlad's lips just hours ago.

"Damn you, Vlad!" I scream his name, my voice lost in the noise and Rinaldo's orders to stop shooting. "Damn you!" My fist hits the ground and when I lift my gaze, the car Ivan's driving is already peeling away, kicking up a cloud of dirt and gravel and broken promises. The Hellhounds retreat to their own vehicle.

And me, I'm stranded in no-man's-land between two warring factions, numb and completely destroyed.

What registers through the dust is the setting sun painting the sky in shades of blood and fire right before the world plunges into the darkness. It feels fitting. Whatever light Vlad had brought into my life has been extinguished, leaving nothing but cold, bitter emptiness in its wake.

CHAPTER45

VLAD

In my office above the club, I stare at my phone, the screen black and silent. No messages from Nico. And there shouldn't be. No matter how much I long for them.

My fingers hover, trembling slightly, caught in the space between desire and restraint.

It's been two weeks since the botched transfer of the Brazilians coke to Tony's men. Two weeks since I orchestrated the betrayal, since I drove a knife into Nico's heart and twisted it.

Outside these walls, the club rages with the muffled bass from the dance floor below, but here, there's only stillness. I close my eyes, and Nico's face swims before me. Those blue eyes are filled with shock, with pain, with accusation.

My fist clenches around the phone.

"It was for the best," I whisper to the shadows. "He's safer this way."

Alive.

But the words taste like dogshit on my tongue. The truth is, I'm a coward, hiding behind noble intentions. I allowed Chiara's warning shake me.

People, whoever they are, ordered to carry out Tony's order after he's gone, aren't a threat to me. I could find them, could cut out their tongues and then chop off their limbs and spread them all over the Nevada desert.

But the risk is too great.

It's not my life but Nico's life.

And I can't let that happen.

So I had to hurt him, had to make him believe I double-crossed him, used him. I had to shatter the fragile trust we'd built, leave him with nothing but bitter shards.

It's better this way, I tell myself for the hundredth time. He'll hurt at first. He'll hate me too. But some time down the road, he'll move on. Build a life. And someday, the ache in my chest where he used to be will fade too.

Fuck. Who am I kidding?

I squeeze me eyes shut.

He was the one for me, so no, I don't want it to go away. I want it to torture me like a motherfucker for the rest of my days. A reminder that, I once loved someone. A reminder that I'm a human. It's Yuri who made me this way—turned me into a machine.

I open my eyes, stare down at the phone again. I could call him, breathe into the phone like a creeper just to hear his voice. And then what?

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Nico.

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