Page 146 of Stricken

I swallow hard. My heart screams yes but my head warns of the risks. I'm the head of the family now. I can't appear weak. Can't let my feelings interfere. If I'm kicked out of the hospital, rumors will spread.

"Well, it's in the past," I supply matter-of-factly, knowing Costa isn't easily fooled. But I don't think I'm trying to fool him. I'm trying to fool myself. Fool myself into thinking Vlad Solovey means nothing to me.

The silence stretches, and with it do my fears. Costa watches me, awaiting my decision.

I know what I should do—stay focused on the empire, the power, the respect I've fought so hard to earn. It's what Uncle would expect. But Vlad...

Stop! Just stop, Nicola. He didn't want you. So you should stop wanting him too.

My jaw clenches. Resolve hardens in my chest, cold and sharp as a blade. To hell with him.

Costa's expression remains stoic. "Padrino, we have a scheduled visit to the family operations facilities later today. The new distributors will be expecting to meet with you. Or should I reschedule?"

I pinch the bridge of my nose, a headache brewing behind my eyes. "I know." I let a few tense seconds tick by before rising from my chair. "Let's meet with the distributors."

We exit the office and into the freshly painted hallway. As we walk through the house, I notice the new wallpaper as well. Aunt Chiara's doing, no doubt. Keeping busy.

I gave her permission to do whatever she wanted with the house. There were still damages that needed to be fixed and covered up after the attempt on Uncle's life. I thought having my aunt occupied would do her some good.

My mind wanders as Costa and I cross the family room and head over to the front. I'm thinking of Vlad again. Lying in a hospital bed, alone and vulnerable. The memory of his rare smile and his rough hands sends a pang through my chest. But the expectations of the family pull me in the opposite direction.

Lost in thought, I almost collide with a figure as we round the corner. Tony's Sicilian. He's still here, still lurking around the house, as if waiting for something. Maybe for me to make a mistake.

"Shouldn't you be back in Italy by now?" I ask the man in Italian, without slowing my pace.

He simply inclines his head. "Mr. Morelli." His voice has the hairs on the back of my neck stand.

Even Costa stiffens beside me, his hand twitching toward his weapon. I place a hand on his arm, a silent command.

"Thisfiglio di puttanagives me the creeps," Costa murmurs as we reach the car parked out front.

"That makes two of us," I agree, my lips twisting into a humorless smile. "But we have bigger things to worry about, don't we?"

* * *

The engine of the black SUV purrs to life as Costa guides us onto the open road. The city sprawling before us is a concrete jungle hiding secrets in every corner. Once Vladimir Solovey and Nicola Morelli were one of those secrets. Today, it's just a fling of the past. Forgotten. At least for him.

For me, it wasn't a fling. And I will forever hate myself for this, for being so weak.

I lean back in the leather seat and pull out my phone, searching for any scrap of information about the accident. News articles flash across the screen, each headline a stab to my gut.

His car drove into a barrier at the Enclave. He's got multiple injuries. Broken ribs. Broken leg.

What the hell was he doing there and where the hell was Ivan to let him race?

His face haunts me again, his intense eyes and the serious curve of his mouth are flashing at me from the photos in every post.

Costa glances at me in the rearview mirror, his gaze filled with unspoken understanding when I meet it. He can tell how I really feel. We've known each other too long.

"If you change your mind,Padrino," he offers from the front of the vehicle, "Let me know."

I reply with a non-committal grunt and shift my attention to the landscape outside as we pass the winking skyline of the Strip and then move further into the outskirts of Vegas. Industrial buildings begin to rise on either side, their facades weather-beaten and grim. Costa navigates the streets with ease, bringing us outside the city limits and to the heart of the family's operations.

The warehouse looks just like any other warehouse on this stretch of the road. Old. Faded company sign. The company is bogus. It exists only on paper. The place hums with activity, the scent of diesel and sweat permeating the air. Men in dark clothing move methodically.

I'm greeted as I move through the operations. Some bow their heads. Some simply nod. I don't care how they show their respect. As long as they do.

I don't stop for a conversation. I keep on moving, scanning the organized chaos. Crates of product are loaded onto trucks, destined for the streets of Los Angeles.

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