Page 28 of Stricken

"I will send the coordinates."

I end the call and dial Ivan.

"Da?"

"I need you to pack my bags and get me a flight for Sinaloa. The first one I can catch. Or charter if necessary."

"Okay," he replies in Russian. "I'll get our things rea—"

"Net," I interrupt him. "You are staying."

A beat of silence. Then, "What?"

"Someone must run my business. Someone I trust."

The logic is sound, still leaving Ivan behind feels wrong, like stepping onto a battlefield without my trusted lieutenant. But no one else is able to hold down the fort in Vegas in my absence, especially now that things are not exactly stable.

"Are you sure, Vlad?"

"Da. I'll take Sergei and his guys instead. He's a good man and a good shot. We will be fine."

"Okay," Ivan agrees. I can't tell from the way his voice tightens around the edges he doesn't like it.

"Bud' ostorozhen," he grunts.

"Always am," I reply, but we both know it's a lie. This witch hunt has made me reckless. Yet I can't stop.

Hours later, I'm on the plane, listening to the gentle hum of engines in business class.

But inside my head? A different story—a storm of chaos thunders on. Shtyk. So close, yet still out of reach. The incomplete feeling gnaws at me, a void that can only be filled by vengeance.

My phone sits heavy in my pocket. Before I can stop myself, I pull it out and scroll through my contacts, thumb hovering over Nico's name when I reach him. His face fills my mind–those stunning eyes the color of winter lake and the cunning curve of his smile. For an instant, I'm back in that hotel room, somewhere above Palazzo, his skin warm against mine, his voice whisperingcaroin my ear.

I shake my head, banishing the memory. This thing with Nico—whatever it is—it needs to end before it goes too far. Before I drag him into my darkness. And before he drags me into his.

With a sigh, I pocket the phone. There's only room for one obsession in my life, and its name is Shtyk.

* * *

The chopper descends through a veil of emerald canopy, revealing the Arellano estate nestled in the heart of the Sinaloan jungle somewhere on the edge of the mountain. As we touch down, I'm struck by the juxtaposition—a fortress of modern luxury amid raw, untamed wilderness.

Esteban Arellano strides toward me as soon as the doors swing open. His lean frame cuts a sharp silhouette against the verdant backdrop. For a small man, he is quite intimidating. "Mr. Solovey," he shouts a greeting, dark eyes full of calculation. "Welcome to our humble abode."

I scan the compound, taking in the blend of colonial architecture and state-of-the-art security. "Humble isn't the word I'd use," I remark politely, noting the guards positioned at strategic points, their eyes constantly roving.

Esteban's lips curl into a wry smile. "Come, let me show you to your quarters."

As we walk, leaving the winding down chopper behind, I absorb the details. Vibrant murals adorn walls, telling stories of ancient Aztec Gods and modern cartel kings. The scent of copal incense blends with the fresh, earthy aroma of the surrounding forest.

It's a beautiful place, no doubt about it. Beautiful and full of dangerous surprises most likely if I don't follow the house rules.

"I take it your trip was comfortable," Esteban inquires, ushering me into the cool confines of the main house. There is a group of people trailing after us—Esteban's guards, house staff, my own security detail with Sergei in charge. One of the workers is carrying my luggage bag.

I catch a glimpse of some curious faces peeking out from the corners—women dressed in uniform. Probably maids.

"Trip was fine," I reply politely as we pass a long hallway with walls painted in bright colors. "How about you? Business as usual here in paradise?"

Esteban smiles slily. "We get by, Mr. Solovey."

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