Page 34 of Stricken

Still waiting on that time and place, Romeo. Don't leave me in suspense.

I glance up, catching Costa's eye. He's lounging on the leather sofa, ostensibly reviewing some paperwork I gave him. But I know he's monitoring my every move.

How about tonight?

My pulse quickens.

The response from Vlad is almost immediate.

As much as I'd love to, I'm afraid I can't tonight.

I'm stunned by the amount of disappointment that crashes over me.

Bummer. Another hot date?

I wonder if my tone is casual enough not to come off needy but the text is sent, so there's no taking it back now if he reads too much into it.

No. Just a quick trip south of the border. Some loose ends to tie up in Mexico.

Mexico. The word sets off alarm bells in my head. Everyone knows that there are only two kinds of trips people take there. Vacation or deals similar to my uncle's. I'm guessing it's not the first one since loose ends are mentioned. And despite my curiosity I don't ask.

While I'm trying to come up with a worthy reply, Vlad sends another text.

How about tomorrow?

And you're certain you'll be back by then?

Missing my cock already?

The teasing reply comes with a winking emoji and immediately another message:

Yes, I will be back tomorrow. Things didn't quite go as planned here, so I'm cutting the trip short.

I lean back in the chair, completely forgetting that I need to check my stocks.

Just as I'm about to craft a witty response, a frantic pounding of the feet outside and then the aggressive swing of the door shatters the quiet.

Costa's on his feet, paperwork flying all over the carpet. Claudio's voice, usually so composed, rings out with uncharacteristic urgency.

"You need to come. It's Roberto!"

My stomach plummets. My brain goes into war mode, my phone forgotten, even before I know what exactly is happening. Claudio's ashen face tells me all that I need to know—trouble has arrived.

"What’s going on?" I'm already pushing myself from the chair and slamming the laptop shut.

Claudio shakes his head, words seeming to fail him. "He's in bad shape."

I bolt past the consigliere, my polished oxfords squeaking against the hardwood as I race down the hallway. The house is already in chaos, people streaming toward the front entrance. Family members, Uncle's employees, premises workers. Even Chef Trombetta, spatula in hand.

My mind is a speeding train, careening down a track of endless possibilities, each worse than the last.

As I burst through the front door, the scene before me stops me cold. An SUV idles in the driveway, its back door flung open. Salvatore and two of our security guys—Nino and Renato—are struggling to extract a limp form from the backseat.

I try to breathe through my nose, jaw clenched as horror quietly washes over me.

My cousin is a wreck. His designer shirt hangs in tatters, revealing angry red welts and darkening bruises. Blood matts his hair, trickling down one side of his face. Somewhere in the background, I can already hear women wailing. My only hope is that Aunt Chiara isn't back from her weekly market trip yet. She loves to catch up with the other ladies in the neighborhood a few times a week. If she sees her eldest son like this, it will break her heart. Then there's Roberto's wife, Maria. She better not be here. She better be in their own house Roberto bought for her.

"What the fuck happened?" I snarl at no one in particular, rushing forward to help, my pulse pounding in my ears.

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