Page 35 of Stricken

Salvatore grunts, his face a mask of strain as we haul Roberto's dead weight.

I slip my shoulder over for support as Renato arranges Roberto's arm over my neck—even though I'm not so sure it's a good idea—moving him like this. He could have broken bones.

"How?" I ask under my breath, heaving on the way to the stairs.

"Found him like this outside that new club on 7th," Nino, who usually drives Roberto, whimpers.

"Someone worked him over good," Salvatore mutters with that familiar venomous edge in his voice. "Looks like your handiwork, cousin." He shoots me a toxic stare while we carefully maneuver Roberto up the steps, one at a time. His shoes scrape over them as we drag him inside the house.

"Doctor is on his way!" Claudio shouts.

"Lay him down," someone chimes in.

Silverware crashes to the hardwood floor with a jarring clatter as we clear space for Roberto on the dining table in the main room.

"Nobody tells anything to my father yet!" Salvatore orders. "And get back to whatever you were doing." He stops one of the maids to give her some sort of instructions.

"Padrino," Costa whispers in my ear, a phone in his hand. "For you."

"Didn't I tell you not to call me this in front of these people?" I hiss out, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my bloody palm. I couldn't care less about appearance right now.

Costa's face remains a stony mask. I have no idea if he understands that calling me what my uncle presently is will be considered a betrayal in this family. There is a natural order to things among the Morelli.

I grab the phone from Costa's hand and move away from the chaos surrounding Roberto. "Nicola speaking."

"Did you get my message, boy?" Vartan's voice on the line asks.

CHAPTER10

NICO

Later that evening, I find myself pacing the plush carpet of the hotel suite in one of the Morelli buildings on the Strip. Each step I take is a pendulum swinging between anticipation and dread. The room feels small and hot despite the AC blowing and the square footage being far from modest.

I loosen my tie.

Vlad Solovey. His name echoes in my mind, wiping away all the other worries I have. This thing, this… whatever it is, burns with such intensity that it terrifies me. I run a hand through my hair, disheveling the careful styling.

"Fuck," I mutter, pausing to stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows. The Las Vegas skyline glitters and beckons. Too bad all this light can't erase the darkness roiling in me.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I flinch, half-expecting Vartan's gravelly voice demanding answers regarding his payout. But it's just a text from Costa, asking something about the stocks I needed for him to check. I ignore it.

Roberto's face flashes in my mind—bruised, bloodied. My stomach churns. The hijacked shipment created a problem I didn't anticipate. And the Armenians... Fuck, they're not known for patience or mercy.

Two days. I begged for two days to investigate this mess. But now, my mind is elsewhere. Completely checked out and I don't know if it's a bad thing. I don't know if getting involved in Roberto's shit was a smart move. I could have come up with an excuse not to come. LA was good to me.

I pour myself a whiskey from the mini-bar, the liquid sloshing as my hand trembles slightly. I tell myself to get it together and down the drink in one burning gulp. It doesn't alleviate my panic.

Why am I even here when my own house is literally on fire?

This thing with Vlad—it's just a distraction. A momentary escape. Nothing more. I repeat the words like a mantra, hoping to believe it.

But as the door handle turns, my heart leaps traitorously in my chest. And I know, with a bone-deep certainty that terrifies me, that I'm lying to myself.

Vlad is no mere distraction. He's a force of nature. An entire universe, pulling me into his orbit with gravity I can't resist. And God help me, I don't want to.

First, his form fills the frame, then he steps inside. His presence is electric and all-consuming, and my breath catches in my throat when the door slams shut behind him with a finality that pushes me to the edge.

His steely eyes scan the room before locking onto mine, and suddenly, the world outside ceases to exist. The Armenians, Roberto, the shipment—all of it fades away, replaced by an overwhelming sense of relief. Relief that he's here.

---