Page 37 of Stricken

Vlad tosses the dirtied bedcover to the floor with a careless swipe of his hand. "Make sure to tip your personnel well," he mutters in that terribly rough voice of his. But I do catch a hint of a smile on his face.

I chuckle. "Noted."

We lie side by side, staring at the ceiling. The silence stretches between us into something tangible. I turn my head slightly to see him better and my eyes drift to the bruises on his neck. Against his fair skin, they stand out like grotesque battle scars, screaming for attention and demanding answers that I am too afraid to seek.

"Are you going to tell me what happened now?" I start, the first two words are shaky but I manage to sound stern toward at the end of my sentence.

Vlad tenses beside me, jaw clenching and unclenching. For a moment, I think he'll shut me out again. But then he exhales, long and slow.

"It's... a long story," he says finally, his tone carefully neutral. "I'm fairly certain you know who my father was."

"Who doesn't?"

"Yes. He made sure to be remembered for all the shit he has done."

"So, what do these bruises have to do with your dead father?"

"There's a man who worked for him for years. Shtyk. He's the reason my mother is dead… I think she knew what Yuri was when she married him and I think deep down she hoped she'd change him, even just a bit. But men like him don't change. Eventually, after she realized how truly dangerous he was, she tried to leave." He pauses. "With me and my brother. Alexander wouldn't remember any of it. He was too little. But I was older. I remember we packed for a trip once and then… we were told she had a stroke."

I study his profile drawn against the backdrop of the night sky in the window. "Your father ordered her gone?" I guess.

Vlad nods, his expression unchanged. "Yuri always was a selfish, heartless bastard. I heard him asking Shtyk, this man I'm after, to 'take care' of my mother right before this trip she was supposed to take us on, but I couldn't properly put the pieces together until after. I've had people looking for Shtyk even since my father's death. But the motherfucker is hard to find. He has some very powerful and very nasty people protecting him."

"More powerful than you?"

He releases a dark chuckle. "Apparently there are people like this, yes?" Another pause. "Shtyk's got half my gun trade cut off from my father's sources in Russia, so he has leverage and goods to trade. I received a tip he was seen in Mexico, so I took a quick trip, but it didn't work out the way I hoped."

"You two butted heads and he's in the wind again?" I ask.

The bitterness in his voice cuts deep when he speaks. "No, someone tried to kill me and I'm not sure if it's his doing or the people who are supposed to help me find him are also wanting me gone."

I reach out, tracing the outline of the angel tattoo on his chest. "Is this her, your mother?"

"Yes," he breathes.

"What do the letters mean?"

"Marina. That's her name spelled in Russian."

"I'm sorry you're going through this. I really am."

This sudden confession from him has me think of my own losses. The ache of absence never truly fades. Time doesn't erase the pain, maybe only dulls it temporarily, but it tends to come back and hurt like a motherfucker occasionally.

My fingers linger on his skin, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat.

"She was my entire world," Vlad whispers. "The only good, the only kindness I had, and he took her from me. And I've been holding on to this good she gave me so hard and for so long, but I feel like if I don't catch the asshole, it'll go away."

I swallow hard, unsure if by "he" Vlad means his father or the man who executed the order. And again, I don't ask. For people like us, questions could be deadly. My own grief rises to the surface too.

"I understand," I say, my voice firm but laced with a sadness I rarely allow myself to express. "I lost my father during the war between two Italian syndicates. He was just someone we were willing to sacrifice for the greater good. And my mother... she died right after I was born. She was sick."

Vlad's head turns a little on the pillow to meet my gaze. Softness enters his eyes.

I press on, the words spilling out like water from a broken dam, while his hand finds mine. "I don't even know her. All I have is a photo." I pause, a hollow laugh escaping my lips. "Sometimes, I feel... empty. Like there's this hole where they should be."

The admission hangs in the air, stark and raw, and I feel oddly vulnerable under Vlad's scrutinizing stare.

"I knew about your parents," Vlad supplies quietly, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. "Had my men look into your background when I found out who you were."

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