Page 47 of Stricken

Or one of my cousins…

Thoughts rush through my head while adrenaline fills my bloodstream. I'm weaponless, caught off guard in a space I thought was safe. The attacker is relentless, slashing at me with a frenzied determination. I dodge and weave, trying to create distance, but the room feels suffocatingly small.

The blade nicks at my biceps and for a fraction of a second, it stings but the sensation is gone immediately, forced out by the desperate need to survive.

"Who sent you?" I hiss out as he lunges at me again, aiming at the center of my neck. Fucker knows where to lodge that weapon. But I'm a Morelli. And we don't give up easily. We fight until our last breath and let's just say it I'm well-rested.

I pivot and the man almost faceplants into the wall. He swirls around lightning fast. Only professional assassins have these kind of skills. But that's more than enough time for me to jump back.

A quick glance around the room in search of something to even the odds has me grinning internally.

My gaze lands on a heavy crystal decanter on the nightstand. I make a dive for it, my fingers closing around the cool glass just as the intruder's blade grazes my forearm, drawing a hiss of pain from my lips.

Gritting my teeth, I swing the decanter with all my strength, feeling it connect with a sickening crunch. The impact shudders through my arms, a shock wave of violence. The intruder staggers back, momentarily stunned. The knife clutters from his hand and to the floor. He grabs at the side of his head where blood blooms, then he drops to his knees.

I don't let my conscience speak. I silence it with the reminder that this man is a killer. It's either him or me. I press my advantage, striking again and again until the body is a heap of flesh on the floor. I feel the crunch of bone, and the give of flesh. I tune it out. The decanter finally shatters, shards of glass raining down around us.

My chest heaves, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The room spins around me, the edges of my vision blurring as the adrenaline begins to fade.

And then it hits me. I've taken a life, crossed a line I never thought I'd have to. No, I'm not a saint. And yes, I knew my uncle probably killed countless people in his youth to get the Morelli family to where it is currently. But we've been striving to rebuild peace. Violence only comes into play when people don't follow the rules.

Still, I knew this, knew that carrying a Morelli name is a curse. Sooner or later you end up with blood on your hands, no matter where you belong—even if it's the top of the food chain.

CHAPTER15

VLAD

The elevator ride to my floor seems to go on forever as I watch the light travel across the buttons on the panel. My body's a traitor though, thrumming with anticipation of seeing Nico.

Damn that street thug Karlo for the ruckus he caused at the club, stressing all my boys out and holding me up. I should have been here hours ago.

The doors finally ding open and I step into the carpeted hallway, cursing under my breath.

No, wait!

Why do I even care if Nico is upset because I'm late?

When did his feelings start to matter?

As I reach the apartment, I slip the key in the lock.

The door swings open into darkness. I pause on the threshold, senses suddenly on high alert. Something feels… off. The air is too still, shadows too deep. Is he gone? Mad at me for taking forever?

I step inside cautiously, eyes scanning.

A sliver of weak light spills from the half-open bedroom door, the only illumination.

"Nico?" I call out, tossing the key into the bowl in the foyer. "You here?"

Seconds later, he emerges from the bedroom, movements abrupt. Even in the low light, I can see the tension radiating off him, jaw clenched tight, his shoulders bunched up, eyes serious.

"I would keep the shoes on if I were you," he grumbles, tone uncharacteristically grating, far from that calming sexy purr I was excited to hear tonight.

"What's going on?" I close the distance between us in several strides, holding his gaze. "Is everything—"

I pause mid-sentence when I finally see blood on his hands and on his arms, soaking his shirt. A chill races down my spine.

"The bedroom. It's a mess," Nico says with an edge of barely controlled panic before I can ask anything.

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