Page 48 of Stricken

"What do you mean, 'a mess?'" I push past him, shouldering the bedroom door fully open and stepping inside.

The coppery smell hits me first. Then my eyes adjust to the weak lamplight and I see it–the gruesome scene before me.

The man lies sprawled on the floor in a pool of his own blood, one eye staring sightlessly at the ceiling. The second eye is gone. Glass shards glitter crimson under the lamplight. The room spins as the reality slams into me, stealing my breath.

I whirl to face Nico, who has positioned himself in the corner, his fists at his sides as if he's physically trying to hold it all in. "What the hell happened here?" I demand, my voice is suddenly rough with shock.

Nico's face is a twisted mask of distress and anger, his dark hair disheveled. "What do you think happened?" he bites out. "I woke up to a stranger in the room. It was him or me, Vlad."

I turn back to the body, mind racing. Nico must have fought back, must have grabbed the decanter in desperation. That's why the glass—

I cut the thought off, bile rising in my throat. Crouching down, I inspect the corpse with a practiced eye, noting the defensive wounds. My gaze snags on a tattoo peeking out from under the man's sleeve.

With a sense of dread, I pull a pen from my jacket and use it to push back the fabric. The ink is unmistakable—Toro's mark. Same tattoo I've seen before on the man who took my little brother. White-hot anger flashes through me, my hand clenching around the pen until it almost breaks.

"He's one of Toro's men," I tell Nico without looking at him. Pieces slot into place to form a horrifying picture. "This was a hit. But I don't think you were the target." I glance up at him. "I think they were after me."

Nico's eyes narrow, a flicker of something darker than fear crossing his face. He takes a step back, shoulders tensing as if preparing for a blow. "Convenient excuse, huh?"

"I'm sorry what?" I rise up, my eyes never leaving him, my chest stiffening.

"Wouldn't that be nice if I were just gone? That way no one can ever corroborate the truth."

"What truth?"

"Our dirty little secret. Isn't this what you wanted all along?"

There's a long pause, then it occurs to me. He's considering the possibility I was the one who tried to kill him. His accusation cuts deep, deeper than I expected.

"Fuck you, Romeo!" I hiss at him, my fury barely contained. "You approached me first in LA. How do I know you're not a fucking spy?"

"No," he interrupts, voice rising. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to put this on me."

For a moment, I can only stare at him, stunned by the venom in his tone. Then I ask, but quieter, "You think I would do this? You think I would try to end you in my apartment, you fool?"

Nico laughs, the sound harsh and bitter. "I don't know what to think anymore, Vlad. I was warned about you, about how you operate. Maybe they were right."

Anger surges through me, hot and bright. I take a step forward, closing the distance between us until we're nearly nose to nose, invading his personal space. "And how exactly do I operate, Nico? You were the one who offered to buy me a drink, remember? You also asked for my help, and I gave it freely, never asking for anything in return."

He doesn't flinch, but his shoulders sag a little as if all the fight is gone out of him.

I lean forward, bringing my mouth to his ear. "If I wanted you dead, Romeo, you'd be dead already." Then I draw back and watch the pulse fluttering visibly at his throat. I gesture to the corpse sprawled across my floor. "This? This is sloppy. Not my style. Too flashy."

"Then how do you explain the fact someone tried to stab me while I was sleeping in your bed?"

"I already explained it. You just refused to listen. The attempt was on my life, not yours," I insist, mind racing. "It seems whoever tried to kill me in Mexico is determined to finish the job, no matter how many people they lose in the process." A beat. "Unless..."

I step back, surveying the room with new eyes. "Unless someone else knows about our secret."

Nico blanches, fear and confusion warring in his expression. "Who else could possibly know?"

"Vartan," I mutter, more to myself than to Nico.

He frowns. "The old Armenian?"

I meet Nico's gaze, realization settling like a lead weight in my gut. "He knows. About us. He alluded to it earlier, when I met with him to ask for leniency for your family. That favor I mentioned."

Nico looks stricken, color draining from his face. "How? We've been fucking careful."

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