Page 55 of Stricken

Even as the words leave my mouth, I question their truth. What have I done? And how much does Uncle really know?

Tony leans back in his chair, the leather creaking ominously. His face is an impenetrable mask, giving nothing away. The silence stretches between us like a void of unuttered accusations.

"Is that so?" he finally says. "And you're certain of this, Nicola?"

I tip my chin, trying to project confidence I don't feel. "Absolutely, Uncle. I wouldn't risk our family's interests for anything. But do you really want to see another member of our family beaten into a bloody pulp while we are working on fixing the situation?"

Tony's fingers drum a slow, menacing rhythm on his desk. The sound echoes in the room like a funeral march. "You know, Nico," he says, his eyes never leaving mine, "trust is a fragile thing in our world. Once broken, it's not easily repaired."

The weight of his words pressing down on me is suffocating. The power dynamic in the room shifts palpably, and I'm acutely aware of how small I feel under his scrutiny.

"I understand, Uncle," I manage to say, my throat dry. "I would never betray your trust."

Tony's silence speaks volumes. It's clear he's not convinced, and the realization cuts deeper than any knife. I've disappointed him, and in our family, disappointment can be a death sentence.

"That'll be all, Nico," Tony says abruptly.

I rise from the chair, my legs oddly unsteady as I cross the office. As I reach for the door handle, Tony speaks again and his words feel like a final twist of the knife.

"Don't make me regret putting my faith in you, nephew."

* * *

I'm not certain why I'm drowning in the need to prove myself to the old man, to show I'm worthy of the Morelli name. For years I wanted to distance myself from them, moving to LA, accepting Uncle's help in getting one degree after another. I hoped he'd forget about me altogether.

But being here, being in Vegas, and seeing both cousins ruining everything Tony worked for side by side with my father—who died for this legacy and for this peace—has me shaking with anger. Has me wanting to get what's rightfully mine, what my father sacrificed his life for.

Those are my thoughts as I stand outside Tony's office. Before me, the hallway stretches.

Not much I can do presently except working with Vlad to figure out what happened to the stolen shipment and what agenda Toro and La Alianza have.

Each step feels heavier than the last. Relief wars with dread in my chest, a dizzying cocktail that leaves me nauseated. I survived the encounter, but if Tony heard about the favor I asked from the Russians, what else might he discover? Is he tailing me?

Vlad's face flashes in my mind, his steely eyes softening in the way only I get to see. God, how I'd wanted to argue, to fight against the inevitable. But now, with the threat of exposure hanging over me like a blade, I know he was right. We need to end it soon. All of it.

My heart aches, a physical pain that threatens to bring me to my knees. How did I let myself get in so deep? How could I risk everything—my family, my future, my very life—for fleeting moments with a man I can never truly have?

There has to be a way to salvage this mess, to prove myself to Tony and keep Vlad safe and out of the Morelli family drama.

I reach the end of the hallway and instead of turning in the direction of my room, I walk the other way.

On the expansive terrace, I stare at the manicured garden sprawl before me like a green oasis in the desert of my thoughts. My hands find their way into my pockets as I gaze at the sky, searching for answers among the wispy clouds.

"Well, well. If it isn't the golden boy, looking a little tarnished," Salvatore's voice comes from behind me.

I don't turn, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

"What do you want, Sal?" I keep my tone flat, disinterested.

He saunters up. From the corner of my eyes, I can see that snarky smirk playing on his lips. "Oh, nothing. Just enjoying the view of Uncle Tony's favorite nephew finally slipping up."

I force myself to remain still. Salvatore leans in, his breath hot against my ear as he whispers, "Don't worry,cugino. Tony still doesn't know about your... extracurricular activities with the Russian."

White-hot anger flashes through me. I want to wrap my fingers around my cousin's throat and choke all the life out of him. Blood be cursed. Instead, I slowly turn to face him and say, "Listen carefully, you piece of shit. You keep your mouth shut about this, or I swear to God—"

I falter here, just for a fraction of a second but it's more than enough for him to interrupt me.

"Or what?"

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