Page 57 of Stricken

A burden I've chosen to bear. For Nico. For myself.

I reach for the whiskey in my drawer I have stashed there for times like this, hoping to drown the horror of that night. But some stains, I'm learning, never truly wash away.

A sharp knock jolts me from my trance. Ivan enters, his expression stoic as ever.

"It's done," he says in Russian.

I nod, relief washing over me. "The footage?"

"Erased. Like you were never there."

"And the backups?"

"Corrupted beyond recovery."

I allow myself a small smile. "You're a ghost, Ivan."

"Ghosts leave traces. I leave nothing."

"Thank you."

Ivan inclines his head slightly. "Always, boss." Then he just stands there, looking at me.

"Is there anything else I need to know?"

"Vladimir. This Italian…He is trouble. I told you."

Ivan's right. He was right all along. He has a sixth sense when it comes to these things but I don't acknowledge his concerns.

As he silently turns to leave, I add, "Ivan, this never happened."

"What never happened?" he replies, a rare glint of humor in his eyes.

The door closes behind him, and I exhale slowly. One less loose end to worry about.

Another knock, this time more hesitant, comes a little later in the evening. Seven pokes his head in. "Boss, there's a man downstairs. Came through the back. Says he needs to see you."

I frown. "I'm not expecting anyone."

"He's... insistent. Says his name is Romeo."

My heart rate spikes. Nico. Here? Now?

"Bring him up," I order, masking my surprise. "Escort him to the VIP room. The corner one. Discreetly."

Seven nods and vanishes. I stand, straightening my tie, mind racing. What could be so urgent that Nico would risk coming here?

Whatever it is, I have a sinking feeling our carefully constructed house of cards is about to come tumbling down.

I exit my office and head to the VIP room.

As I push open the door, my breath catches. Nico stands by the window, a silhouette lined by the low light. He turns, and I'm struck anew by his beauty—all sharp angles and dangerous curves, like a stiletto wrapped in silk. I hate this. Hate that he makes me feel this way—rattled—whenever he enters the picture. I've never experienced anything of the sort before and it's driving me nuts.

"You can't be here," I say, my throat suddenly tight. His presence here, in my domain, is terrifying. "What the hell are you thinking? If anyone sees us—"

"Vlad," he interrupts, closing the distance between us with two strides. His eyes, usually playful, are filled with worry. "We have a problem."

My pulse quickens. "What kind of problem?"

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