Page 63 of Stricken

Make itDivorce Italian Style, perhaps.

To my aunt, I say quickly, "Sorry,Zia. It's work." I swipe theAnswericon as I rise up from my chair to step away from the table. "Yes?"

"Nico," Vlad's gravelly voice crackles through the phone, taut as a garrote wire. "Meet me at Purgatory as soon as you can." He sounds nothing like the man who begged me to stay and hug him to sleep the other night. He sounds like the cold-blooded, calculated Solovey most people know. He sounds like the threat Uncle Tony warned me about.

"What's going on?" I ask, my tongue thick in my mouth all of a sudden.

"Just get here. Back entrance." The line goes dead, an ominous dial tone humming in my ear.

I stare at the phone, unease coiling in my gut and restlessness entering my body. Vlad's not one for cryptic messages. Whatever this is, it's serious. And most likely can't be communicated over the phone.

I turn around and stride over to the table where Aunt Chiara is cutting up her famous lasagna.

"I'm so sorry,Zia, but there's a situation I need to handle now."

Her face falls but she's used to men in her family leaving this house at the oddest hours of day and night. She's aware of her role just like she's aware of what it takes to run an empire her husband has been running for decades.

"You be careful,tesoro," she says, rising from her chair and kissing me on both cheeks first.

The drive to Purgatory is a blur of traffic lights and buildings bleeding together. My mind races with dread-soaked possibilities. The first thing of course that punches itself into the forefront of my head is the body we buried. I wonder if it's been somehow discovered, if we left some of our DNA on it despite being careful.

When I arrive to the club and pull up to the rear, Vlad is already there, waiting. A stranger in a tailored suit with a mask on his face I can't read. As if we've never even existed. Beside him stands a mountain of a man, all bulging muscles and ink-stained skin. His expression is made from granite, gaze lethal and grim. The second man standing behind Vlad, I know him. He's Vlad's shadow—Ivan.

The tension hangs thick as smog as I approach. Vlad's gray eyes meet mine, cold and sharp as surgical steel. No playful smirk curls his lips, no teasing lilt colors his words. Just a terse nod and "Leave the key in the ignition."

The other men's gazes rake over me, assessing, predatory. A silent exchange passes between them, a flicker of understanding in the clench of jaws and set of shoulders. An unspoken "He's here. Let's do this."

My nerves jangle like live wires. "Vlad, what the hell is going on?" I ask in a hushed voice as we enter the club. A quick glance over my shoulder confirms that my car is being taken care of by someone else, someone who's probably tasked to remove it from the valley and park in some hidden spot, away from Salvatore's prying eyes, somewhere where his–or anyone else's–spies won't see it.

Vlad leans in as we continue walking down an empty corridor and to the bowels of the club. His cologne is a heady mix of danger and spice. "We've got a situation, Romeo," he whispers. "And you're not gonna like it."

There is no longer any room for uncertainty or disbelief. The body has been discovered.

Once we reach Vlad's office, both the inked-up muscle guy and Ivan stay outside. Inside, another man—Hispanic of a slight build—is waiting for us.

"Boss?" He looks at Vlad with a bit of confusion as the door behind us shuts.

"He's fine, Hector," Vlad says with a tip of his chin. "I wanted him to hear this from you to make sure there's no misunderstanding."

My heartbeat skyrockets.

Vlad's man, Hector, keeps on looking at Vlad for a hot second, then asks, "You positive the Italian is okay?"

"Yes."

Hector's eyes bounce between us as he takes the lead, his gravelly voice spitting out words like bullets. "Salvatore Morelli has got a side hustle, and it ain't pretty."

In my mind, I see the ceiling fan above Sal's bed, its languid spin a macabre metaphor for the web of lies he's spun to get in Tony's good graces.

"Junior's got a stash hidden in a warehouse outside Vegas," Hector continues. "Cocaine from what I could tell. Couldn't allow to get noticed so had to bail before I confirmed, but I'm pretty sure that's the shipment that was snatched from the Italians from the border."

The words hit me like a semi, my world careening off course. "No, he wouldn't, that motherfucker." The truth is heavy as a stone in my stomach. I always knew Sal hated me, but why undermine an operation Uncle is overseeing? Is it out of spite because of my involvement? I focus my attention on Hector. "Is everyone in Vegas aware of our shipment issues?"

His eyes narrow into icy slits and he hisses in a low tone, "With all due respect, Mr. Morelli, but your family's hiccups aren't that big a secret. The entire city is watching you, waiting for the perfect opportunity to pounce ever since Roberto started meddling with real estate. Your cousin has no brain to manage property. He should have stayed away from it. Instead, he brought nothing but trouble and de—."

"Hector," Vlad interrupts, probably to spare me humiliation.

Hector turns to him. "Boss, I'm stating the facts. You asked me to get to the bottom of it. You got it. Let me know what you want me to do next."

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