Page 74 of Stricken

My men work with brutal efficiency, securing the unconscious guards. Nico helps. Seven and I kick off the locks. The soft metallic clang in the still night air is the only sound before we quietly enter the space.

"Vlad," Nico murmurs, his breath hot against my ear as we slip through the darkness. "We make a hell of a team."

I suppress a shiver. "Focus, Morelli. We're not out of the woods yet."

The smell of cardboard and chemicals hangs heavy here, but I try not to pay attention. I don't care what's going on in this place. I'm helping Nico. Nothing else.

My men get to the container in an instant and remove the locks with deadly proficiency the same way I did the other night. They start unloading the boxes, their movements quick and silent. One by one. Hundreds of thousands of dollars in each box. Blood money all the way from Brazil that are no longer taking this detour Salvatore Morelli came up with.

Nico and I help, climbing inside and joining Hector in handing the merch to Seven, who's managing the rest of the crew. These guys are gold, pure, and insanely valuable. I can understand why Isaac Thoreau treated them like family, with great care, and why he asked me to do the same.

Once all the boxes are out of the container, we get out.

Nico leans against its wall, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "You know, leaving this thing empty... Sal's in for one hell of a surprise next time he tries to move product without checking."

I chuckle, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly. "Serves the bastard right."

Our laughter fades, and suddenly I'm acutely aware of how close we're standing. The darkness feels electric, charged with something dangerous and intoxicating.

Before I can think better of it, I press myself up against Nico, my lips crashing into his. He tastes like adrenaline and possibility, and I'm drowning in it.

The kiss is a warfare, a battle for dominance. Neither of us is willing to yield. Nico's hands grip my shoulders, his fingers digging in with bruising force. I retaliate by fisting my hand in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him gasp. The sound sends a violent jolt of electricity down my spine. Almost as if I'm hit by lightning.

It's hard muscle on muscle. I can feel the rapid beat of Nico's heart, matching my own frantic rhythm. His tongue sweeps across my lower lip, demanding entry, and I grant it with a low growl.

The kiss is like a forest fire, consuming everything in its path. It's desire and danger and the thrill of the forbidden fruit. For a fraction of a second, I forget about the operation, about my men, about everything except the taste of Nico's mouth and the heat of his skin.

"Boss?" A voice comes through the haze. "Need to know—"

I wrench myself away from Nico, panting raggedly. Seven appears from around the truck and stands a few feet away, his expression carefully neutral.

"Right," I say, struggling to regain my composure. "Finish loading the vans. We're almost done here."

As Seven walks away, I turn back to Nico. His lips are swollen, his eyes dark with unfulfilled desire. I clear my throat. "Any more dirt on Sal you want to dig up while we're here?"

Nico's gaze sharpens, the strategist replacing the lover. "Give me five minutes to search the office."

"Be quick, Romeo." I watch him disappear into the shadows of the warehouse. Rushing over to my men, I bark out orders. "Move out. We're right behind you."

Ivan hesitates. "You sure, boss? We can wait—"

"Go," I insist. "We'll be fine."

As the sound of engines fades into the distance, I follow Nico's path deeper into the warehouse. The silence is oppressive, broken only by the occasional rustle of papers somewhere far away.

"Any luck?" I call out, rounding a corner to find Nico rifling through a filing cabinet inside a tiny glassed off office area with his cell phone's flashlight dancing in the dark.

Before he can answer, a metallic click echoes through the empty space. I halt, listening, hoping to hear Seven's voice. But there's this dreadful feeling slithering through me as if I hear something different—the distinct sound of the side door slammed shut.

"Fuck," I mutter, taking off, rushing toward the exit, my feet pounding against the cement floor. I weave past the containers, my shoulder snagging on one.

"What's going on?" Nico's right behind me, his breath hot on my neck. I reach for the handle, yanking it hard. Nothing.

"Blyat'," I hiss out in Russian, slamming my palm against the unyielding metal.

"What the hell, Vlad?" Nico's voice is low and suspicious, when I turn to face him. "Is this your endgame? Trap me here and fucking pretend?"

"Are you serious right now?"

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