Page 83 of Stricken

A pile of dolmas appears in front of me. I lean forward, elbows on the worn wooden table. "You'll understand the gravity of this situation, Vartan. The agreement Nico made with you isn't just about profit–it's about stability."

Vartan's weathered face remains impassive, his dark eyes still cunning and alive in the low light. "Agreements change, Vlad. Especially when one party starts making demands."

I clench my jaw for a second, fighting to keep my composure. "This isn't a demand. It's a necessity. We need a face-to-face with Tony Morelli. Can you reach out to him?"

"And why," Vartan asks, leaning back against the leather of his seat, "should I risk my neck to arrange that?" He crosses his arms and meets my gaze.

Dangerous static crackles in the air. I choose what comes out of my mouth carefully. "Because without Tony's explicit backing, everything we've built–your cut included–is at risk. Salvatore is a rabid dog, and if he takes control..."

I let the implications hang, let them speak for themselves. Vartan's eyes narrow, a hint of concern finally breaking through his facade.

"You're playing a dangerous game," he growls. "Tony's health is declining. Everyone knows that. Sooner or later he has to choose a successor. His isolation isn't unusual."

"His isolation isn't because of his health," I counter. "It's obvious, Nicola is the only worthy successor. The alternative is far more threatening. For all of us."

A heavy silence descends. I can almost hear the gears turning in Vartan's mind, weighing the risks against the potential rewards. "Vladimir, you're asking for trouble," he lastly says. "The Morelli are a powder keg. One wrong move and this whole thing explodes in our faces."

"It explodes either way if we don't do something. And I do understand your concerns. But Tony's support is crucial. Without it—"

"Without it, we jeopardize a delicate balance we've fought for so long," Vartan cuts in. "Yes, Vladimir. I know what's going on. But let's not forget, the Morelli still owe us. Half the money's still outstanding. You come asking for things when your head is two seconds away from being separated from your body,synok."

The reminder stings, but I push through. "I'm well aware. But think bigger picture for a moment, Vartan. If Salvatore ta—"

"If, if, if," he mutters, shaking his head. "We deal in certainties, Vlad. Not maybes."

I take a deep breath, steadying myself. When I speak again, my voice is firm just like the voice of my father. "The certainty is this: Salvatore in power means chaos. For all of us. He will start taking out all the elders. Mark my word. He has no respect for any of you. He isolated his own father. Imagine what happens when he takes control of the empire. The Italians are the ones with all of the people in the right spots in their pocket. Not you, not us, not even the Thoreau. We need Tony's influence to keep thatschenokin check."

Vartan's quiet and that silence is somehow deafening despite the lively music filtering through the walls.

I press on, knowing this might be my only chance to make this play happen. "You'll get your cut from the Morellis. I'll see to it personally." I make pause, a meaningful one, and use my ace. "Salvatore's not just a threat to us. He's in bed with La Alianza."

Vartan's eyebrows shoot up. I've got his attention now.

"Think about it," I continue, pressing my advantage. "If he brings them into Vegas, the whole landscape shifts. The stability we've all worked so hard to maintain? Gone. Overnight." Another pause to give the old man time to think a little. "It's not just about power anymore. It's about survival. Our survival."

Vartan's gaze is piercing, as if searching for deception. I meet his eyes steadily, willing him to see the truth in mine.

After what feels like an eternity, he shifts in his seat, his expression contemplative. "You paint a grim picture, Vladimir," he says slowly. "But you still haven't addressed one crucial point."

I tense, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Vartan's voice is cool, calculated. "When exactly do you intend for the Italians to pay the rest of what they owe us? You keep saying you will, but I've been waiting longer than I was promised. I am not a patient man. Certainly, you are aware of my reputation."

"The Brazilian shipment. We've located it." Vartan's eyes widen almost imperceptibly. I seize the moment. "It's intact. Every last ounce. We're prepared to honor our end of the agreement in full."

His fingers drum against the tabletop, a staccato beat of consideration.

"Our offer stands firm," I continue. "But time isn't on our side. Every moment we hesitate, Salvatore's grip tightens. Meeting with Tony needs to happen now. You're the only one that little shit won't suspect."

Vartan straightens. I can see the internal struggle written across his face. He is too old to respond to requests of people like me or Nico, but he is also smart enough to know La Alianza people running our streets means the cartel has an in into Vegas.

The future I've painted—a city torn apart by Salvatore's unchecked ambition and La Alianza's brutality—seems to finally speak to Vartan.

His eyes narrow, then he gives a curt nod. "Fine. I'll arrange the meeting with Tony."

Relief floods through me, but I keep my expression neutral. "Thank you. You won't regret this."

We shake hands, the deal sealed. As Ivan and I turn to leave, Vartan's voice stops me cold.

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