Page 9 of Stricken

The plush leather of the business class seat cradles my body, but I find no comfort in its luxury. Through the small oval window, LA's sprawling landscape fades into the distance, taking with it the semblance of normalcy I've cultivated over the past few years while staying here.

Every time I fly back to Vegas, I have no idea if I'll be back to this city.

I drum my fingers on the armrest. The familiar weight of my watch is like a strange reminder of the life I'm reluctantly returning to. Hard to ignore. The flight attendant offers me champagne as soon as the lights above my head indicate I can lose my seatbelt. She flashes me a practiced smile, but I decline the drink with a curt nod.

I don't feel like alcohol will solve my problem.

If you're a Morelli, you are expected to do everything to assist the family. Even if the said family is the reason I have no father. Sure, Uncle tried to compensate. Best toys, best tutors, best schools. Best everything. But luxury doesn't erase the fact you have no parent. Still, going against Uncle's wishes isn't something a real Morelli would do.

"Padrino," Costa's whisper cuts through my brooding. I told him before not to call me that, especially around family members. That title isn't for someone like me. It's reserved for a family prince and I'm nothing but a spare to a spare. But Costa's gotten it in his head that I'm worthy. And his belief has started rubbing off me. He's leaning over, a tablet in hand. "I thought you might want to see this."

I turn, studying my right-hand man's face. At twenty-four, Costa's features still hold a hint of the boy I met in Sicily a decade ago, but his eyes are older, harder. They were hard then and they've become like rocks now. He's the product of a wretched life in the street I saved him from, only to drag him into another hell.

"What is it?" I ask, reaching for the tablet.

Costa's lips quirk in a rare half-smile. "Something to take your mind off... things."

The screen before me reveals a sleek, cherry-red Ferrari. My breath catches. "LaFerrari Aperta?" I whisper to myself, then return my attention to my assistant. "Costa, you beautiful bastard."

"It'll be auctioned next week in Vegas," he clarifies. "Thought you might be interested."

I lean back in my seat, letting out a low whistle. "Interested doesn't begin to cover it. How did you even hear about this?" These types of auctions—for the filthy rich—are usually invitation only.

Costa shrugs. "I have my ways."

Of course he does. It's why I keep him close, why I pulled him off those Sicilian streets all those years ago. The boy had potential, and I wasn't about to let it go to waste. Uncle was furious when I came back from my vacation with a scrawny teenager. But in the end, things worked out.

I focus on the photo of the car I've been wanting to own for so long. For a second I'm distracted from the looming specter of family obligations. "Costa, sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself."

"It's my job, Padrino," he replies, his tone carefully neutral.

I glance at him, catching a flicker of something in those intense brown eyes right before he sinks back into his chair. Dedication? Or something deeper? I push the thought away. Now isn't the time for such musings.

"Well, I suppose there's at least one thing to look forward to in Vegas now," I mutter, handing the tablet back to Costa. "Besides cleaning up after Roberto's latest clusterfuck, that is."

Costa nods, his face a mask of practiced indifference. But I catch the slight tension in his jaw, the way his fingers tighten almost imperceptibly on the tablet's edge.

He knows, as well as I do, that whatever's waiting for us in Vegas, it's going to be ugly. The family doesn't call in the nephew for trivial matters.

I close my eyes, memories of my father's fate threatening to surface. The price of loyalty in our world is often paid in blood. And I have a sinking feeling that the bill is coming due.

CHAPTER2

VLAD

I'm back in Vegas, sitting in the hush of Purgatory's VIP room with the crystal tumbler of scotch in my hand. The glass that I twist against the neon tubes on the wall catches shards of light and distributes them across the tumbler, making my drink seem like it's filled with color. The club–my pride and joy and my most valued possession–is deserted at this hour, except for a few maintenance people working downstairs, but my mind is as crowded as the dance floor on a Saturday night.

Images from my trip to Los Angeles play in a loop behind my eyes—the brief, unproductive meeting with Esteban Arellano in Malibu, his shrewd eyes appraising me as we discussed our unholy alliance and his progress in hunting down Shtyk.

The memory blurs, replaced by flashes of sweat-slicked skin and sinful moans. Then he enters my mind—the handsome stranger from the hotel lounge, his smoldering eyes filled with something wild as he looked at me.

I down my drink, needing to soothe my throat that's dry all of a sudden.

The encounter was fierce and fleeting, a momentary escape from the darkness constantly clawing at my sanity. His skilled mouth and strong hands drove me to the brink of oblivion, allowing me to forget, just for a little while, forget the weight of my father's evil deeds that I carry around my neck like a brick.

But in the unforgiving light of day, there is no forgetting. No escaping my fate. I am my father's son, baptized in blood and bound to this life of violence and vengeance. There's nothing else left for me.

With that thought, I pour myself another drink, the liquid sloshing against the tumbler. It's a small indulgence in the early hours. Indulgence and an attempt to pacify my rage in front of my men who are here to get an update on what we will do next.

---