Page 11 of Stricken

"I hear they only made two hundred units," Marco says matter-of-factly.

"That sounds about right," I agree. "And I'd like to own one of them."

"Who doesn't?" Seven jokes.

"Probably Ivan," I throw out, glancing at my loyal man over my shoulder, hoping he'll reply with a quip of his own but he's hopeless. His English is still pretty bad, so is his sense of humor. Russian military really brainwashed him to the point of losing all the fun bits.

"Ivan would prefer to own a tank." Ocho cackles.

At that, Ivan rolls his eyes in the corner and mutters in Russian, "Idioty eti rebyata."

* * *

The SUV glides through the familiar, neon-soaked streets of Las Vegas. But the city's flashy splendor is muted by the tinted windows of the vehicle. Ivan is beside me, both hands on the steering wheel and his quiet presence is somehow a solid anchor in the tumult of my thoughts.

"We'll find him, Vlad," Ivan supplies at some point in Russian. "Shtyk can't run forever."

I stare out the window, my jaw clenched tight for a moment. Finally, I say, "He's slippery, like a snake. Every time we get close, he sheds his skin and disappears."

"Snakes can be caught." Ivan's tone is resolute. "And when we do, we'll make him pay for what he did. For the pain he's caused."

I close my eyes and let the memory of my mother's face swim before me. Her gentle smile, the way she'd sing me to sleep when I was a child. She had a beautiful voice, soft and a little bit raspy. When she spoke the world felt safer. The hole her death left in my heart is a wound that has never healed. To some degree, I even envy my little brother. He was six when Mama passed away. He has only vague memories of her, early years. I was nineteen when I realized what kind of man my father truly was.

In the poorly lit hallway of our Moscow suburban home, I heard his voice loud and clear, drifting from the office, coldly instructing to "remove Marina quietly" because she was a nuisance. At the time, I couldn't piece together what those words really meant. Until one day I was told she had a stroke. One moment she breathed with life; the next, I was standing numbly beside her coffin, struggling to articulate her eulogy amidst murmurs and furtive glances of my father's friends.

Those whispers that I'd overheard just days ago came back to haunt me and they have been haunting me ever since and will haunt me for the rest of my life.

"I'll make sure he's dead before the year ends," I whisper a promise, my voice raw with emotion.

Ivan nods. "We'll see this through to the end. Just be careful with the Arellanos."

"I know."

"Getting in bed with them is like paying for an item you haven't seen."

"Don't rub it in,druzhok."

"Just being real."

I don't respond, my attention returning to the blur of lights zipping by outside as we drive back to my place. I'll go to Hell if I have to find thatsvoloch.

Until then, the fire in my soul will continue to burn, an unquenchable flame that will light my way through the shadows. I will have my revenge, no matter the cost.

And God help anyone who stands in my way.

CHAPTER3

NICO

Hello, Devil's ass, I think to myself as I step into the large dining room of Uncle's Seven Hills home. It's all gilded mirrors and dark wood. The scent of garlic and tomato sauce is heavy in the air as it drifts from the kitchen where Chef Trombetta is cooking something delicious. Food—that's the only good thing about these Morelli dinners. It's family, yet the atmosphere crackles with tension thick enough to cut with the sterling silver knives laid out on the damask tablecloth.

Uncle Tony sits at the head of the long table, his silver hair carefully styled and gleaming under the crystal chandelier. He's in his early seventies, and although rumor has it his health has been failing, his hazel eyes are still sharp and analyzing as they land on me. To his right slouches Roberto, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy. Clearly, the older cousin has been hitting the bottle since the moment he woke up. You'd think by forty he'd get his shit together. His poor wife, Maria, who barely speaks, is by his side. From her expression, it's not hard to tell that she's only enduring this gathering because of her duty to her family. This is a business transaction, but a real marriage, so Tony could work with Maria's father.

Next to Maria, Tony's younger son, Salvatore, glowers at his empty plate like it personally offended him. He mostly goes by Sal, and he's the one to watch out for.

"Nicola,tesoro, you made it." Aunt Chiara glides over in a rustle of silk. She cups my face like I'm still ten years old, kissing my cheeks affectionately. My mother passed away shortly after giving birth to me and Tony's wife has been the only maternal influence I had, not counting my nanny Tata. But Tata found herself a husband and started her own family. She left after I turned twelve, leaving me alone with Aunt Chiara, the only buffer between me and her jealous sons. She's always been the reasonable one, the perfect matronly hostess. Curvy and pretty even in her sixties, every ash-blonde hair in place, keeping up appearances despite her family threatening to implode around her.

I greet her warmly, only too aware of the eyes tracking my every move as I take my seat by my aunt's side. Salvatore's glare burns into me from across the table, but I keep my face pleasantly neutral. The staff finally emerge from the kitchen bearing trays heaped with antipasti, homemade prosciutto, caprese salad, and stuffed mushrooms. I inhale the familiar scents of basil and olive oil, my mouth watering despite my unease. LA food doesn't even compare. Chef Trombetta knows his dishes.

---