Page 105 of Stricken

I don't bother with pleasantries, just wave my hand in the direction of the warehouse, and we set off to the end of the alley. Ivan's footsteps behind me is a steady rhythm counterbalancing my frenzied pace. The noise of the city mirrors the chaos of my thoughts. I try to untangle all these raging emotions but I can't.

In Mexico, I had to do the things I hate doing. And ever since I got out of that room where I did the unspeakable to a complete stranger, I haven't been able to bounce back mentally. It used to be so easy–shuffling between the states of mind. It's not anymore.

As Ivan and I round the corner and approach the warehouse, I punch the code into the keypad and wait for the faint beep.

As soon as the lock disengages, I yank the door open and march inside. Immediately, I'm assaulted by the scent of oil and rubber. I narrow my eyes against the dark and scan rows of vehicles standing at attention, each one whispering promises of escape.

Ivan hits the switch and light pours over the cars and bikes.

My eyes dart from vehicle to vehicle, searching for the right one. Something that can be an outlet. A partner. A lover. Just for tonight.

Then I see it—a sleek black Mustang, all curves and menace. It was here, among the collection of cars—original engine—when I took over the club. No one ever used it. Some said it belonged to Isaac. Some said it belonged to Hawk. One day, Ricky approached me and said it was mine. Its engine's been modified since then, its powers tested more than once.

It's perfect.

I approach slowly, reverently. My hand glides over its smooth surface, feeling the latent energy thrumming beneath even before I turn on the engine.

"Vladimir." Ivan's gruff voice breaks the spell. "I don't like where this is going," he states in Russian.

I turn to face him, jaw clenched. "I don't pay you for your opinions, do I?"

"You pay me to keep you alive," he counters, eyes hard.

"Then do your job and get in the car," I snarl, yanking open the driver's door.

Ivan hesitates, his loyalty probably warring with concern. Good. Let him worry. Let someone else carry this weight for once.

I slide into the seat, gripping the wheel until I can't feel the fingers. The leather creaks beneath me, cradling my body like a rough blanket.

I close my eyes. Nico's face flashes in my mind—hurt, confused. I banish the image, focusing instead on the raw power embracing me, even though I know I was wrong to take my frustration out on him.

To race.

This is what I need. This is how I'll outrun the demons nipping at my heels.

The passenger door opens and Ivan settles in beside me.

"The money?" I ask.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a thick envelope. I take it and place it into my own pocket.

Then I peel out of the warehouse, tires screeching against the uneven asphalt of the alley before we finally merge with the city traffic. The night swallows us up as we weave through the noisy streets, each turn bringing us closer to the edge of sanity.

Ivan's voice cuts through the engine's growl sometime later. "The Enclave, boss? Is that wise?"

I laugh, the sound sharp and brittle. "Wisdom left the building hours ago, my friend."

"Those guys are sneaky bastards," Ivan presses. "Everyone knows how Serra clawed his way to the top. Why do you keep going there?"

My grip tightens on the wheel, knuckles white and almost cracking. "And how's that different from me?"

Ivan falls silent.

He knows. He's always known.

The truth about me.

I am my father's son.

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