Page 112 of Stricken

"What is it?"

"I need you to find out where Nico is staying."

"I'll find him."

"Thanks. Let me as soon as you have any info."

"You got it, boss."

The call ends.

Hours later, I am still in my office. The club is shaking and pounding. The night is in full swing with music and loud voices and clinking of glasses blending into one. I try to tune it all out. Anxiety is my only companion as I mechanically go through some paperwork Ricky has asked me to look at a while back. Signatures are needed here and there. Second opinion to be taken into account before changing vendors. And so on and so forth.

But my mind isn't preoccupied by the business, it's a vortex of possibilities, thoughts spinning, each scenario more dire than the previous. What if Hector can't find Nico? What if the Armenians grow tired of waiting, decide to take matters into their own hands? The weight of this damn shipment I'm keeping for Nico hangs over me like a mountain of bricks.

My phone buzzes on the desk and I lunge for it, my heart in my throat. "Hector?"

"He's at Regal Arms. Room 1205." Hector's voice is tight. I can sense the undercurrent of tension in it.

Relief washes over me. "Thanks."

"Boss, there's something else." A heavy pause follows. "But can't be over the phone. I'm on my way to the club now… And I better ditch this phone. I'll text you my new number in a sec."

The line goes dead, and I am left with a growing sense of unease, a prickling at the back of my neck that tells me something is very, very wrong. And if Hector has to change burners… Fuck.

I find myself staring at the phone for a long moment, mind churning.

I shake my head, pushing the dark thoughts aside, and instead dial the girl who helps Ricky to run things around here. "Do me a favor, Daphne. Send a bouquet of flowers to the Regal Arms. Room 1205. Red roses, two dozen. No card."

"Sure thing, Mr. Solovey. When do you want me to get it done?"

"Now."

"Okay."

I end the call.

It is a small thing, perhaps, in the grand scheme of our fucked-up lives. But it is a start, a silent apology for the harsh words spoken in the heat of the moment the other day. A way to bridge the gap between us, to let Nico know that he is not alone, that I am here, even if my pride will not let me say the words aloud.

The minutes tick by, each one an eternity, as I wait for Hector's arrival. It's late and I'm starting to get tired and the vodka I consumed earlier is muddling my brain.

Soon, I hear a knock. Hector enters, his face grave.

"Boss." He shuts the door closed. "I have some other intel that could be interesting."

"What is it?" I ask, shoving both hands in the pockets of my slacks. Hector is a small man but even when I look at him from the vantage point of my height, he intimidates me. I understand why Thoreau chose him to be a part of the Hellhounds. His set of skills are a rare find.

Hector takes a deep breath, his eyes meeting mine. "There's a hit out on Tony Morelli. My source says it's going down tomorrow."

The news has the air rushing from my lungs in a sharp exhalation. And I hate that I have this reaction, that my emotions are suddenly manifesting in physical form. So many years of holding it in and I can't do it now. Not when it has something to do with Nico, even with those damn six degrees of separation.

"Are you sure?" I ask.

"Positive, boss."

"And how do you know this?"

"One of my… hmmm… acquaintances… he knows a guy who's mixed up with La Alianza. Not a rat, boss. They've got his family. He's just doing what he's told."

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