Page 137 of Stricken

What he means is we need to return the Brazilian shipment to Tony before Armenians kill us all one by one for delaying their cut so much and making a mess of this matter.

* * *

The truck rumbles beneath us, a steady vibration that only heightens the worry in my gut. Vlad's hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles white, gaze fixed on the endless stretch of road ahead. The silence between us is oddly oppressive, not the kind of silence I'd expect from him after last night.

There's a moment there that I almost believe that he didn't want it. Didn't want what he let me to do to him because he felt guilty for the clusterfuck that happened at my uncle's place. But then I remember who he is. He is a Solovey. He's not that man who'll submit just to stroke my ego.

It's something else.

Shtyk.

I glance at him for the hundredth time, trying to decipher his thoughts.

"You're awfully quiet today," I venture, attempting to break the suffocating silence.

Vlad grunts, another evasive sound that tells me nothing.

I try again. "I thought Ivan would come along for this."

"I gave him another assignment," Vlad replies curtly, not bothering to look at me.

The desert stretches out around us, a bleak wasteland that mirrors the emptiness growing in my chest. The land is still wet in spots but the wind has already dried most of it. Behind us, I know the Hellhounds follow in another vehicle. Seven's in the back of the truck with the goods. The only reason Vlad's driving himself is because this should be a routine transfer. Still, the air feels charged, like the calm before another storm.

"Vlad… " I start, then hesitate. What can I say? That I'm worried? That I feel like I'm losing him with every mile we drive?

He finally glances at me, his gray eyes filled with emotions I can't understand. I just know that it's intense, this look he gives me before he shifts his focus back to the road.

His hand, however, warm and large and so familiar, reaches out and grabs mine. His grasp is tight, almost painful as if he is terrified of losing me and I return the gesture. Squeeze my fingers around his hard.

I open my mouth, then close it again, wanting to tell him the things I never told him last night. The stupid forbidden L word. But it dies on my tongue the moment the structure I'm anticipating to see appears on the horizon.

I'll tell him after we get rid of the coke, once and for all. After we make the drugs Tony's problem, not mine.

I'll tell him what he already knows, what he already feels.

I'll tell him when we're finally free.

The structure grows bigger as tires keep eating the road beneath us. It snakes past the untamed desert vegetation until it reaches the lot where a large building stands. It's not supposed to be here. I'm more than familiar with all the Morelli real estate. Legit and otherwise, including the shell companies. This here, this bit, is just a chunk of land on paper that belongs to Outer Ventures Inc. The warehouse, of course, is a hive of illicit activities our family has been engaging in for decades. They get erected, then knocked down, then erected again on another lot.

But like I said, anything that has to do with Tony Morelli will no longer be of concern to me after I return what belongs to him.

Vlad gives me one last squeeze before grabbing the wheel with both hands. He hits the brakes and pulls up short of the entrance, the truck's engine idling. The Hellhounds' vehicle stops behind us, and I hear car doors slamming, boots crunching on gravel.

I stare at the weathered building and its open gate as it yawns before us like a huge, hungry mouth. Several male silhouettes swim into focus as they appear from the inside of the building.

Vlad doesn't say anything. He finally kills the engine and steps out of the truck. Unease growing, I follow him out. The desert heat hits me like a physical force. The air, so heavy after that downpour, shimmers, distorting the landscape into something alien and threatening.

Isn't it safer to drive in?

The question burns on my lips, but Vlad's rigid posture warns me against asking. Instead, I watch as his Hellhounds fan out, their movements precise and practiced. They are a well-oiled machine.

As we get closer to the warehouse entrance, Tony's men also move in. Despite the sweltering temperature, most of them are dressed formally in suits or at least slacks and dress shirts. Uncle has always emphasized the importance of maintaining a professional appearance.

I recognize one of my uncle's lieutenants, Rinaldo, his shriveled face as hard and unforgiving as the desert rock. I have no idea how old he is. He's been around ever since I could remember myself.

"Buongiorno, Rinaldo," I call out, my voice carrying a confidence I don't entirely feel. "Tutto bene?"

Rinaldo's eyes narrow, flicking between Vlad and me. "Let's get this over with, Nicola." He makes a point to spit on the ground while glaring at me. I know what that old-schoolbastardothinks of me. I don't give a fuck.

---