Page 13 of Stricken

"Sometimes, I doubt it."

Roberto looks like he wants to melt into the floor, his earlier bluster completely evaporated. He opens and closes his mouth a few times but no sound comes out.

I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

"If you'd stop comparing Roberto to Nico, maybe he wouldn't be drinking so much," Salvatore pipes up.

Aunt Chiara shoots him a sharp look. "Salvatore, don't—"

But Tony ignores them both, his steely gaze fixed on me. "Nicola."

I sit up a little straighter, meeting his eyes. "Uncle?"

"Since you're back home, why don't you handle the situation." He's saying it like the idea just came to him but we all know that's the main reason he summoned me here to Vegas. And right now, he is publicly humiliating his own son at my expense. "I need you to meet with Vartan," Uncle goes on. "See what you can do to smooth things over." His tone leaves no room for argument.

A weight settles in my chest. Of course. Because his own sons are hopeless, I'm the one left to fix shit. It's a familiar role I've played too many times before. I just don't know why. I've yet to seriously think about it.

At my uncle, I nod stiffly. "I'll take care of it."

"Good." Tony leans back, regarding me with an inscrutable expression. "We'll discuss the details in my office after dinner."

Fantastic. A private audience with the Godfather himself. My skin prickles with unease but I incline my head in acquiescence. "As you wish."

Across the table, Sal's dark eyes glitter with hostility. I can practically hear the gears turning in his devious little mind, scheming, always scheming. He resents Tony tasking me with this, resents my position in the family. Tough shit. I didn't ask for any of it.

But what choice do I have? This is my life, for better or worse. Bound by obligation to a world I never asked to be part of.

I drain the rest of my wine in one large gulp, relishing the kaleidoscopic taste. It does little to quell the dread churning in my gut.

This is going to be a long fucking night.

* * *

The door clicks shut behind me as I step into Tony's office. He sits at a massive oak desk, the golden light from the antique lamp casting sharp shadows across his weathered face.

"Sit." He gestures to the chair opposite him. An order, not a request.

I comply, sinking into the plush seat, the rich scent of leather and Tony's expensive cigars engulfing me. He leans forward, steepling his fingers. "Set up a meeting with Vartan but ask him to bring Arman too. He is younger, not as experienced and easier to crack. Vartan will only give you a hard time if he is alone. That old fox is tough. We have to clean up this mess Roberto made before it turns into a real problem."

"Consider it done." My voice is steady, betraying none of the unease. Cleaning up after Roberto's fuck-ups has become a full-time job. You'd think with eight years on me, he'd have a shred of common sense by now.

Tony nods, a flicker of approval in his shrewd eyes. "He's in over his head with this real estate nonsense. He needs to forget it. Doesn't have the head for it. Managing a casino and a hotel is no easy task."

I want to agree with Uncle, but it's not in my best interest to badmouth his own son in front of him. So, I keep my opinion to myself. "Don't you worry, Uncle," I tell Tony with a smile I force onto my face. "I will figure it out. Just need your blessing to do what needs to be done."

"You have it, Nico. Get it sorted."

A heavy silence descends, the unspoken words creating tension between us.

The leather creaks softly as I shift in my seat. "If there's nothing else..."

"Nico." Tony's face softens all of a sudden. "I know it is my fault you grew up like this, without a father…"

"Let's not go down that road, huh?" I don't want to do this. Don't want to rehash the history of this family and all the losses that the war fifteen years ago brought.

"Okay. As you wish." Tony waves a dismissive hand.

I rise up and cross the room toward the door.

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