Page 143 of Stricken

I gave up on ever hearing from him. I truly did. But here he is, reaching out from the darkness.

"Costa," I whisper reverently. "It's been a while."

"Sorry,Padrino. I know."

"I'm so happy to hear you're alive."

"Why wouldn't I be? I'm like a cat. I've got nine lives."

There's a pause and I'm wondering how off the grid he actually was and if he knows what's going on here, in Vegas. "Tony died," I finally say.

"I heard. My condolences."

I nod, even though he can't see me. "Thank you. It's been... a difficult time."

"Heard about Sal and Claudio too," he supplies.

"I could use your help right now."

"I'm on my way. Your guy, Shtyk… I'm bringing him back to the States with me."

For a moment, I can't breathe. I close my eyes, trying to steady myself against the sudden wave of emotion. Another unwanted reminder of what Vlad and I could have been.

But I can't let Costa see that, can't let him know how deeply this affects me. So I draw a silent lungful of air, exhale slowly, and then say, "Sounds good."

"See you soon." The line goes dead.

Hands suddenly shaking, I lean back in my chair, staring at the wall across.

For some reason, everything related to Vladimir Solovey is always just a little too late.

CHAPTER47

VLAD

Weeks blur into an indistinct fog, like watercolors bleeding together on a canvas. Night and day—it's all the same now. Work, racing, spending my lonely evenings online, stalking him.

This pain caused by the loss of one thing that made me happy feels like there's a piece of glass embedded in my soul. And every time I take a breath, it's cutting deeper and deeper. Soon, my heart will be sliced into ribbons of blood and tissue. Soon, I will stop experiencing emotions altogether. But until then, I'll allow myself this one weakness—to watch from the sidelines as he rises, taking his rightful place at the helm of his uncle's empire.

Whispers reach my ears, praising his leadership, his strength. It's a bitter pill to swallow.

It's why I did what I did. To give him a chance to have everything he deserves.

But it hurts anyway.

And there's just one way to dull this agony, to turn it off for a second.

The race.

Engine's roar shattering the calm of the desert night surrounding the track of the Enclave is always a welcome sound. Jun's underground racing mecca on the outskirts of Vegas has become my second home these past few weeks.

Each time the flag drops and the rumble of the horsepower vibrates through my bones, I'm transported back to those reckless days in Moscow. I was young and had a small role in my father's business. Back then, on the track I could forget what I was and what I did. Just like today out here, on this track, I can almost forget too. For a fleeting moment, my heart pounds with something other than anguish.

So night after night, I slip into the driver's seat. My tires scream against asphalt as I hurtle forward, the world diminishing into streaks of lights and shadows. The speedometer climbs, the needle quivering like a dagger's point. Higher, faster, until the very air seems to fracture around me.

For a few glorious seconds, I am untouchable, immortal. The past and the future fall away, leaving only the razor's edge of the present. But as quickly as it comes, the rush fades, leaving me hollow. An empty vessel desperately seeking something, anything, to fill the void.

As I cross the finish line, the cheers of the crowd sound distant, muffled by the weight of my own existence. I stumble from the car, my body thrumming with fading adrenaline. Around me, the night is filled with a feverish energy, but inside, I am numb.

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