Page 17 of Stricken

I swallow hard. "Is that so?" The air between us crackles with tension.

"Mmm," he hums. "Tell me, do you always go after what you want so... aggressively?"

I'm yet to come up with the answer to this quip when a pudgy man in an ill-fitting suit waddles up to us. His face lights up with recognition.

"Mr. Morelli!" he exclaims, clapping the stranger on the shoulder. "What a pleasure to see you here!"

The name hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest, knocking the breath out of me. Morelli. I had sex with a Morelli.

Fuck.

My heart stops beating for a second, then pounds again with fear. A surge of ice-cold adrenaline floods through my veins as I watch the stranger—Morelli—turn to greet the newcomer with a practiced smile. "Ah, Mr. Rossi. Always a pleasure."

Rossi beams. "You look well, kid. It's been a long time since I saw you last."

"Life took me elsewhere."

"Please, give my best to your uncle. Hope he is faring well these days."

"Of course," Morelli replies smoothly. "I'll tell Tony you said hello."

As Rossi toddles off, I find my voice. "So... Mr. Morelli," I say, tasting the name on my tongue.

He shift his attention back to me, one eyebrow raised. "Mr. Morelli is my uncle. Nicola will suffice," he corrects. "Or Nico, if you prefer." His smile is all teeth now, predatory. "I believe we're both aware of who the other is now, aren't we?"

I nod stiffly, my mind still spinning, repeating the same thing over and over.A Morelli?I've had sex with a goddamn Morelli. The Italians practically own this city, and getting entangled with them is suicide.

Nicola leans in a little closer, perhaps too close for a public place, his breath hot on my ear. "You should let me take that Ferrari for a spin sometime," he murmurs. His eyes glitter with mischief as he pulls back. "After all, I did let you have it."

"Bullshit," I hiss out, totally unaware of my surroundings now because I'm drowning in his scent, drowning in the heat of his body.

"No, I'm very serious, Mr. Solovey."

Before I can formulate a response, he presses even closer. "If you want to continue what we started, I'll be at Palazzo on Friday night." He pauses and then adds quietly, in that bedroom voice of his. "Little nightingale."

No one ever calls me that. No one except my mother when she was alive.

With a final, lingering look, Nicola turns and saunters away, leaving me frozen in place. My one-night stand isn't just a random stranger—he's the Godfather's nephew.

I've never felt more out of my depth.

* * *

The engine of the Porsche growls beneath me, low and feral, as I pull into the gravel lot of the Enclave. The place is a sprawling, industrial compound swallowed by the desert outskirts of Vegas. Chain-link fences topped with razor wire encircle the property, and floodlights carve harsh shadows into the ground. The air smells of burnt rubber and gasoline, a toxic perfume that clings to the back of my throat as I lower my window.

A line of sleek, souped-up cars idles near the entrance, their drivers leaning against hoods, smoking, laughing, their voices sharp and jagged in the night.

Ivan's voice cuts through the noise. "This place is a graveyard for idiots." He's right. The Enclave is a playground for the reckless, the desperate, the ones who need to feel alive by defying death. I've heard the stories—illegal races, underground bets, engines screaming like banshees as they tear through the desert. Once, it was a real racetrack. It closed in favor of a newer, better one across town. Now, it's a piece of real estate purchased by some developer from overseas.

Why, the Enclave occupies this property? No one really knows.

Not that anyone cares.

I've met Jun, the man who runs it, once in passing. He's a slippery kind. Korean first name and American last name. A mixture reflecting his ancestry. Tonight, though, I'm not here for him. I'm here for something else.

I step out of the car and scan my surroundings. A man with a clipboard approaches, his face half-hidden in the flickering light of a nearby floodlamp. "Entry fee's five grand for first-timers," he says, voice flat eyes on my license plate. "And I need your name." He probably said it a thousand times before this week.

I pull a wad of cash from my jacket and hand it over without a word. He nods, scribbles something on the clipboard, then asks, "Your name?"

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