Page 18 of Stricken

"Vlad."

He waves us through. "You're good to go."

"Is Jun here?" I ask the man with the clipboard.

He shakes his head. "Not tonight."

I climb back into the vehicle and drive toward the gate where two armed guys speed-talk into the walkies to someone on the inside.

The compound is a blend of sound and motion. Engines rev, tires screech, and the crowd roars like a pack of wild animals. The track is a jagged ribbon of asphalt, lit by rows of harsh, white lights.

"Too many unknowns," Ivan expresses his displeasure as we pull up to the Pavillion housing a number of VIPs. There's a black empty chair in the center of it—on the pedestal. I'm certain it's for Jun. From what I heard about him, he's eccentric.

"Since when do I care about unknowns?" I mutter.

I don't look at Ivan. I can't. My head is full of Nicola Morelli—his smirk, his voice, the way he looked at me like he already knew every secret I've ever tried to bury. I need to burn him out of my mind. I need the speed, the danger, the fucking chaos of this place to drown him out.

Later on, once I'm changed into my racing suit, I climb back into the Porsche and grip the wheel like it's the only thing keeping me grounded. The engine roars to life, its scream vibrating through my entire body. I pull onto the track, my heart pounding. The other cars are lined up, their drivers tense, focused. The starter raises his flag. My foot hovers over the gas pedal.

The flag drops.

The world erupts into a blur of speed and noise. The Porsche tears down the track, the engine screaming, the tires gripping the asphalt like claws. I weave between the other cars, my hands steady on the wheel, my heart racing in my chest.

But even here, even now, I can't escape him. Nicola's face enters my mind again—his blue eyes, his sly smile, the way he said nightingale like it was a secret between us and between us only. I push the car harder. The track curves sharply, and I take it without slowing, the car skidding dangerously close to the edge.

It's just me and the night, the desert stretching out endlessly outside this compound. But the faster I go, the clearer he becomes. Nicola. Morelli. A name I should've known, a man I should've avoided. But I didn't. And now he's in my head, under my skin.

I slam on the brakes as my Porshe crosses the finish line. The car skids to a stop in a cloud of dust and smoke. My hands are shaking as I grip the wheel, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Somewhere outside, a voice crackles over the radio, announcing the winners, but I don't hear any of it. All I hear is Nicola's voice, soft and mocking, occupying every part of my mind.

I lean back in the seat, my eyes closed, my chest heaving. The race didn't work. He's still there, still smiling, still waiting. And I don't know what the fuck to do about it.

CHAPTER5

NICO

The exclusive lounge above Palazzo my family owns envelops me in its dim embrace as I step inside. Plush leather couches lurk in shadowy corners, while the sleek bar gleams like a knife's edge in the low light. I know I need to concentrate on the important matters, but my mind keeps on drifting back to the auction a few days ago. Vlad Solovey's voice rings through the air as he outbid me for that damn Ferrari was a revelation. I hadn't expected competition, least of all from him—a man with no name I'd met in LA.

It was supposed to be a simple night of fun.

"Padrino," a voice drags me to the present as Costa calls me quietly. "They are here."

When my own right-hand man has to state the obvious for me—it's bad.

Worse than I thought.

But I snap back out of my daydreaming and will myself to focus on the two Armenians lounging in front of me.

Vartan's perpetual scowl greets me from one of the couches. His boss's son Arman is seated beside him with an unreadable expression.

I approach with measured steps, feeling Costa's watchful presence right behind.

"Gentlemen," I say smoothly, lowering myself onto the couch across from them. "Thank you for meeting me on such short notice."

My gaze locks with Vartan's, steady despite the churning in my gut. Old man is probably in his sixties, just like the head of the Armenian syndicate in Vegas. God, I'd give anything to be on a sun-soaked California beach right now instead of this den of ancient vipers. But duty chains me here.

"Nicola," Vartan grits out. "I would say it is nice to see you, but under the circumstances… I'm sure you understand."

Arman nods slightly. "We were... intrigued by your request."

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