Page 29 of Stricken

"Call me Vlad," I tell him insistently. "Mr. Solovey was my father."

"As you wish."

We march some more, and right about the time I start believing this place has no end, we round the corner and stop in front of the intricately carved wooden door.

"Your room," Esteban announces proudly.

"I appreciate you accommodating me," I thank him before entering inside.

"Chico will show your associates their own rooms." Esteban motions at the short, tattooed man with a hard face, who's been accompanying us through the house. Without saying a word, the man waves at Sergei and his two guys. They follow him just down the hallway.

"Hope it's to your liking," Esteban supplies, walking me into my bedroom.

I drink the space in before responding. It's all a blend of rich colors and textures. A king-sized bed draped in crimson silk. Hand-woven rugs in intricate patterns. Floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of mist-shrouded mountains.

"It's more than enough," I finally say. "I feel like I'm on vacation and not on business here."

"Rest," Esteban suggests. "We'll discuss business over dinner. I'll have someone come and get you."

My luggage is hauled into the room and then I'm alone. Separated from the world by the heavy doors and four walls.

I stroll over to the window and take in the deep green landscape in front of me, this time trying my damnest to enjoy it, then memorize this untamed magnificence of rolling hills disappearing into the fog obscuring the horizon. I almost understand the need to build the compound here—not because it's safe and away from the prying eyes, but because this beauty is the only reminder to the person inside the structure what it's like to be human. It's the only link to the world of the living.

Hours later, after I shower and change and confirm with my security detail they are all settled, I join Esteban and two of his men at a long table on the terrace. Here the air is filled with the scent of grilled meat and flowers.

"Vlad," Esteban begins, cutting into a perfectly seared steak. "Let's talk about your query."

I lean back in my chair, my own meal forgotten. "Let's."

Esteban's eyes narrow. He glances around the table first, then speaks, "My men spotted him in Culiacán three days ago. He was meeting with someone—we're still working on identifying the contact."

"And you're certain it was Shtyk?"

One of Esteban's men, a heavyset guy with a face like weathered leather, speaks up. "I saw him myself,jefe. That golden tooth is hard to miss."

I feel a surge of adrenaline. "Did you follow him?"

"We did, but he is a slimy bastard. We lost him yesterday."

I take a deep breath, my fingers tightening. "Any idea where he could be? Is he still in town?"

Esteban holds up a hand. "Patience, my friend. Yes, we believe he's still in the area. We put a tail on his contact too. But don't forget Culiacán is Toro's territory. We must tread carefully."

"I didn't come here to tread carefully," I say, trying to keep my voice as calm as possible, given the situation. One wrong word and I'm screwed.

My three men against Esteban's army won't win. So, being a polite and grateful guest is essential.

Esteban's expression hardens. "And I didn't agree to help you start a war and involve us in it. We move when the time is right."

I clench my fist under the table, frustration boiling in my veins. So close, yet not close enough. The weight of my mother's memory presses down on me, demanding action, demanding retribution.

But I force myself to nod. "Fine. What's our next move?"

"We'll try tomorrow," Esteban says. "My men will escort you into town. We'll provide protection, firepower. If Shtyk is there and unprotected, we'll grab him."

I nod, a mixture of anticipation and wariness churning in my gut. "Good. I want this done."

"Do not worry, Vlad," Esteban supplies, shifting his attention to the steak. "It's in our best interest too—to give you what the Arellanos promised."

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