Page 38 of Stricken

I nod, unsurprised. It's the way of our world—information is power, after all.

"Well… Seems we're both orphans in this fucked-up family business," I muse.

"We forge our own paths now," Vlad declares, looking up to the ceiling.

I drink in the sight of him like this—deep in thought and determined. In the muted glow of the bedside lamp, his profile is etched in shadow and light—beautiful, deadly, and utterly captivating. A thin tendril of fear coils in my gut, not of Vlad himself, but of the intensity of what I feel for him.

We're playing with fire, he and I. And I'm no longer certain if I fear getting burned... or crave the flames.

CHAPTER11

VLAD

The phone buzzes again, another demand for my attention in this whirlwind day I've been spending in my office in Purgatory. I snatch it up, barking orders to Dmitri about the shipment coming in tonight. My eyes dart to the clock. 2:47 PM. Three more meetings before dinner.

And an unexpected guest from across the border as a show of goodwill from the Arellanos, who is to land any minute now.

As I hang up the phone and toss it on the desk, needing some rest, immediately, my mind drifts to Nico. His dark eyes, the curve of his lips with that permanent smirk. Something shifted between us last time. The wall I'd carefully constructed crumbled, revealing... what? That we are kindred spirits. Parentless. I shake my head, banishing the thought. No time for distractions. This is supposed to be about sex. Nothing else.

The phone on my desk crackles again.

"Boss, your 3 PM is here," Seven says on the line.

"Is he alone?"

"No, two more guys with him. They look like pros."

I straighten my tie, steeling myself. Another asshole who likes to show off he is a big deal by bringing unnecessary muscle. "Send him in. The escort waits downstairs."

"Got it."

The afternoon blurs—negotiations, threats veiled as pleasantries, numbers that could make or break empires. Through it all, Nico lingers at the fringes of my mind like a half-remembered dream.

Somewhere between the first and the last afternoon meetings, my phone vibrates.

"Esteban," I answer, keeping my voice neutral. "I would say always a pleasure but forgive my reservations after our last rendezvous."

"Vlad, my friend. I've just touched down in your fair city."

My grip tightens on the phone. "Hope the flight was good."

"Smooth as silk. Vegas looks good from the air. Time to give it a try in person."

"You will have a great time."

"I'm certain I will. Why don't you join me for dinner? I'd like to treat you to a meal and ensure everything's copacetic between our organizations after... recent events."

The barely-healed bruising around my neck the shirt's collar currently hides throbs at his words. A reminder of 'recent events.' A reminder to be careful too. I force a chuckle. "Of course. Always good to check in personally, isn't it?"

"Exactly. We'll talk more tonight, after I've settled in."

An invitation and a challenge wrapped in one and refusing it would not be wise. "I know a place that does an excellent beef Stroganoff," I finally say after a beat of silence.

A moment's pause. Then, "I'd be delighted."

Later that evening, I step into the main dining room ofRussky Dvor, a place owned by my father's former associate who was smart enough to disengage and run here years ago, before greed made Yuri completely blind, and he started trading all the lives around him just to make more money.

"Vladimir," I'm greeted at the door by one of the hosts who knows me well enough from my days working with my father. "Your guest is already here," he says. "I put him in the Red Room." His accent is heavy and harsh but the smile on his face is wide and friendly.

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