Page 82 of Stricken

VLAD

I swirl the whiskey in my glass, watching it catch the fading daylight as I gaze out through the open terrace doors. The immaculately groomed garden mocks me with its perfection, so at odds with the desert landscape around us and at odds with the chaos threatening to engulf us all.

You brought it upon yourself, Vladimir.

You got involved with the Italian and his business.

And what do you do when you access his coke worth millions?

You store it for him, ty ublyudok tupoi!

You should take it and leave that asshole, leave him to figure out his own crap.

"Fuck," I mutter, taking a long sip. The liquor stings and absolutely doesn't help to ease the knot of frustration in my chest.

Tony Morelli summoned a priest to his home earlier today. He didn't go to the church, as we'd hoped, but instead called the man of God directly into the fortress he calls home. It's a clear sign his health is failing faster than we anticipated. And with Salvatore circling like a vulture, time is running out.

I need him to leave that damn house.

I set the glass down on the table with more force than necessary, the sharp clink releases an echo through the room.

Think, Vladimir.

There has to be a way to get the old Italian outside.

But every scenario I conjure crumbles like ash. Salvatore has walled off his father from the world, a spider guarding its prey. No calls get through. No visitors permitted. It's as if Tony Morelli has already become a ghost.

My fingers drum an impatient rhythm on the polished wood of my chair. This stalemate cannot hold. With each passing day, Salvatore's grip on power tightens while Nico and I are left scrambling for scraps of information. We have proof Salvatore Morelli stabbed his own father in the back. We have no way of getting that proof to Tony.

A subtle shiver snakes through my body, chilling me from the inside, as I imagine Salvatore at the helm of the Morelli empire. That impulsive, selfish, and cruel bastard would tear apart everything Tony built, leaving nothing but blood and ashes in his wake.

It's only fair Nico's trying for the throne too. He's of sound mind, he's family, he understands the stakes and the delicate balance. I don't blame him for wanting the reign.

Mind make up, I reach for my phone. My thumb hovers over the contact for a moment before I pressCall.

The line rings once, twice. On the third ring, a gruff voice answers, "Vartan speaking."

"It's Vladimir," I say, injecting steel into my tone. "We need to meet, old friend. Now."

There's a pause, heavy and nerve-wracking. "What is this about? Better be about the money your Italian friends owe me, boy."

"Not over the phone," I cut him off. "Our usual place. Two hours."

I end the call before he can object, already striding toward the stairs. In my bedroom, I walk over to the closet and slide the door open. As I select a suit–armor for the battle ahead–I try to quell the desperation in me.

I can't allow Vartan to know how truly fucked I am.

This has to work. If we can't get to Tony soon, everything we've fought for might slip through our fingers like sand. And when Salvatore Morelli takes over the Italian empire, the streets of Vegas once again, will be covered in blood.

So, no, I'm not letting this asshole ruin this city. I somehow have come to like it here and I plan on staying.

* * *

As requested, I meet Vartan later in the private back room ofRodnoi Kavkaz,Vartan's favorite restaurant. The space reeks of cigarette smoke and the guard dogs with guns in the corners tell me the old Armenian isn't happy I dragged him out here. Even if the food is great.

As a gesture of goodwill, I have chosen Ivan as my sole companion.

"This better be something important, Vladimir," Vartan grumbles while the waiters swim around, putting plates on the table.

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