Page 85 of Stricken

"You do that,Padrino. Family needs you right now more than ever."

The line goes dead, and I'm left staring at the phone for a moment, feeling like I'm stuck in a maze with no exit, no matter how much I navigate it. There's this itch under my skin, the itch to do something.

But Vlad is right. Playing dead for the time being is smart.

So, for now, all I can do is wait, like a spider in the edge of a web, feeling for the slightest vibration that could be either its prey or a bigger predator. In this world, it's often hard to tell the difference until it's too late.

* * *

Time drags on after the call with Costa, hauling the day into the hushed embrace of evening and beyond. Most hours inside the suite slip by in a blur of news pages and familiar TV shows, distractions from the gloom lurking in my mind.

Did Vlad manage to persuade Vartan?

Or is Vartan now trying to play his own game?

I'm tempted to leave the room and stroll through the quiet hallway of the hotel's top floor just to stretch my legs, but I know if we're to keep up the charade just a little bit longer, it'll be risky.

Instead, I shake off the ominous thoughts and stand from the chair, my body craving a release from the tension coiled in my muscles. I cross the room and open the minibar, pouring two fingers of amber fire into a tumbler. I raise the glass to my lips, savoring the taste as the whiskey caresses my mouth and throat. For some reason, it reminds me of Vlad. Destructive and dangerous if consumed in big quantities. Addiction is inevitable.

Unfortunately for me, I'm long gone, any semblance of control in this relationship fully relinquished to the man with the steely-gray eyes.

I can't understand this attraction, this need to be next to him, to make sure he's unharmed. It's not in my nature to care about anyone but myself or select members of my family.

Yet, he's taken my dumb heart hostage and won't let go.

I pick up an iPad from the table and check the news, scrolling through articles. One headline catches my eye.

Anthony Morelli: Mogul of Las Vegas Real Estate Empire is Rumored to Be On His Deathbed

I click to expand the screen, skimming through the text.

Anthony Morelli has made a name for himself in both the real estate and entertainment industries. His establishment, Primavera, is widely renowned as one of the top authentic Italian restaurants in Las Vegas. In addition to his professional success, Morelli is also known for his philanthropic efforts, regularly donating to various charitable causes.

I'm halfway through the article, sipping my drink, when the words smear into meaningless stains.

I set the glass down, hard, my hand shaking. His empire, his legacy, all the things he can't entrust to his own son—all up in flames? Or will I be able to salvage some of it.

"No," I growl, my reflection in the window a ghostly witness to my determination. "Fuck you, Sal."

This isn't over yet. I have allies, contacts, favors owed. I have the resolve that has kept me alive in this cutthroat universe even after my father's death.

It's in the middle of my brooding, with the night in full swing, that a knock comes on the door.

A familiar tune. Knuckles against the wood. Once. Twice.

Then a soft click of the lock right before the door swings open and Vlad strides in. His presence immediately commands the temperature of the air in the room.

Somehow, the world stops for a second and I use this pause to drink him in, to savor the image. His dark hair is parted to the side and carefully slicked back, not a strand out of place. His suit is crisp and tailored, hugging his athletic frame like a second skin would.

"I'm sorry for the delay," he says smoothly, his eyes meeting mine across the space separating us. "Club demanded my attention, and I had some pressing matters to attend to."

I wave off his apology, gesturing for him to take a seat. "I trust it was productive?"

Vlad nods and loosens his tie while settling into the chair across from me. "Indeed. I've gathered some useful information that could help us. Help you and your cause." He stressed the last bit.

Then he leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together. "But first, I have good news. The Armenians are meeting with your uncle tomorrow night atLumina. A dinner, to discuss business. That's the cover."

My eyebrows shoot up, surprise and the ever-present tension in my gut a potent mix. "Tony's meeting with them personally?"

---