4. Vlad
CHAPTER 4
VLAD
I've never told this to anyone, not even Ivan, but I fucking hate Vegas. The ostentatious neon, the desperate gamblers, the stench of greed. But business is business, so here I am again. Back to my home base. Besides, some of Yuri's connections are in this town. Tearing away from such solid anchors to move elsewhere just because of the sweltering heat isn't a smart move, not in my line of work.
But sometimes, amidst the chaos and sweat-slick tension of backroom deals or secret meetings under flickering lights, there's distraction enough to numb the jaded heart—if only briefly and maybe at a price you didn't expect to pay.
Still, it quenches your thirst for something more.
To me, this craving is about finally having the possessions I dreamed of as a child—things my father never allowed me to have despite his extravagant spending on unnecessary luxuries.
That's why shortly after my return from LA, Ivan and I find ourselves in the back of the crowded auction room. We blend seamlessly with the rest of the wealthy guests, but I avoid talking to others as an extra precaution. Truthfully, I have no intention to be seen. I like my anonymity. I'm not here to chat or to make more friends. In my world, friendships are rare and pointless. Better to observe from the shadows, obtain what I want, and get out.
The moment we take out seats, the auctioneer announces the start of the auction. The lights in the room dim a little only leaving enough to illuminate the front where the stage is.
And so it begins.
The first item is showcased, which I have no interest in seeing. I'm scanning my emails instead, listening to the drone of the auctioneer. Then the gavel cracks like a gunshot.
"Sold! To bidder number forty-seven for six hundred thousand dollars."
Some overpriced Fabergé egg, no doubt. I stifle a yawn as more baubles parade across the stage. Glittering diamonds, ancient artifacts, priceless paintings—all meaningless trinkets to these people.
"Getting bored?" Ivan murmurs in Russian.
I grunt noncommittally. My fingers itch, wanting to be around the steering wheel, but I resist the urge to fidget. Must maintain the facade of the unflappable businessman. It's something I've been doing all my life. It comes easy to me.
A few more items are sold and then the massive screen behind the stage flickers to life, showcasing sleek red curves that make my breath catch. There she is—the car I came for. The video pans lovingly over her lines as the auctioneer drones on about specs and mileage.
"Let's start," he finally announces.
My pulse quickens. After weeks of meaningless negotiations, mind-numbing meetings, and unsuccessful attempts to track Shtyk, finally something worth my time.
I lean forward, hand poised to raise my bidding paddle.
"She is made for you, Vladimir," Ivan whispers. He hardly ever calls me by my full name. It's so strange to hear it sometimes because my mother called me that too—especially when she was upset with me or overly happy.
I nod curtly, trying to shove down the emotions that have no business resurfacing right now. My eyes are fixed on the screen where the prize is.
"We will begin the bidding at four million dollars," the auctioneer says at the front of the room. "Do I hear four and a half million?"
The familiar thrill of the hunt courses through my veins. For a moment, I almost feel alive again. My hand shoots up, paddle raised high. "Four and a half," I declare across the room. The Ferrari gleams on the screen, a temptress in red. I need this car—need to create a new memory to overshadow the one following me from Los Angeles.
"Four and a half, gentlemen in the back," the auctioneer repeats.
"Five million," a voice calls from the front row.
My jaw clenches, pulse jumps. Who dares challenge me?
"Five and a half," I counter swiftly, irritation prickling under my skin.
The voice from the front doesn't hesitate. "Six million."
Whispers ripple through the crowd. I crane my neck, trying to catch a glimpse of my opponent, but the sea of heads obscures my view. There's something familiar about that tone, almost mocking. I've heard it before.
"Getting steep," Ivan mutters beside me.
I ignore him, raising my paddle again. "Six and a half million."
The room erupts in hushed murmurs. I can feel their minds turned to me, curious, wondering. Let them. I didn't come this far to lose. It was hard to get in to begin with. Going home empty-handed isn't on my agenda today.
"Seven million," the mystery bidder calls out, a hint of amusement in his tone grows only more distinct.
My blood boils. Who is this man, thinking he can toy with me? I grip the armrest with one hand, knuckles tight and locked. "Eight million," I growl.
Ivan shifts uncomfortably beside me. "Vlad, maybe we should—"
I silence him with a glare. This isn't about the car anymore. It's about winning, about showing everyone in this room who really holds the power in this town.
The auctioneer's face remains impassive as he looks between us, eyes bouncing from the back of the room to the front. "Eight million going once, going twice—"
"Nine million," the voice interrupts smoothly.
I rise to my feet, fury and desire to ruin warring within me. "Ten million," I say firmly, knowing that the car doesn't cost that much.
The room falls silent, all eyes on me. In this instant, I am the predator, and that unseen voice is my prey. I will have my prize, no matter the cost.
A chuckle cuts through the silence, sending a jolt through my body. "Fine, you twisted my arm into this." Pause. "How about eleven million?"
That voice. My chest tightens as recognition finally floods me. It can't be... I should be sitting down but I keep on standing. Because it's easier to see him this way when he rises to his feet too and glances at me from across the room. My heart pounds as he turns, confirming my suspicion. The stranger from LA, just as handsome as I remember, meets my gaze with that devious smirk of his.
Fuck.
"Do I have twelve million, gentlemen?" the auctioneer calls smugly.
Low gasps ripple through the crowd. Even these people who can easily drop this much on something they will not need know the car is not worth it.
At the same time, Ivan tugs at my sleeve. "Let it go," he hisses.
I brush him off, eyes locked on the figure that rose up from the front row.
"Twelve million," I snap, refusing to back down now that I know who I'm up against. He recognized me instantly, the bastard, before I recognized him. This is deliberate provocation.
Leaning close to Ivan, I mutter a question, "Who is he?"
Ivan squints, then shakes his head. " Ne znayu . Never seen him before."
The stranger's eyes dance with amusement, as if he can hear our whispered exchange. My fist clenches around the paddle. Who the hell is this man, and what game is he playing?
The stranger's voice, smooth as silk, says, "Thirteen million." His confidence radiates, igniting that primal feeling within me I experienced with him before.
More murmurs in the crowd. The auctioneer's gavel trembles in his hand, perhaps unused to such astronomical bids for the items that don't cost that much. I feel the weight of every eye in the room, but I only see him.
"Fifteen million," I growl, calmly but loud enough for everyone to hear.
The room goes deathly silent. Even the stranger's eyebrows raise a fraction, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before that infuriating smirk returns.
The auctioneer clears his throat. "Fifteen million dollars. Going once... going twice..."
My heart pounds in my ears. I know I'm being reckless, spending far more than this car deserves. But backing down isn't an option. Not with him watching.
"Sold!" The gavel slams down with finality.
I've won, and for a moment I feel content but then victory tastes bitter. Sweat beads on the back of my neck as the reality of what I've done sinks in.
"We should go," Ivan mutters.
I nod once, desperate to escape. While the auctioneer moves on to the next item, we push through the crowd gathered at the rear of the room. My eyes are locked on the exit and I'm scared to look anywhere but there. I don't need any more distractions today. Or ever. Especially not when they look like Greek Gods.
One foot in front of the other. Walk, walk. We're out of the room, the stage and the bidders are behind now and I mistakenly think I've escaped when a familiar figure blocks our path.
The stranger's eyes lock onto mine, a wolfish gleam in their depths telling me he will not play nice. "What a confidence. Great to meet you again, Mr. Solovey."
My blood runs cold. How does he know my name?
* * *
We stand frozen, locked in a silent battle of wills. The stranger's eyes flicker with a mischievous light, burning sharp against the chaos spiraling inside me. Ivan stands solid at my shoulder, a mute guardian.
For the first time in years, I struggle to keep my face impassive. My mind's racing with endless scenarios. Did he know who I was in LA? Was our encounter planned? The questions burn on my tongue, but I can't voice them here, surrounded by prying eyes and ears.
Instead, I force myself to be polite. "You've got quite the competitive streak." I inject false admiration into my tone. "I enjoy a good challenge."
The stranger's lips curl into a knowing smile. "Oh, I've noticed," he purrs, voice low enough that only I can hear. "You certainly do like... a challenge."
Heat floods my cheeks at the blatant innuendo. Memories of our night in LA flash, hot and unbidden–hands grasping, bodies straining against each other, neither willing to submit.
I grit my teeth, irritation flaring at his smugness. And at myself, for still not knowing his damn name.
He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne. Grapes and cherries when they are ripe. "Congratulations on your win," he murmurs. His gaze travels slowly down my body, then back up to meet mine. "I look forward to seeing what else you... acquire."
I swallow hard. "Is that so?" The air between us crackles with tension.
"Mmm," he hums. "Tell me, do you always go after what you want so... aggressively?"
I'm yet to come up with the answer to this quip when a pudgy man in an ill-fitting suit waddles up to us. His face lights up with recognition.
"Mr. Morelli!" he exclaims, clapping the stranger on the shoulder. "What a pleasure to see you here!"
The name hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest, knocking the breath out of me. Morelli. I had sex with a Morelli.
Fuck.
My heart stops beating for a second, then pounds again with fear. A surge of ice-cold adrenaline floods through my veins as I watch the stranger—Morelli—turn to greet the newcomer with a practiced smile. "Ah, Mr. Rossi. Always a pleasure."
Rossi beams. "You look well, kid. It's been a long time since I saw you last."
"Life took me elsewhere."
"Please, give my best to your uncle. Hope he is faring well these days."
"Of course," Morelli replies smoothly. "I'll tell Tony you said hello."
As Rossi toddles off, I find my voice. "So... Mr. Morelli," I say, tasting the name on my tongue.
He shift his attention back to me, one eyebrow raised. "Mr. Morelli is my uncle. Nicola will suffice," he corrects. "Or Nico, if you prefer." His smile is all teeth now, predatory. "I believe we're both aware of who the other is now, aren't we?"
I nod stiffly, my mind still spinning, repeating the same thing over and over. A Morelli? I've had sex with a goddamn Morelli. The Italians practically own this city, and getting entangled with them is suicide.
Nicola leans in a little closer, perhaps too close for a public place, his breath hot on my ear. "You should let me take that Ferrari for a spin sometime," he murmurs. His eyes glitter with mischief as he pulls back. "After all, I did let you have it."
"Bullshit," I hiss out, totally unaware of my surroundings now because I'm drowning in his scent, drowning in the heat of his body.
"No, I'm very serious, Mr. Solovey."
Before I can formulate a response, he presses even closer. "If you want to continue what we started, I'll be at Palazzo on Friday night." He pauses and then adds quietly, in that bedroom voice of his. "Little nightingale."
No one ever calls me that. No one except my mother when she was alive.
With a final, lingering look, Nicola turns and saunters away, leaving me frozen in place. My one-night stand isn't just a random stranger—he's the Godfather's nephew.
I've never felt more out of my depth.
* * *
The engine of the Porsche growls beneath me, low and feral, as I pull into the gravel lot of the Enclave. The place is a sprawling, industrial compound swallowed by the desert outskirts of Vegas. Chain-link fences topped with razor wire encircle the property, and floodlights carve harsh shadows into the ground. The air smells of burnt rubber and gasoline, a toxic perfume that clings to the back of my throat as I lower my window.
A line of sleek, souped-up cars idles near the entrance, their drivers leaning against hoods, smoking, laughing, their voices sharp and jagged in the night.
Ivan's voice cuts through the noise. "This place is a graveyard for idiots." He's right. The Enclave is a playground for the reckless, the desperate, the ones who need to feel alive by defying death. I've heard the stories—illegal races, underground bets, engines screaming like banshees as they tear through the desert. Once, it was a real racetrack. It closed in favor of a newer, better one across town. Now, it's a piece of real estate purchased by some developer from overseas.
Why, the Enclave occupies this property? No one really knows.
Not that anyone cares.
I've met Jun, the man who runs it, once in passing. He's a slippery kind. Korean first name and American last name. A mixture reflecting his ancestry. Tonight, though, I'm not here for him. I'm here for something else.
I step out of the car and scan my surroundings. A man with a clipboard approaches, his face half-hidden in the flickering light of a nearby floodlamp. "Entry fee's five grand for first-timers," he says, voice flat eyes on my license plate. "And I need your name." He probably said it a thousand times before this week.
I pull a wad of cash from my jacket and hand it over without a word. He nods, scribbles something on the clipboard, then asks, "Your name?"
"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.