8. Vlad
CHAPTER 8
VLAD
The burner phone vibrates against my thigh, shattering the silence of my office inside my Vegas house. I answer without speaking, knowing the less you talk when calls to this number come, the better.
We have people in high-places thanks to my father's machinations. One thing I'm grateful to him for. But never hurts to be too careful. Loyalties that are bought and not earned can easily shift.
"Vladimir, this Shtyk man you're looking for," Esteban's voice says on the line. "There's been a sighting. Here in Sinaloa."
My fingers tighten around the phone. After months of chasing shadows, finally a solid lead. Frankly, I almost gave up on the Arellanos. It was the damn time for them to come through. But the flash of hope is quickly doused by a familiar rage, dark and oily, coating my insides and blurring my vision.
"Any details I should know about?" I ask, my voice low and controlled despite the storm brewing within. I can't show the cartel how much I need this. Otherwise, my debt will double. That's how it works in this world. Demand for supply begets more dues.
As Esteban relays a measly piece of information about Shtyk's alleged whereabouts, I'm already moving, muscle memory taking over as I march up the stairs and to my bedroom to pack essentials. The man's face flashes in my mind, the man who took my mother from me and my little brother.
"Is that it?" I clarify when Esteban stops speaking.
"For now."
"Okay. I'm on my way."
"I will send the coordinates."
I end the call and dial Ivan.
" Da ?"
"I need you to pack my bags and get me a flight for Sinaloa. The first one I can catch. Or charter if necessary."
"Okay," he replies in Russian. "I'll get our things rea—"
" Net ," I interrupt him. "You are staying."
A beat of silence. Then, "What?"
"Someone must run my business. Someone I trust."
The logic is sound, still leaving Ivan behind feels wrong, like stepping onto a battlefield without my trusted lieutenant. But no one else is able to hold down the fort in Vegas in my absence, especially now that things are not exactly stable.
"Are you sure, Vlad?"
" Da . I'll take Sergei and his guys instead. He's a good man and a good shot. We will be fine."
"Okay," Ivan agrees. I can't tell from the way his voice tightens around the edges he doesn't like it.
" Bud' ostorozhen ," he grunts.
"Always am," I reply, but we both know it's a lie. This witch hunt has made me reckless. Yet I can't stop.
Hours later, I'm on the plane, listening to the gentle hum of engines in business class.
But inside my head? A different story—a storm of chaos thunders on. Shtyk. So close, yet still out of reach. The incomplete feeling gnaws at me, a void that can only be filled by vengeance.
My phone sits heavy in my pocket. Before I can stop myself, I pull it out and scroll through my contacts, thumb hovering over Nico's name when I reach him. His face fills my mind–those stunning eyes the color of winter lake and the cunning curve of his smile. For an instant, I'm back in that hotel room, somewhere above Palazzo, his skin warm against mine, his voice whispering caro in my ear.
I shake my head, banishing the memory. This thing with Nico—whatever it is—it needs to end before it goes too far. Before I drag him into my darkness. And before he drags me into his.
With a sigh, I pocket the phone. There's only room for one obsession in my life, and its name is Shtyk.
* * *
The chopper descends through a veil of emerald canopy, revealing the Arellano estate nestled in the heart of the Sinaloan jungle somewhere on the edge of the mountain. As we touch down, I'm struck by the juxtaposition—a fortress of modern luxury amid raw, untamed wilderness.
Esteban Arellano strides toward me as soon as the doors swing open. His lean frame cuts a sharp silhouette against the verdant backdrop. For a small man, he is quite intimidating. "Mr. Solovey," he shouts a greeting, dark eyes full of calculation. "Welcome to our humble abode."
I scan the compound, taking in the blend of colonial architecture and state-of-the-art security. "Humble isn't the word I'd use," I remark politely, noting the guards positioned at strategic points, their eyes constantly roving.
Esteban's lips curl into a wry smile. "Come, let me show you to your quarters."
As we walk, leaving the winding down chopper behind, I absorb the details. Vibrant murals adorn walls, telling stories of ancient Aztec Gods and modern cartel kings. The scent of copal incense blends with the fresh, earthy aroma of the surrounding forest.
It's a beautiful place, no doubt about it. Beautiful and full of dangerous surprises most likely if I don't follow the house rules.
"I take it your trip was comfortable," Esteban inquires, ushering me into the cool confines of the main house. There is a group of people trailing after us—Esteban's guards, house staff, my own security detail with Sergei in charge. One of the workers is carrying my luggage bag.
I catch a glimpse of some curious faces peeking out from the corners—women dressed in uniform. Probably maids.
"Trip was fine," I reply politely as we pass a long hallway with walls painted in bright colors. "How about you? Business as usual here in paradise?"
Esteban smiles slily. "We get by, Mr. Solovey."
"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."
The dinner concludes, tension thrumming beneath the polite farewells. I hardly touched any food that made it onto my platter. My mind couldn't concentrate on anything but the target—the reason I flew into Mexico.
I retreat to my room, dark thoughts racing a million miles an hour. I know there will be no rest for me tonight, but I get in bed, trying to persuade myself that worrying about things I can't control is useless. Sleep eludes me for hours, but exhaustion eventually claims me in the early hours.
Finally. I fall into the restless void.
* * *
I jolt awake, gasping, disoriented. Then I realize thick fingers are crushing my windpipe. Panic floods my system as I claw at the hands choking the life from me. My first thought is the Arellanos flipped and want me gone, but there is no time to dissect the cartel politics. My attacker's weight pins me down, decimating my chest and my lungs with it, but adrenaline pushes through my veins like gunpowder.
Not tonight, motherfucker.
With a desperate heave, I manage to throw him off-balance.
We collapse in a chaotic heap, our limbs intertwined. I pivot with all my might, driving my elbow into his solar plexus with a satisfying thud. I can hear him gasping as my fingers claw at his eyes. He lets out a primal howl of agony as I push in, his grip on me loosening in his pain-induced daze.
I seize the opportunity, flipping our positions. My fist connects with his jaw once, twice, three times. Blood sprays from his mouth, but he keeps fighting. Somewhere in the background there's noise.
The door bursts open. Light from the hallway floods the room as Esteban's men pour in, weapons drawn. Sergei and his guys are among them as well.
"The party is over!" I rasp out, glancing at them over my shoulder.
Mayhem ensues inside the bedroom. Men shout in both Spanish and Russian.
"Who sent you?" I snarl, gripping the assassin's collar as Sergei and one of Esteban's men hold him down.
His eyes meet mine, defiant. " Te vas a morir antes o después, puto. " Before I can react, he bites down hard. A sickening crunch.
"Get his mouth!" someone yells. Fingers reach for the man's jaw but it's too late. White foam bubbles from between his lips.
" Este pendejo ! He's got a kill-pill!" another voice rumbles off to the side.
The assassin's body convulses on the floor, then goes still.
"Fuck!" I stumble back, rage and frustration boiling over. My hands are all bloody as I touch my neck. Red smears across my night shirt and skin but I don't notice. I'm wired to the point of no return, my brain on fire, stomach churning, breathing still ragged. Deep down I know it hurts but I can't feel it. Can't feel anything just yet.
Esteban pushes through the crowd. " Que paso ?" he spits out. The terror on his face is real and not part of the act. His gaze lands on me. "What happened?"
"Someone tried to kill me," I hiss out, my eyes meeting his eyes. "That's what happened."
Sergei and his guys position themselves strategically around me, reading the room with precision.
A moment of suffocating silence ensues as Esteban and I are locked into a battle of stares.
"You do not think I sent a man to kill you, Mr. Solovey?" he grits out a second later. "You are a guest of mine.'"
"Forgive me if I'm skeptical about everything right now. I almost lost my life while in your house."
More silence.
Esteban's shoulders slump just a bit—enough to tell me he is willing to yield. "Please accept my apologies, Vlad," he offers in a slightly softer tone. "What happened is unacceptable and I give you my word we will get to the bottom of it. Meanwhile, let me get a doctor for you."
"I'm fine," I hoarse out. "Just a minor thing. I'd rather be left alone."
"Understood. I'll have my people move you to another room."
"No need."
"I see." He shouts several orders in Spanish and the body of the assassin is hauled out of the room. A woman slips in with a towel to clean up the blood. Another woman straightens out whatever she can inside the room before Esteban shouts more orders and everyone spills out into the hallway.
"Let me know if you need anything. Chico will be right outside."
They leave. Now, it's just me and Sergei with his guys.
" Dai mne minutky ," I ask him firmly, knowing he'll attempt to put up a fight.
" Pahan, ia ne doveryau etim pazanam ," he grits out.
"I need to think," I explain in Russian. "Just wait outside."
The three of them step out of the room and stand just beyond the door next to Chico.
As soon as I'm alone, I move toward the window and study it. There's a thirty-foot drop when I look down. Not possible that asshole came this way.
I glance around, assessing all corners and various possibilities. The only reasonable explanation is that it was the front door. Which means?
Betrayal or oversight?
Was he disguised as the compound's help or was he posing as one of the guards?
My brain keeps on spinning and spinning as I pace around the room that doesn't seem quite right anymore. Less than an hour ago a man died here, on this floor that my feet are rubbing raw presently.
Ivan was right to be cautious, but I won't be calling him just yet. No need to raise more panic.
Instead, I find my permanent phone and pull up my contact list.
My hands shake as I punch in my little brother's number. The line rings once, twice. Each second stretches into a mind-dumbing eternity.
What if something happened?
What if this was a coordinated attack?
"Vlad?" Sasha's voice, groggy with sleep, floods me with relief.
"Alexander."
"Do you know what time is it?"
"Sorry." I pause, needing to gather my thoughts and calm my breathing. "Are you safe?" The words tumble out before I can stop them. I meant to ask something else, something not as severe, but I'm still in shock after what happened.
"What? Yeah, we're fine. Logan and I are still in Santa Barbara. What's going on?"
I continue pacing the room, my free hand running through my hair. "Nothing. Just... checking in."
"At 4 AM?" Sasha's tone sharpens. His British accent makes him sound sterner than he actually is and for a moment I pretend I'm the younger sibling. "You're lying, Vlad. Is that your fever talking? You sound sick? You caught a cold?"
I sigh, leaning against the window frame. The first hints of dawn tinge the horizon as I glance over the curving hills. "Yeah, yeah. I'm a little sick." I grab onto the lie, not wanting to worry. "Couldn't sleep."
"Bloody hell. You do sound out of your mind."
"It will pass. It always does."
"Sure."
"How are you doing? Really?"
There's a pause. "I'm... good, actually. Logan and I are just heading up the coast. Checking out all the small towns between LA and San Francisco. After that, we'll hit Portland and Seattle. Maybe go to British Columbia for a while."
"Is he treating you well?" I pose the most important question. When your twenty-three-year-old brother is in a relationship with an ex-cop turned private security who is eleven years his senior, naturally, any older brother will have reservations. But apparently love and affection don't come in any specific size. Sometimes, they happen between the two unlikely people.
"We're just chilling," Sasha huffs out.
"Look at you." Something in my chest loosens. "You sound so American now."
"So do you. You're losing your accent, mate."
"I don't think I'll lose it entirely."
"Hey, accents are cute… Chick magnet, right? That's what they say here at least."
"Exactly." But instead of a pretty female face, Nico's smirk enters my mind. Damn him. Why does he have to show up at the most inappropriate of times?
"Look, Vlad. I'd love to catch up but I really do need to get some sleep. Let's do it during daytime, huh?"
"Let's. I'll call when I can. Have fun. You deserve some peace."
"So do you, brother." His voice softens. "You need to stop working so much."
I close my eyes, picturing a life free from this madness. "Soon," I lie. "Take care of yourself."
"You too. I mean it."
The call ends, leaving me alone with the weight of everything unsaid and I stare at the first sliver of the rising sun, thinking. I won't involve Sasha into my business anymore, won't put his life on the line. It's best he is blissfully unaware of what's going on.
My gaze drifts back to my phone, thumb fluttering over Nico's contact this time. Before I can think better of it, I pull up a text message window and type a single word:
Romeo?