28. Vlad
CHAPTER 28
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 press Call .
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 of Rodnoi 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.
A pile of dolmas appears in front of me. I lean forward, elbows on the worn wooden table. "You'll understand the gravity of this situation, Vartan. The agreement Nico made with you isn't just about profit–it's about stability."
Vartan's weathered face remains impassive, his dark eyes still cunning and alive in the low light. "Agreements change, Vlad. Especially when one party starts making demands."
I clench my jaw for a second, fighting to keep my composure. "This isn't a demand. It's a necessity. We need a face-to-face with Tony Morelli. Can you reach out to him?"
"And why," Vartan asks, leaning back against the leather of his seat, "should I risk my neck to arrange that?" He crosses his arms and meets my gaze.
Dangerous static crackles in the air. I choose what comes out of my mouth carefully. "Because without Tony's explicit backing, everything we've built–your cut included–is at risk. Salvatore is a rabid dog, and if he takes control..."
I let the implications hang, let them speak for themselves. Vartan's eyes narrow, a hint of concern finally breaking through his facade.
"You're playing a dangerous game," he growls. "Tony's health is declining. Everyone knows that. Sooner or later he has to choose a successor. His isolation isn't unusual."
"His isolation isn't because of his health," I counter. "It's obvious, Nicola is the only worthy successor. The alternative is far more threatening. For all of us."
A heavy silence descends. I can almost hear the gears turning in Vartan's mind, weighing the risks against the potential rewards. "Vladimir, you're asking for trouble," he lastly says. "The Morelli are a powder keg. One wrong move and this whole thing explodes in our faces."
"It explodes either way if we don't do something. And I do understand your concerns. But Tony's support is crucial. Without it—"
"Without it, we jeopardize a delicate balance we've fought for so long," Vartan cuts in. "Yes, Vladimir. I know what's going on. But let's not forget, the Morelli still owe us. Half the money's still outstanding. You come asking for things when your head is two seconds away from being separated from your body, synok ."
The reminder stings, but I push through. "I'm well aware. But think bigger picture for a moment, Vartan. If Salvatore ta—"
"If, if, if," he mutters, shaking his head. "We deal in certainties, Vlad. Not maybes."
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. When I speak again, my voice is firm just like the voice of my father. "The certainty is this: Salvatore in power means chaos. For all of us. He will start taking out all the elders. Mark my word. He has no respect for any of you. He isolated his own father. Imagine what happens when he takes control of the empire. The Italians are the ones with all of the people in the right spots in their pocket. Not you, not us, not even the Thoreau. We need Tony's influence to keep that schenok in check."
Vartan's quiet and that silence is somehow deafening despite the lively music filtering through the walls.
I press on, knowing this might be my only chance to make this play happen. "You'll get your cut from the Morellis. I'll see to it personally." I make pause, a meaningful one, and use my ace. "Salvatore's not just a threat to us. He's in bed with La Alianza."
Vartan's eyebrows shoot up. I've got his attention now.
"Think about it," I continue, pressing my advantage. "If he brings them into Vegas, the whole landscape shifts. The stability we've all worked so hard to maintain? Gone. Overnight." Another pause to give the old man time to think a little. "It's not just about power anymore. It's about survival. Our survival."
Vartan's gaze is piercing, as if searching for deception. I meet his eyes steadily, willing him to see the truth in mine.
After what feels like an eternity, he shifts in his seat, his expression contemplative. "You paint a grim picture, Vladimir," he says slowly. "But you still haven't addressed one crucial point."
I tense, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Vartan's voice is cool, calculated. "When exactly do you intend for the Italians to pay the rest of what they owe us? You keep saying you will, but I've been waiting longer than I was promised. I am not a patient man. Certainly, you are aware of my reputation."
"The Brazilian shipment. We've located it." Vartan's eyes widen almost imperceptibly. I seize the moment. "It's intact. Every last ounce. We're prepared to honor our end of the agreement in full."
His fingers drum against the tabletop, a staccato beat of consideration.
"Our offer stands firm," I continue. "But time isn't on our side. Every moment we hesitate, Salvatore's grip tightens. Meeting with Tony needs to happen now. You're the only one that little shit won't suspect."
Vartan straightens. I can see the internal struggle written across his face. He is too old to respond to requests of people like me or Nico, but he is also smart enough to know La Alianza people running our streets means the cartel has an in into Vegas.
The future I've painted—a city torn apart by Salvatore's unchecked ambition and La Alianza's brutality—seems to finally speak to Vartan.
His eyes narrow, then he gives a curt nod. "Fine. I'll arrange the meeting with Tony."
Relief floods through me, but I keep my expression neutral. "Thank you. You won't regret this."
We shake hands, the deal sealed. As Ivan and I turn to leave, Vartan's voice stops me cold.
"You keep saying 'we', Vlad," he hisses out, his tone deceptively casual. "Seems like you might be in some trouble of your own."
I freeze, my heart pounding, then glance over my shoulder.
"This thing with the Italian..." he goes on. "It's unpopular. You know what we did to the people like you back in the motherland?"
My gut churns. The old man's finally showing his true colors. But out loud, I say, "We are not in the motherland anymore, Vartan, and it's not the nineties."
Vartan's lips twist in a humorless smile. "Be careful, Vladimir. Yours can still be a dangerous weakness in our world."
I exit the room without a comment, shoving my anger aside. The main goal has been achieved. Vartan will lure Tony out of his house and Nico and I will do the rest.