37. Vlad
CHAPTER 37
VLAD
I pace the confines of my office. Here, the weather is always the same, just the right temperature for my comfort, unlike outside where a collection of storm clouds have been gathering on the horizon all morning while I was on my way to the club.
In a way I'm glad I'm hidden away inside–my mood is already shitty. No need for the nature to shove it into my face with its gloom.
The glass of vodka in my hand this time of the afternoon is a rare occurrence. I've always tried to keep drinking to a minimum by not having stock in my house for long stretches of time, but lately, I've been unsettled. I've been finding myself indulging in liquor more than I'd like to. But the grasp of expensive, imported alcohol on my throat and stomach doesn't help me to feel better right now.
I shouldn't have gone to the Enclave. Shouldn't have risked my life like that over a silly argument and that stinging slap. Should have listened to Ivan. Having Jun Serra know my weakness is dangerous. He won't do anything about it, but he can sell that info to the highest bidder if that benefits him.
The memories of the reckless drive down the racetrack wash over me. But it only distracts me for a second.
Frustration simmering beneath my skin is an itch I can't scratch.
Pulling out my phone, I tap out a message to Nico.
The Armenians are getting impatient. They want their cut of the Brazilian money. And we still haven't dumped the shipment.
My finger hovers over the button, a hairsbreadth from sending.
Is it enough?
Will this olive branch span the sudden void between us?
Did he see that I called?
Did he hear my voicemail from earlier?
I hit send before I change my mind.
Two minutes later, when I look back at the screen, the message sits on read, mocking me with its lack of response. I fire off another text, an afterthought wrapped in practicality.
What do you want me to do with it?
Silence.
I grit my teeth and resume my pacing, the vodka sloshing inside my glass.
" Chyort voz'mi , Nico," I mutter under my breath, downing the rest of the drink in one burning gulp. The alcohol is like a quiet apology lodged in my throat, apology for not being able to fix my problem. But my pride is a tyrant, an immovable force that keeps the right words at bay.
I slam the empty glass down on my desk. How did we come to this impasse? One misstep, one careless comment, and the delicate balance we'd achieved lies shuttered at our feet.
I halt to a stop in the center of the office and run a hand through my hair, tugging at the strands as if I could physically pull the solution from my mind.
The phone remains silent like a vicious reminder of the distance between me and him. I resist the urge to throw it against the wall, knowing that killing the messenger won't actually fix the problem. Instead, I shove it back into my pocket.
A sudden thought seizes me.
I pull out the phone and dial Hector's number.
"Boss?" Hector's voice crackles through the speaker, a question in his tone.
"I need you to do something for me. It's urgent and has to be discreet. Are you available?"
"What is it?"
"I need you to find out where Nico is staying."
"I'll find him."
"Thanks. Let me as soon as you have any info."
"You got it, boss."
The call ends.
Hours later, I am still in my office. The club is shaking and pounding. The night is in full swing with music and loud voices and clinking of glasses blending into one. I try to tune it all out. Anxiety is my only companion as I mechanically go through some paperwork Ricky has asked me to look at a while back. Signatures are needed here and there. Second opinion to be taken into account before changing vendors. And so on and so forth.
But my mind isn't preoccupied by the business, it's a vortex of possibilities, thoughts spinning, each scenario more dire than the previous. What if Hector can't find Nico? What if the Armenians grow tired of waiting, decide to take matters into their own hands? The weight of this damn shipment I'm keeping for Nico hangs over me like a mountain of bricks.
My phone buzzes on the desk and I lunge for it, my heart in my throat. "Hector?"
"He's at Regal Arms. Room 1205." Hector's voice is tight. I can sense the undercurrent of tension in it.
Relief washes over me. "Thanks."
"Boss, there's something else." A heavy pause follows. "But can't be over the phone. I'm on my way to the club now… And I better ditch this phone. I'll text you my new number in a sec."
The line goes dead, and I am left with a growing sense of unease, a prickling at the back of my neck that tells me something is very, very wrong. And if Hector has to change burners… Fuck.
I find myself staring at the phone for a long moment, mind churning.
I shake my head, pushing the dark thoughts aside, and instead dial the girl who helps Ricky to run things around here. "Do me a favor, Daphne. Send a bouquet of flowers to the Regal Arms. Room 1205. Red roses, two dozen. No card."
"Sure thing, Mr. Solovey. When do you want me to get it done?"
"Now."
"Okay."
I end the call.
It is a small thing, perhaps, in the grand scheme of our fucked-up lives. But it is a start, a silent apology for the harsh words spoken in the heat of the moment the other day. A way to bridge the gap between us, to let Nico know that he is not alone, that I am here, even if my pride will not let me say the words aloud.
The minutes tick by, each one an eternity, as I wait for Hector's arrival. It's late and I'm starting to get tired and the vodka I consumed earlier is muddling my brain.
Soon, I hear a knock. Hector enters, his face grave.
"Boss." He shuts the door closed. "I have some other intel that could be interesting."
"What is it?" I ask, shoving both hands in the pockets of my slacks. Hector is a small man but even when I look at him from the vantage point of my height, he intimidates me. I understand why Thoreau chose him to be a part of the Hellhounds. His set of skills are a rare find.
Hector takes a deep breath, his eyes meeting mine. "There's a hit out on Tony Morelli. My source says it's going down tomorrow."
The news has the air rushing from my lungs in a sharp exhalation. And I hate that I have this reaction, that my emotions are suddenly manifesting in physical form. So many years of holding it in and I can't do it now. Not when it has something to do with Nico, even with those damn six degrees of separation.
"Are you sure?" I ask.
"Positive, boss."
"And how do you know this?"
"One of my… hmmm… acquaintances… he knows a guy who's mixed up with La Alianza. Not a rat, boss. They've got his family. He's just doing what he's told."
"I didn't ask about his alliances. It doesn't matter. You sure it's not a ruse?"
"No. Word is one of the Italians who met with El Jefe was Salvatore Morelli. That's all I know."
I close my eyes, the information is threatening to crush me. La Alianza's greedy hands are here in Vegas, helping to shove Tony Morelli head into the grave prematurely. And if they take out Tony, it will be chaos, a power vacuum that will swallow us up.
And Nico... My heart clenches at the thought of him caught in the middle of this, a pawn in a game he never asked to play.
I have to warn him, to keep him safe, no matter the cost.
And then it hits me again. Something doesn't add up. "What do you mean, Salvatore is 'one of the Italians' behind this? Who else is involved?"
Hector shakes his head. "My guy says they were both Italians. But he couldn't get any more than that."
Two Italians. A sinister whisper appears in my head. If not just Salvatore, then who? Salvatore's security details? Or a mole within the Morelli family itself?
Dreadful cold settles in the pit of my stomach. The room feels too confined, the walls closing in around me.
Betrayal, ambition, power. It's a toxic cocktail, one that can bring even the strongest empire to its knees. And now, with Nico in the crosshairs, the stakes have never been higher.
I shift my attention back to Hector, my decision made. "Find out any extra details you can about this. We need to know what we're up against."
Hector nods. "I'm on it, boss. I'll let you know as soon as I have something."
The moment he leaves, I dial Nico's number. The line rings once, twice, three times. Each unanswered call is a twist of the knife.
Goddamn this stubborn Italian asshole.
"Hey, Nico, it's me." My voice is rough, urgency bleeding into every word as I leave him a message. "I need you to call me back. Right now. It's important."
Frustration runs through me. I'm helpless, powerless, reduced to a collection of emotional begging.
I try again. Still no answer. The tension builds, a pressure cooker ready to explode.
Fuck it.
I'm not a man of the words anyway.
Solovey men are men of action.
* * *
Ivan is in my office, quickly summoned. His eyes are sharp, posture alert. He knows trouble is coming before I say it.
"Prepare the car. We're going to Royal Arms." I'm already moving, my strides purposeful as I head for the door. Ivan falls into step beside me, as always having him near is like having a constant in the chaos. Nice.
We make our way downstairs and rush through the starting drizzle and to the SUV. I climb into the back and Ivan slides into the driver's seat.
The engine roars to life.
As we pull away from the curb, I try Nico's number again. Still no answer.
The city lights outside the raindrop covered window remind me of an optical prism—the mysterious combination of color and motion. Mother gave me one when I was perhaps five or six. I spun it for hours in front of the sun, looking at the way the light changed.
I lean back against the seat, my eyes closing for a moment as I squeeze the bridge of my nose. The weight of the past few days presses down on me, exhaustion seeping into my bones. And I can feel it trying to latch on to me for good.
But no. I can't rest yet. Not until I know Nico is safe. Not until I figure out how to help him salvage some of his family.
Even if this goes against my very being.
The SUV speeds through the streets. Ivan drives with a singular focus, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. We're racing against time, against fate, against the forces that threaten to tear apart this city.
God. Let him be fine. Let him be fine and not angry. Or even angry is okay with me.
The SUV pulls up to the hotel's front entrance and I'm out of the car before it comes to a complete stop, my feet hitting the ground with force.
I can hear the valet rushing over somewhere behind me as I walk past the sliding glass doors. Ivan's instructions are clear: don't park too far.
Then he is right behind me, catching up to me halfway through the lobby where the air is thick with the scent of polished marble and expensive perfume, but I barely notice.
Jaw clenched, I navigate the corridor and head for the elevator. Ivan presses the button, his eyes scanning the area for any signs of trouble.
The elevator dings. The doors slide open with a soft whoosh. We step inside and immediately, the walls start closing in around us as we begin our ascent. I don't know why Nico makes me feel this way. Nothing ever rattles me. Not the sight of blood or money or misery. But he does. He has my every nerve ending wound so tight, I can't think straight.
Adrenaline gushes through me. Every second feels like it's never going to end, the numbers on the display ticking by with agonizing slowness.
Finally, the doors open again, and we step out onto the twelfth floor. The hallway stretches out before me both ways and I look at the sign indicating the right direction to the room I need.
Ivan reads it before me and motions to the left.
I take off, half running now, my shoes eating up the distance made up of plush carpet as I approach room 1205.
Ivan keeps pace beside me, his hand resting on the gun at his hip barely hidden beneath the jacket.
I pause for a fraction of a second, my fist hovering in the air. A thousand thoughts race through my mind, a thousand possibilities of what could be waiting on the other side.
But there's no time for hesitation, no time for doubt. I take a deep breath, readying myself for whatever comes next.
And then I knock.
"Nico!" My breath is suddenly coming in short, sharp bursts. "Nico! I know you're there! Open the door!"