48. Nico
CHAPTER 48
NICO
I flip through the stack of invoices on Tony's desk—my desk now. The numbers swim before my eyes. This is the part of running an empire no one tells you about—paperwork. And there has been an immense amount of it as of late, mostly with the transition of power. Signature here. Signature there. Some of it could be done by the family's consigliere, but that's another problem I have to figure out on my own. Costa is the only person I trust, but he doesn't have the necessary skill set to make some of the decisions. Claudio was a smart bastard.
At the thought, I glance at Costa standing off to the side like a statue, his presence a small comfort but comfort, nonetheless. I try to push the image of Shtyk bloodied and naked somewhere in the bunker out of my mind. He's been delivered as promised. Locked up where no one can ever find him.
What's next?
Focus, Nicola. Business first.
"When's the meeting with the Colombians again?" I ask Costa, loosening my tie and flipping through more pages in front of me.
"Thursday. 2 PM. Bellagio."
I nod. "We'll offer them a seventy-thirty split to start. I want to lock in that supply line before the Mexicans muscle in on it and start cutting it south of the border."
Costa inclines his head. "I understand, Padrino . Do you want me to—"
His phone chimes and he glances at the screen.
I let him read the text and jot down another signature above the dotted line on yet another document. When I look back up at Costa, the color's drained from his face.
A stone drops into my stomach. Costa isn't someone easily rattled.
"What is it?" My hand clenches around the pen.
Costa meets my gaze, his dark eyes full of uncharacteristic emotion. " Padrino …"
"What is it?" I repeat my question, my voice stern.
"The Russian was in a car accident."
The room seems to spin slowly, like the far edge of a carousel. Instinctively, I grip the edge of the desk. I don't even notice that I do until my knuckles crack.
My expression is schooled into a neutral mask still. Or at least I hope so. I don't want for Costa to be aware of how much effect the news has on me.
"How bad?" I look at the wall across, unable to look at Costa for some reason.
"He is alive if that's what you're asking. But he's in critical condition. Coma. He hasn't woken up yet."
I inhale sharply through my nose. Alive. Vlad's still alive. Relief crashes over me, followed swiftly by dread.
Silence fills the office.
"Don't you want to see him?" Costa asks softly.
"I thought you didn't like him."
"I don't. But you do."
I swallow hard. My heart screams yes but my head warns of the risks. I'm the head of the family now. I can't appear weak. Can't let my feelings interfere. If I'm kicked out of the hospital, rumors will spread.
"Well, it's in the past," I supply matter-of-factly, knowing Costa isn't easily fooled. But I don't think I'm trying to fool him. I'm trying to fool myself. Fool myself into thinking Vlad Solovey means nothing to me.
The silence stretches, and with it do my fears. Costa watches me, awaiting my decision.
I know what I should do—stay focused on the empire, the power, the respect I've fought so hard to earn. It's what Uncle would expect. But Vlad...
Stop! Just stop, Nicola. He didn't want you. So you should stop wanting him too.
My jaw clenches. Resolve hardens in my chest, cold and sharp as a blade. To hell with him.
Costa's expression remains stoic. " Padrino , we have a scheduled visit to the family operations facilities later today. The new distributors will be expecting to meet with you. Or should I reschedule?"
I pinch the bridge of my nose, a headache brewing behind my eyes. "I know." I let a few tense seconds tick by before rising from my chair. "Let's meet with the distributors."
We exit the office and into the freshly painted hallway. As we walk through the house, I notice the new wallpaper as well. Aunt Chiara's doing, no doubt. Keeping busy.
I gave her permission to do whatever she wanted with the house. There were still damages that needed to be fixed and covered up after the attempt on Uncle's life. I thought having my aunt occupied would do her some good.
My mind wanders as Costa and I cross the family room and head over to the front. I'm thinking of Vlad again. Lying in a hospital bed, alone and vulnerable. The memory of his rare smile and his rough hands sends a pang through my chest. But the expectations of the family pull me in the opposite direction.
Lost in thought, I almost collide with a figure as we round the corner. Tony's Sicilian. He's still here, still lurking around the house, as if waiting for something. Maybe for me to make a mistake.
"Shouldn't you be back in Italy by now?" I ask the man in Italian, without slowing my pace.
He simply inclines his head. "Mr. Morelli." His voice has the hairs on the back of my neck stand.
Even Costa stiffens beside me, his hand twitching toward his weapon. I place a hand on his arm, a silent command.
"This figlio di puttana gives me the creeps," Costa murmurs as we reach the car parked out front.
"That makes two of us," I agree, my lips twisting into a humorless smile. "But we have bigger things to worry about, don't we?"
* * *
The engine of the black SUV purrs to life as Costa guides us onto the open road. The city sprawling before us is a concrete jungle hiding secrets in every corner. Once Vladimir Solovey and Nicola Morelli were one of those secrets. Today, it's just a fling of the past. Forgotten. At least for him.
For me, it wasn't a fling. And I will forever hate myself for this, for being so weak.
I lean back in the leather seat and pull out my phone, searching for any scrap of information about the accident. News articles flash across the screen, each headline a stab to my gut.
His car drove into a barrier at the Enclave. He's got multiple injuries. Broken ribs. Broken leg.
What the hell was he doing there and where the hell was Ivan to let him race?
His face haunts me again, his intense eyes and the serious curve of his mouth are flashing at me from the photos in every post.
Costa glances at me in the rearview mirror, his gaze filled with unspoken understanding when I meet it. He can tell how I really feel. We've known each other too long.
"If you change your mind, Padrino ," he offers from the front of the vehicle, "Let me know."
I reply with a non-committal grunt and shift my attention to the landscape outside as we pass the winking skyline of the Strip and then move further into the outskirts of Vegas. Industrial buildings begin to rise on either side, their facades weather-beaten and grim. Costa navigates the streets with ease, bringing us outside the city limits and to the heart of the family's operations.
The warehouse looks just like any other warehouse on this stretch of the road. Old. Faded company sign. The company is bogus. It exists only on paper. The place hums with activity, the scent of diesel and sweat permeating the air. Men in dark clothing move methodically.
I'm greeted as I move through the operations. Some bow their heads. Some simply nod. I don't care how they show their respect. As long as they do.
I don't stop for a conversation. I keep on moving, scanning the organized chaos. Crates of product are loaded onto trucks, destined for the streets of Los Angeles.
For all intents and purposes, this is a real place of business and we have people in high places to protect us from unwanted intruders like local police or the FBI. Hell, we have people in the FBI too. Uncle wasn't just a figurehead. He secured a lot of useful alliances in his days.
I approach one of the supervisors, his face weathered and scarred. I shake his hand. Because that's what a good leader would do. He would humble himself in front of his people. He would ask questions and listen to the explanations intently to show his workers that he's not there to change things. He's here to make them better.
After a quick chat, I move on to the next portion of the warehouse, checking one truck after another, exchanging a few words with one of Uncle's lieutenants.
"Is Rinaldo not here?"
"He is not scheduled to work on this shipment," the man named Guido explains.
"I take it everything is on schedule?" I can't think of a better question for some reason. My thoughts shift back to Vlad. It reminds me of our operation to steal Tony's drugs from Salvatore. Reminds me of how Vlad saved my life. If he didn't care, he would have let me burn in that fire.
"Yes, boss," the man replies. "Everything's on schedule. The product is top-notch."
I nod, my mind already churning with ideas for improvement. "Good." I step away and whisper at Costa. "Reach out to our contact at the DEA. Set up a dinner. Somewhere private. I want to thank him."
"Will do."
I move deeper into the warehouse, inspecting the crates that still need preparation. A container off to the side, unlabeled, catches my eye. I push the lid open. Plastic packages of white powder are stacked inside. I pick up one and examine it. The mark of the Brazilian cartel we've been dealing with is on the side of the bag.
"Get me one of the workers," I order Costa.
He leaves to grab the nearest man.
"When did this arrive?" I demand. The package in my hand is at least two pounds. Again, only Brazilians pack their cocaine that way.
"I don't know, Padrino ," the worker replies.
"What do you mean you don't know? All Brazilian product has to be out of the warehouses by the fifteenth. It's the end of the month."
The worker swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "It's been here for months. Since before your uncle's funeral. Rinaldo brought this in with his crew."
I feel like the ground shifts beneath my feet even though I'm standing on the cement floor.
"When?"
"Maybe ten weeks. It was right after the storm. I remember we had electrical problems that day."
I toss the package back into the crate. My mouth is suddenly dry and the leather of my gloves creaks with the strain as my fingers curl into fists.
The pieces of the puzzle are starting to fall into place, painting an entirely different picture of what I thought I was seeing. Ten weeks ago. Right after the storm, Vlad and I were still together. For a couple more days. And Rinaldo brought the Brazilian shipment. So, the coke never left the fucking family. Instead, Vlad left me.
The warehouse fades away, the bustling activity reduced to white noise. I don't get it. Why did he have to pretend he took the coke? Was it easier for him to be the bad guy than to be honest?
I yank at the tie, feeling like I'm suffocating, feeling like the oxygen itself has turned to stone.
My feet start moving. I brush past the men gathered inside. My eyes are focused on the exit, on the darkening sky colored by the streaks of blood-red sun.
I rush out of the warehouse and turn the corner. I can't have anyone see me like this—soft and emotional. Back pressed against the wall, I suck in a lungful of air.
What the fuck is going on?
" Padrino !" Costa appears in front of me.
"He's not going to let me go," I mutter under my nose, looking at the ground.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Find out which hospital he's in."
* * *
Later that night, once I'm inside the sanctuary of my home again, I pour myself a drink and down it in one desperate motion.
Costa hands me a neatly folded note and I take a moment to think it through before I choose to see what's on it.
Desert Ridge Hospital. Room 245.
I walk over to the candle burning on the coffee table and let the tiny flame eat the paper. This information isn't released to the masses. A man who holds this much power is a target for every thug in Vegas right now. People will try to kill him while he's unconscious.
"Let's go," I tell Costa, setting my glass on the wooden console table filled with family photos and books.
Costa frowns a little. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure. The old man isn't here anymore. How the hell will he know that I'm going to see Vlad? He's in the grave."
"Fair enough. Want me to get the car ready?"
"Yes."
Costa nods and disappears from the room, leaving me one-on-one with my thoughts.
I'm contemplating another drink for courage, but I don't want to be too drunk when I see Vlad. So, I hold back. I need my mind clear to unravel the truth. And Vlad is the only one who knows what happened. Vlad and Rinaldo. But Tony's lieutenant hasn't been answering Costa's calls. And I'm very impatient. I don't have it in me to wait for him to return from his sabbatical in time for another job.
The soft click of heels against the marble floor draws my attention.
I turn to the sound.
Aunt Chiara enters the living room. She seems to have grown smaller since the funeral. Her eyes are sad. Not because she just lost a husband, but because both Roberto and Salvatore are forbidden from staying at the house. I'm still unsure of what to do with the assholes. Roberto is mostly harmless, but Sal will find a way to make my life hell again. And that's the last thing I need.
Problem is I feel sorry for my aunt. I don't have the strength to kill her younger son. Violence brings more violence. There has to be another solution I've yet to come up with.
"I heard about the accident," Chiara says, halting to a stop.
"Hmm." I'm not sure she is the right person to talk to about this matter.
"I'm sorry." She takes several careful steps in my direction. "I know you care about him."
"Well, he's always been reckless. It was only a matter of time before his luck ran out."
"Everyone's luck eventually runs out, Nicola."
"That's true."
"If you really want to see him, you should," she whispers, taking my hand into hers. "Family is everything, Nicola. It's the only thing that truly matters in this life. But if your family can't let you be who you are, what is the point?"
Bitterness fills my voice. "Sometimes, I wonder if the price of family is too high. If the sacrifices we make are worth it in the end."
Chiara's gaze softens, a knowing look in her eyes. "Happiness is a fleeting thing in our world, Nico. We must grab onto it when we can, tesoro ."
Before I can respond, my phone vibrates. A text message from Costa indicates that the car is ready and out front.
"I'll get going, Zia ," I tell Chiara.
She pats my shoulder gently. "Take care, Nico."
I pivot toward the door, my gaze catching on the hulking silhouette dominating the entrance. "Going somewhere, Mr. Morelli?" the Sicilian asks, and the way he says it, the way he shoves the words out in Italian seems like it's a rhetorical question and it prickles my skin.
"That doesn't concern you," I reply sharply. "It's time for you to go back to Italy anyway. Tony is gone and I don't need your services."
Next to me, Chiara seems frozen mid-breath. Silence presses down, almost tangible. It's like being submerged under thick water.
My pulse thrums violently in my ears—a brutal drumbeat—woosh, woosh.
The man's imposing frame blocks any path forward. He's built like a fort and always packing heat. As he steps closer, the air in the room grows claustrophobic.
"I think you misunderstand the situation," the man says. "Your uncle can see from his grave." A hand disappears into the folds of his coat. "And he gave clear orders. No faggots in the family. And yet, here you are."
Rage bursts through my bloodstream. Best defense is always attack. So I do just that. I take a step forward, locking my eyes with the Sicilian's. "I'm not afraid of you, or of my uncle's ghost."
Something cold presses to my cheek and then I realize it's the barrel of a gun.
A sickening cocktail of confusion and fear swirls inside me. Old man even thought this through.
Fuck.
The safety clicks and the sound reverberates through my ear like an earthquake. I know with certainty that talking myself out of this situation is useless. If this man's order is to kill me, then he will do so without hesitation.
"Any last words, Padrino ?" he asks grimly.
Before I can react, there's a sound. A thud. The Sicilian's face slacks like a deflated doll, and he drops to my feet. The gun clatters across the floor.
I'm so struck by this sudden change of dynamics that I fail to register what's in front of me for another second or two until my vision and my brain are finally in agreement.
Aunt Chiara is standing in there, hands slightly outstretched, a heavy vase in her grip.
I blink, shift my gaze to the body below, then back at her.
But Chiara doesn't stop. She drops to her knees and with a primal scream brings the vase down on the man's head.
"You. Will. Not. Speak. To. My. Nephew. That. Way."
She rains blow after blow, the broken shards of glass cutting into her hands, leaving crimson streaks on the pristine white tiles.
I watch in shock. I don't recognize this woman as my aunt anymore. The gentle, nurturing presence in my life. Or maybe she always had this rage. She just hid it well. Maybe that's where Salvatore gets his anger from.
" Zia ." I crouch in front of the body, reaching out to her. "Stop. He's dead now."
She jerks from my touch at first.
"It's me, Zia . It's okay. He's dead."
She lifts her gaze to me and whispers, "Now, no one except Tony and me knows what his orders were. And Tony is dead." She takes a shuddering breath. "And I don't care whom you have in your heart, Nico. Go see him now."
"We need to clean this up." I motion at the body on the floor as I help her stand up.
"You don't think I've learned how to clean up this kind of mess in all of the years I've been married to your uncle?"
"I think there are a lot of things I apparently don't know about you, Zia ."
"Go. See him. I'll take care of this, tesoro ."
For a moment, I hesitate, torn between the need to get rid of the bloody apocalypse in the living room and the desperate desire to see Vlad, to try and get some answers from him or anyone in his circle.
But the resolve in Chiara's eyes propels me forward. Something tells me she doesn't need my help.
I nod, my throat tight with emotion. "Thank you, Zia . For everything."
And then I'm running, my stupid heart leading the way outside and to the car where Costa is waiting.