Page 4 of Stricken (Light & Shadow #4)
CHAPTER 2
VLAD
I'm back in Vegas, sitting in the hush of Purgatory's VIP room with the crystal tumbler of scotch in my hand. The glass that I twist against the neon tubes on the wall catches shards of light and distributes them across the tumbler, making my drink seem like it's filled with color. The club–my pride and joy and my most valued possession–is deserted at this hour, except for a few maintenance people working downstairs, but my mind is as crowded as the dance floor on a Saturday night.
Images from my trip to Los Angeles play in a loop behind my eyes—the brief, unproductive meeting with Esteban Arellano in Malibu, his shrewd eyes appraising me as we discussed our unholy alliance and his progress in hunting down Shtyk.
The memory blurs, replaced by flashes of sweat-slicked skin and sinful moans. Then he enters my mind—the handsome stranger from the hotel lounge, his smoldering eyes filled with something wild as he looked at me.
I down my drink, needing to soothe my throat that's dry all of a sudden.
The encounter was fierce and fleeting, a momentary escape from the darkness constantly clawing at my sanity. His skilled mouth and strong hands drove me to the brink of oblivion, allowing me to forget, just for a little while, forget the weight of my father's evil deeds that I carry around my neck like a brick.
But in the unforgiving light of day, there is no forgetting. No escaping my fate. I am my father's son, baptized in blood and bound to this life of violence and vengeance. There's nothing else left for me.
With that thought, I pour myself another drink, the liquid sloshing against the tumbler. It's a small indulgence in the early hours. Indulgence and an attempt to pacify my rage in front of my men who are here to get an update on what we will do next.
"Don't you think you've had enough?" Ivan rumbles quietly in Russian from the corner of the room where he's melted into the darkness, ever-present, ever-watchful.
" Ne seychas, Ivan ," I reply in my mother's tongue. I've been forgetting it lately, forgetting how beautiful it could sound.
Ivan doesn't grace me with a reply, which I appreciate. His silent eloquence is part of the reason we get along so well.
Ricky, immaculate in his suit, taps away at his phone, no doubt managing the labyrinthine finances of our little empire or checking his Fortnite stats. The man really stepped it up despite being a six-foot-three softie who tends to cats and dogs in a local shelter.
Seven, Marco, and Ocho lounge on the leather couches. Their trusting faces have me forgetting about the lethal skills that make them invaluable.
"Where's Hector?" I ask, my voice cutting through the low hum of conversation.
"Running an errand," Ocho replies, his gaze flicking to mine. "Said he'd be back when he has news for you, boss."
I nod, leaning back in my chair. This group, the Hellhounds, as they've christened themselves, have proven their worth time and again. At first, I had my doubts about these men who came with the club when I took over. They were remnants of the infamous Thoreau's reign, used to the way he ran things. But Isaac Thoreau is gone now, and I made him a promise—to take care of his kingdom and its subjects, so that's what I'm doing. In return, these men have shown their loyalty, their willingness to get their hands dirty in service of my cause—to find my mother's murderer. They don't know what he truly did. To them he is just a target. A person of interest. But the fact that he tried to use my little brother to get to me is enough of a reason for them.
They are all important in their own way.
Especially Hector. The man has a talent for extracting information, for sniffing out the trails others try to conceal. He's become an integral part of my operation, a hunter constantly on the prowl.
"So, no news on Shtyk then?" Seven comments carefully. "Are the Arellanos holding up their end of the deal?"
I swirl the liquor in my glass, watching the play of light on the cut crystal. "Shtyk's gone to ground. The cartel's contacts haven't been able to track him down…Yet."
"He could be anywhere in Mexico," Ocho muses, his brow furrowing. "And if the cartel can't find him there, it's going to be a fucking needle in a haystack."
"They'll find him," I say, my tone allows no room for doubt.
The men nod, a somber silence descending upon us. I can feel the weight of our shared purpose in the air.
They all know what's at stake. They all know Shtyk won't stop just because he's hunted. They are aware he's bounced back way too many times. However, the blood debt must be paid. Bastard can run, but there is nowhere on this earth he can hide from my wrath. And I'll use whatever means necessary to get to him before he plans his next move.
Just thinking about him has my anger flowing back. Red spots dot my vision. The alcohol doesn't help to soothe the ache in my chest. This LA trip was a waste of time. Except for the hot one-night stand with the handsome stranger, which was pleasant but unessential. Even if I want a do-over.
It would have been so easy—to ask his name and number, to ask if he would be interested in seeing each other again. But this is not the kind of luxury Vlad Solovey can afford right now, not when he's on the verge of war. And war always means casualties. So why bring more people into the circle?
No, I need to get my mind off all this heavy shit for a minute. "Ricky?" I call, reaching out for a bottle of scotch to refill my glass. "You have a lead on the event we talked about before I left?" From the corner of my eye, I can see Ivan's disapproving expression as he looks at my drink. He's right to be concerned.
"So you're dead set on buying that Aperta, boss?" Seven asks from across the table.
"Could use some distraction," I mutter, taking a sip. The buzz in my head is pleasant. I'm not a drinker. As a matter of fact, I hardly ever allow myself to indulge in anything but years of watching my father and his dog ruin lives have taken their toll. I'm not the same man I was fifteen years ago. I've become weaker. I want earthly things like a nice glass of whiskey or scotch or even wine. I want another sports car. I want my brother to be happy. There's a fraction of me that wants to be happy too, wants that warm, fuzzy feeling back. But it's such a small piece that all the other pieces manage to bury it every single time.
"The date is set for next week. Saturday," Ricky replies after checking his phone.
"Time and place?"
"Not yet." He shakes his head. "But I'll get it for you."
"You do that."
"One of those ghost, invite-only posh auctions for the ultra-rich?" Ocho, who sits right next to Ricky, releases a mocking chuckle.
"Well, we'll see how posh it is." I find myself smiling a little bit at the thought of adding another car to my extensive collection. "Besides, I made you rich too." I raise my tumbler to salute all my men gathered here.
They do the same.
"You better let Ricky take it for a spin when you bring it," Seven supplies with a grin, nursing his own beer.
"Yeah, my boy jumped through a lot of hoops to get you the info, boss," Ocho says, clapping Ricky's back.
"I hear they only made two hundred units," Marco says matter-of-factly.
"That sounds about right," I agree. "And I'd like to own one of them."
"Who doesn't?" Seven jokes.
"Probably Ivan," I throw out, glancing at my loyal man over my shoulder, hoping he'll reply with a quip of his own but he's hopeless. His English is still pretty bad, so is his sense of humor. Russian military really brainwashed him to the point of losing all the fun bits.
"Ivan would prefer to own a tank." Ocho cackles.
At that, Ivan rolls his eyes in the corner and mutters in Russian, " Idioty eti rebyata ."
* * *
The SUV glides through the familiar, neon-soaked streets of Las Vegas. But the city's flashy splendor is muted by the tinted windows of the vehicle. Ivan is beside me, both hands on the steering wheel and his quiet presence is somehow a solid anchor in the tumult of my thoughts.
"We'll find him, Vlad," Ivan supplies at some point in Russian. "Shtyk can't run forever."
I stare out the window, my jaw clenched tight for a moment. Finally, I say, "He's slippery, like a snake. Every time we get close, he sheds his skin and disappears."
"Snakes can be caught." Ivan's tone is resolute. "And when we do, we'll make him pay for what he did. For the pain he's caused."
I close my eyes and let the memory of my mother's face swim before me. Her gentle smile, the way she'd sing me to sleep when I was a child. She had a beautiful voice, soft and a little bit raspy. When she spoke the world felt safer. The hole her death left in my heart is a wound that has never healed. To some degree, I even envy my little brother. He was six when Mama passed away. He has only vague memories of her, early years. I was nineteen when I realized what kind of man my father truly was.
In the poorly lit hallway of our Moscow suburban home, I heard his voice loud and clear, drifting from the office, coldly instructing to "remove Marina quietly" because she was a nuisance. At the time, I couldn't piece together what those words really meant. Until one day I was told she had a stroke. One moment she breathed with life; the next, I was standing numbly beside her coffin, struggling to articulate her eulogy amidst murmurs and furtive glances of my father's friends.
Those whispers that I'd overheard just days ago came back to haunt me and they have been haunting me ever since and will haunt me for the rest of my life.
"I'll make sure he's dead before the year ends," I whisper a promise, my voice raw with emotion.
Ivan nods. "We'll see this through to the end. Just be careful with the Arellanos."
"I know."
"Getting in bed with them is like paying for an item you haven't seen."
"Don't rub it in, druzhok ."
"Just being real."
I don't respond, my attention returning to the blur of lights zipping by outside as we drive back to my place. I'll go to Hell if I have to find that svoloch .
Until then, the fire in my soul will continue to burn, an unquenchable flame that will light my way through the shadows. I will have my revenge, no matter the cost.
And God help anyone who stands in my way.