Page 59 of Stricken

"Then whose fault was that?"

"I'm handling it," I replied, not wanting to reveal more. About possible La Alianza's involvement in this. Not yet. Not until I had solid information.

"You better. I won't have my idiot sons' mistakes become yours too. Fix this, Nicola.Capisce?"

Tony's breaths came heavy and labored. He looked older in that moment, weariness carved into the lines of his face. The sight unsettled me more than his rage. The great Anthony Morelli, untouchable pillar of our family for decades, showing signs of his mortality.

I grab fistfuls of the silk sheets, my knuckles blanching white. I will fix this. I have to. Losing that shipment was a blow to both—Morelli business and reputation, but it's also my chance to prove myself. To show Tony and everyone else that I'm not just the Stanford-educated nephew—I have what it takes to be his heir.

Sleep remains elusive, the gears of my mind churning restlessly. Vartan's deadline looms. One week to come up with the rest of the money in cash. You'd think it's easy for people like us—playing in the darkness. It's not. Some cash funds can't be touched and some money is stuck in assets or foreign banks. Any movement over a certain amount triggers things that should remain quiet. Because even though we have half the city government in the pockets, we don't have them all and we don't have IRS on the hook either.

My thoughts spiral, half-formed plans of squeezing our dealers, calling in markers, moving product faster.

There has to be a way. Failure is not an option. Not if I'm going to make Tony proud and claim my birthright. My father died for this empire. It's only fair I have the same chance to compete for the spot at the head of the table Roberto and Salvatore have.

Why can't it be me anyway?

I can do better than my cousins.

I take a deep breath, hold it for a beat, then exhale slowly. Focus on the sensation of air filling and leaving my lungs. Try to clear my mind like one of those meditation apps suggests. In for four counts, out for eight. Again.

The silk sheets are cool against my skin as I shift onto my side, seeking a more comfortable position.

Gradually, the tension in my muscles eases. The thoughts quiet to a murmur. Sleep tugs at the edges of my consciousness, and I welcome its embrace. My eyes drift shut, the day's stresses fading into the shadows.

Bzzzz. Bzzzz.

The jarring vibration of my phone yanks me back from the brink of oblivion. I blink blearily at the nightstand, disoriented. Who the hell is calling at this hour?

Squinting at the glowing screen, I read the name I've saved for Vlad in my contacts.Hot Shot.My pulse quickens, sleep forgotten.

"Yes?" I answer immediately. "To what do I owe the pleasure of hearing your voice at this hour,caro?"

There's a beat of silence on the other end, then a shaky exhale. "Not sure about the pleasure part..." Vlad's normally smooth, confident tone is off. Slurred. Vulnerable.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I sit up straighter, instantly alert. "Are you drunk?"

"Just a little."

"What's wrong?"

Another long pause. I hear him take a swig of something, probably whiskey knowing him. "It's... it's my mother's birthday."

I don't know what to say at first. Vlad rarely speaks of her, but I know her death haunts him. The confession has my chest aching.

"I'm sorry," I murmur. "I can't imagine how difficult this must be for you."

A bitter chuckle crackles through the phone. "S'been years, but it still... it still hurts like hell, y'know?"

"Grief has no expiration date." I wish I could reach through the phone and pull him close, shield him from the pain.

Fuck. Why do I have these mushy thoughts and desires?

"I just... I miss her so damn much, Nico," he says on the line. "And I can't... can't stop thinking about how she died. I wonder if she felt any pain or if it was quick. I wonder if I could have done something. My brother… he was too little, but I was a man then. Young and inexperienced. But still."

My heart clenches at the raw anguish in his tone. I can feel his confusion and hate and anger even through the intoxication. "Vlad, listen to me. What happened to your mother was not your fault. You were just a boy."

"No I wasn't. I shoulda... shoulda done somethin'." His words blur together like the neon lights of the city would blur in the rare fog. "Shoulda protected her from... from him."

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