Page 29 of Dangerous King (Savage Kings of New York #2)

The moment the words, Someone planted her , leave my mouth, I know I'm right; neither Roberto nor Giovanni took Izzy.

Those two jackasses were too busy bickering like spoiled brats while my sister was tied to a chair in their basement.

And now that Giovanni's in my custody, Roberto's crawling back like a rat trying to clean up the mess.

But the real danger was never them. It's whoever put Izzy there.

Not for ransom. Not for leverage. For chaos. For exposure.

I glance at Edoardo, who watches me like a cat sizing up a cornered snake.

He doesn't blink, doesn't shift. But I see the calculation flicker behind his eyes. He already suspected this wasn't a family squabble.

Finally, he leans back like he's impressed. Or amused. Not that it matters to me. What matters is that this wasn't Giovanni. He didn't have the subtlety. It wasn't Roberto; he barely knows how to load a gun without instructions.

Which means someone else slipped past my radar.

Someone I didn't see. Someone I should have seen.

And I don't like that. I don't like that at all.

Edoardo shoots a few more questions at Cat about what she heard Giovanni and Roberto talk about, what they were going to do to her.

Cat's holding steady, but I can feel the tremor in her shoulders beneath my hand.

She's tired. The kind of tired that goes bone-deep, the kind that doesn't wait for sleep to settle in—it settles in you .

I lean forward, not asking permission. "That's enough for now," I say. "She needs rest."

Edoardo raises a brow. "I wasn't finished."

"You are for now."

The room stills. I sense my father's eyes on me, feel his need to reprimand me. Wisely, he stays silent. Edoardo only smiles; he thinks of himself as too refined to say anything else. "Very well. I believe I've heard enough to consider my next steps."

He turns his gaze to Cat, and I hate the way it lingers like she's a piece of evidence. Or property.

"I'll decide how to handle the… murder… of one of my capos soon," he says lightly. "Until then, keep her close. I may have further questions."

"Wait," Roberto pushes out of his chair. "Where is my father? What did you do to him?"

"He got what he deserves," my gaze invites him to try me.

"You heard her," Roberto points at Cat, "she testified that we didn't know Izzy was in the basement. He attacked us for no good reason. He?—"

"Yeah, you heard Cat." I move in between Cat and Roberto. "She testified that you were going to kill my sister, instead of returning her to me."

"Enough!" Edoardo calls.

"I want to know what you did with my father." Roberto ignores him.

I smirk at him.

"Did you kill him?" Edoardo glares at me.

I smirk at him too.

Roberto lunges forward. The hand I damaged is still wrapped in a bandage, but he pulls out his other one as if to strike me. My father grabs his arm. "This is a peaceful meeting."

Roberto shakes my father's grip off, glaring at me. I tilt my head. My eyes challenge him to do something else stupid.

"I have your word she won't leave the country?" Edoardo asks me, making it hard for me not to laugh. Stupid buffoon.

"Of course," I say, keeping my voice smooth as glass. "She's under my protection."

Edoardo nods at Cat. "Thank you, Signorina Costa. Your composure is admirable."

Her jaw twitches, but she holds his gaze. I watch her rise slowly, with a grace I know she had to learn the hard way. As we leave the room, I offer her my arm again, and I'm pleased when she takes it.

This time, I'm not just shielding her from the men behind us. This time, I want her close. It's that want which shakes me to the core. She's shaking me to the core. She's inflaming emotions in me that I didn't know I possessed.

The hallway outside the office is quiet, but I can still feel the weight of eyes behind us. I watch as Cat moves off, not speaking until she is safely upstairs, her footsteps soft but steady on the marble steps.

Then I turn to Silvano, who is waiting for me. "Someone planted Izzy at the Giordano's house. It wasn't Giovanni or Roberto who took her."

Like everything, he takes the news in strides, going with it like we suspected all along. "Any idea who? Can't be Roberto."

"No," I say. "He's too stupid. And Giovanni was too careless. This was someone outside the family, but with enough access."

Silvano's mouth tightens. "We've got to get our hands on the guy Izzy identified."

He's right. Baldi would be the key to telling us why and how he planted her in Giovanni's basement.

"Alright. I doubt Kingsley knows anything about that guy, but I'll ask Marcello to check with him. In the meantime, keep an eye on Roberto. I don't trust that fucker."

"Will do, boss."

Silvano disappears to make arrangements, and I step out onto the terrace, phone already in hand. The fresh air cuts through the remnants of the meeting, crisp and silent. I tap the screen and bring the phone to my ear.

He answers on the second ring.

"Orsi."

"Sartori," I reply.

We're still learning each other's rhythms.

"What can I do for you?"

"You remember the night Kingsley showed his face at Valente?" I ask.

"Hard to forget."

"Silvano mentioned he wasn't alone. Someone was with him before everything went sideways. Did Kingsley say anything?"

"He was too busy holding his balls and spitting his teeth out," Marcello smirks.

Yeah, that sounds about right.

"Is this about Izzy?" He asks. His voice is careful, but not cold.

"Maybe."

"If it is," he says slowly, "I'll talk to Kingsley. Nobody goes after our families."

"Let me know if you find anything," I reply, before hanging up. I'm starting to like the guy and the rapport we're building.

I don't even have a chance to take a breath and consider my next move when my phone rings; it's Silvano.

"Check the news."

Fuck, now what?

From inside, I hear my father's loud curses and prepare for another shitshow. I turn down the corridor and push open the office door.

My dad is standing in front of the television, a half-drunk glass of grappa forgotten on the desk. His posture is rigid, and his face is flushed with rage.

On screen, the news anchor cuts to a live interview.

Kevin Jasper, New York's golden boy of justice, stands before a podium, sleek in a tailored navy suit. No notes. No stumbles. Just smooth, media-trained outrage sharpened to a political edge.

"We are deeply saddened by the horrific violence that took place yesterday at the Astoria Galleria," he says, calm but resolute. "Twelve men with known or suspected ties to the Giordano crime family were found dead inside and around the scene."

My lips curl into a slow, humorless smirk.

Never leave a fallen soldier behind. I made sure we didn't.

Kevin continues. "But it wasn't just organized crime caught in the crossfire. Innocent people just trying to live their lives or provide for their families were caught in the chaos. Some didn't make it home."

His voice lowers with practiced gravity. "This is unacceptable."

My father throws back the rest of his drink in one swallow.

Kevin straightens, now fully addressing the camera. "We are currently reviewing all security footage from the surrounding areas. This was not a random act. We believe it was targeted. Coordinated. And I intend to uncover exactly who these men were after—and why."

He places a hand over his heart. "The people of this city deserve safety, transparency, and justice. I will not rest until they have it."

My father rounds on me, glass in hand. "Get your ass down there," he growls. "Right now."

"I'm already moving."

"I want that footage gone, Enrico. I don't care how. No trace. No names. If he gets one face—just one—he'll spin this all the way to a mayoral bid."

"He already is," I mutter.

"Then bury him before he gets the crown."

I turn and head for the door, already calling my new best friend, Marcello, back, before I step on any feet.

"Can't live without me, can you?" I can hear his smirk all the way through the line. Bastard.

"Have you seen the news?"

Marcello chuckles, "Let me guess, Kevin Jasper has your pantyhose in a twist?"

I grunt in response. "I'm just calling because I know he's your man and common courtesy demands I call before I take care of him."

"I appreciate the heads up, but all that shit falls into my good old dad's hat. You want permission to handle Kevin, you have to talk to him. Oh, and you might want to check with Toni De Luna as well. It's his leash. "

"Fuck!" I slap my hand against the wall, shaking a painting. Toni won't be an issue. But Carlos…

"Yeah, you and me both. Can't be too soon before good old dad's gone." Marcello divulges. He's starting to give me more, which is good.

"You might want to talk to Toni. I think you two have something in common," I advise. Toni has been on me for a while about us banding together and getting rid of Edoardo. I'm starting to see his point.

A couple of months ago, Carlos Orsi, Marcello's father, killed Jacomo DeLuna during a family dinner.

Edoardo decreed that Toni was not to avenge his father's death.

Ever since, Toni's been trying to figure out a way to go behind the Don's back and rid the world of Carlos.

Who is the last person in this world I want to talk to—or owe a favor to.

"Piece of advice?" Marcello asks.

"I'm all ears."

"With my father, it's better to ask for forgiveness than permission."

I take a deep inhale. "I hear you, but I'm already on thin ice with Edoardo after this thing with Giovanni."

"As far as I'm concerned, it should be Carlos getting Kevin in line, but the bastard is too busy licking Edoardo's ass to do anything useful. Yours or Giordano's name getting in the news is bad business for all of us."

He's right. Edoardo won't be able to do shit if I talk to Kevin. "I'll take care of Kevin."

"Just keep him breathing, we still need the bastard."

"Ten four." I hang up.

I know this neighborhood.

Toni had it built. It's filled with luxury homes carved into the forested hills, like a crown around a man who sees himself as a king. His house is up on the highest point—stone and glass and power—overlooking the lake, the road, and every soul who dares to look up.

Kevin Jasper lives three turns down the hill.

Still elevated. Still smug. But make no mistake, he's not the king here .

Kevin Jasper thinks he's clever, hiding in plain sight, flaunting his state salary while living like a hedge fund billionaire.

Good thing the press is firmly in our hands; otherwise, they'd have a field day reporting about how he can afford this.

I park out front. No need for subtlety. He made this political, now I'll make it personal.

The maid answers the door, young, pale, too pretty to be safe in a house like this. She blinks when she sees me, already stepping back.

"I need to see Mr. Jasper."

"I-I'll check?—"

I push past her without a second glance. "He's expecting me."

I move through the grand foyer, past the too-perfect art and all the fake warmth money can buy, and find his office.

The door's ajar. Kevin's inside, pacing with a phone pressed to his ear.

"Yeah, we'll spin it like a public safety issue—twelve dead, civilians in the crossfire—makes me look tough on crime. Voters love that?—"

The moment I open the door fully, he turns. His smile falters. "Mr. Sartori?—"

Wordlessly, I grab him by the collar and slam his face into the desk. The sound is wet and violent, bone and cartilage crunch. Blood sprays across the leather blotter and seeps into the wood grain. It splatters my pants and shoes, and I curse.

He cries out, half-screaming, half-sobbing, clutching his broken nose as he falls backward into his chair.

Behind me, the maid stumbles in, her face ghost-white. "Mr. Jasper! Oh my God! Should I call the police?"

I pull my gun and train it on her without looking. "Corner. Now."

She collapses backward against the wall and slides down into a crouch, trembling, saying nothing. I don't like intimidating women, but Christ, I don't have time for this shit.

Kevin is trying to speak, but it sounds garbled and wet; blood still gushes from his broken nose, and he tries to swallow. One of his hands clutches his nose, the other the edge of the desk for leverage. Without hesitation, I step forward and fire.

The gunshot is deafening. His hand, the one on the edge of the desk, jerks sideways, and one of his fingers hits the floor like a dropped pencil, spinning before it stops.

His screams are shrill and ragged. His eyes bulge in disbelief and are joined by those of the maid.

My ears are ringing, and I contemplate firing again, this time to shut both of them up permanently, but my rational side wins, as it always does.

"You're going to shut your mouth and listen to me," I say calmly, holstering the gun.

He's sobbing now, his face twisted in agony. Her cries are more subdued.

"You used the mall shooting like a fucking campaign ad. You went on national television and promised justice. You think you're the hero in this story?" I lean over him, quiet and cold. "You're nothing but a parasite in a better man's house."

"I didn't?—"

"Shut. Up."

I grab the wrist of his ruined hand and squeeze, cursing again as his blood gets all over me.

His whole body jerks. "You're forgetting who is paying for this house.

You're going to call your dogs off. You're going to lose that security footage.

You're going to tell every news outlet that it was a terrorist attack.

That you were misled, this was not mob-related. "

He whimpers something I don't bother decoding.

"Use another platform for your political ambitions," I murmur, close enough that he feels it. "This one's not it."

I turn toward the maid. She hasn't moved her eyes, which are trained on me. I pick up the phone Kevin dropped and toss it to her. "Call an ambulance. He had an accident cleaning his gun," I lean low enough that our noses almost touch, "and remind him—next time, I'll bring a shovel."