Page 3 of Dangerous King (Savage Kings of New York #2)

The fucker dared to take my sister. Does he think I'm stupid? That I wouldn't find out who was behind this? Rage wars with worry. Izzy. My baby sister. Why would he take her? Izzy would never even harm a fly.

To get to you , my fingers pull at the knot of my tie. I need to loosen it, the veins on my neck are swelling with anger, and I'm slowly suffocating myself.

"We got her location, boss," Silvano, my Consigliere and best friend, announces, holding up his phone.

Thank fuck I insisted on all of us being injected with trackers.

Having access to all the best and newest technology is one of the many perks of dealing arms. That's what our family does.

My father is the capo of the Sartori family, one of the five families of the Cosa Nostra here in New York City, and we're in charge of arms trafficking and gambling.

"Let's go." I pull my gun from my waistband, making sure it's locked and loaded, which it always is.

The Staccato is a thing of beauty—matte black slide, skeletonized trigger, built-in compensator that keeps her flat no matter how fast I run her.

Her custom grip fits my palm like a second skin.

She's fast, flawless, and unforgiving—just the way I like my weapons.

As much as I burn to get to my sister, I know Giovanni Giordano's property is a fortress.

Like… well, not like mine. Nobody has a fortress like mine.

But it's more secure than your average Joe's compound: steel-reinforced gates, thermal sensors, guards who shoot first and bury the questions later.

Getting in will take precision, planning, and superior firepower.

Luckily, I have all three. My family doesn't just run guns—we design them, test them, bleed them into the black market before most governments know they exist.

I've got prototype rounds that punch through concrete and leave no trace. Suppressed SMGs tuned to a whisper. Drones that see body heat through ten inches of steel.

But getting Izzy out alive? That's not about firepower. That's finesse. Timing. Knowing when to pull the trigger and when to hold the line. I'm not taking any chances. Not with her. Because if they touch a hair on her head, there won't be a war.

There'll be a reckoning.

We leave the house and stride toward the dark line of waiting vehicles.

Ten SUVs, all flanking the centerpiece: my custom-built, military-grade Hummer.

Matte black, armored, reinforced suspension, bulletproof glass, and a V8 engine that sounds like war.

It's the only one I trust when I'm riding into hell.

Each SUV is packed with seven of my best men. Soldiers handpicked for their loyalty, their instincts, and their ability to get the job done without needing to be told twice.

Silvano's already moving toward the passenger side of my Hummer, about to climb in, when my brother, Dante, steps forward. "Enrico?—"

"Don't," I say, holding his stare as I keep walking, knowing what he wants.

He plants himself in front of Silvano anyway. "Let me go with you."

I stop, setting my jaw tight, my boots grinding to a halt on the driveway. I shake my head once, firm and final. "You stay here."

His eyes narrow. "Why?"

"Because someone needs to hold the line," I reply darkly. "If this goes sideways, if I don't come back, we can't risk the house falling. There might be retaliation."

He hesitates, just enough to tell me he understands precisely what I'm asking.

"You're not just my brother," I add, voice low. "You're my contingency."

It's not a question, and it's not up for debate. But he wouldn't be Dante if his face didn't flash with anger, tight and dangerous. Of my three brothers, Dante burns the hottest. Once he's lit, the only way to defuse him is with blood—lots of it. The streets remember his rages. So do the morgues.

People say he's unhinged, but they're wrong. He's protective , especially of our baby sister.

Izzy is the only girl in our family. We sheltered her as well as we could, kept her untouched by the dirt the rest of us wade through.

But now she's in Giovanni's hands, and I worry it'll break her.

She's strong in spirit, but she's never had to face real monsters before.

I can't wait to run my knife through that bastard.

Dante lowers his head until our foreheads touch, his breath hot and ragged with rage. "Make him pay," he growls.

"You know I will," I promise. Blood will flow tonight. Giovanni's. And anyone else who stands in my way.

"Call Don Edoardo," I say, stepping back. "Fill him in."

"That miserable swine," Dante mutters.

I grunt in agreement. If we had a Capo dei Capi worth a damn, we wouldn't be in this mess. But Don Edoardo thrives on chaos. He keeps us fractured on purpose, scared someone might take his crown.

Which someone should.

Silvano climbs into the Hummer beside me. Dante grabs his shoulder before the door shuts. "Watch my brother."

"Always," Silvano answers without hesitation, and closes the door.

Dante doesn't move. He just stands there at the foot of the stairs, backlit by the lights of our mansion, watching the convoy pull out. I admire his willpower. There's no way in hell I would stay behind if I were him. Not for any amount of logic.

The convoy glides into motion. Silence stretches until Silvano speaks. "If Giovanni has touched one hair on Izzy's head…"

His voice is a snarl. Alarmed, I turn sharply to look at him. "Anything I should know about?" I ask. My tone is clipped. Silvano is my best friend, but Izzy is my sister. Plus, she's nineteen, and like me, Silvano is over thirty. That's too much of an age gap.

He snaps back instantly, "Don't insult me. She's your sister."

I watch him carefully. "I expect you to tell me if that ever changes. If your feelings shift. I'm not against it, but I need to know."

We glare at each other for a beat, the tension crackles loudly between us. Finally, he exhales. "Izzy's like a sister to me, too."

I nod once, satisfied—for now.

My father's preparing to step down. It's not official yet, but everyone feels it. The way he's pulled back and let more meetings land on my desk, more decisions ride on my word. Little by little, the weight of the Sartori name is landing on my shoulders.

That weight doesn't come without strings. It's soaked in blood, history, and expectation. Every move I make, every word I say, gets measured against generations of power. I'm not just taking over a business, I'm inheriting a kingdom built on loyalty, fear, and strategy.

It also comes loaded with responsibilities.

Number one: keep my family safe.

Number two: keep the business running.

Number three: keep our enemies exactly where they belong, under our boot or buried.

It's not a role I asked for. But it's the one I was born for. Tonight, I've already failed on the first count. My sister is in our enemy's hands. Which means all of this—the legacy, the empire, the weight—it doesn't mean shit unless I bring her home.

"This isn't on you," Silvano tells me as if he'd read my mind, which the fucker probably did.

He's wrong. Of course it's my fault. "She snuck out to go to that fucking concert." I shake my head. If I had allowed her to go, she would have taken bodyguards with her. She would have been safe.

"She needed to hear a firm no ." Silvano is still trying to make me feel better. What he doesn't understand is that nothing will. Nothing until I hold her unharmed in my arms.

Silvano is right about one thing. Izzy, as sweet as she is, had to be told no for once in her life.

We all dote too much on her. She isn't a spoiled brat or anything like that, but when she lets it out, the famous Santori temper soars.

What brought this fight on was that she didn't ask me; she told me she was going to a concert.

Something I could not let stand. There are rules in our family for a reason. We are all in danger. All. The. Time.

Just because she had never seen the other side of our life doesn't mean it doesn't exist. She'll know now , an ugly voice inside me pipes up, and I want to strangle it.

Silvano has the drivers of the other vehicles on the comm speaker, "We're plowing right through," I give the signal, and the convoy parts, letting me move to take the lead.

"Yes, sir." There are several replies.

My Hummer isn't just a transportation vehicle; it's a declaration with its armored plating, Kevlar-lined tires, and ballistic glass. Inside, it hums with luxury; outside, it's a goddamn war beast.

I tap the screen embedded in the dash. The HUD lights up, syncing with the live drone feed circling above the Giordano compound.

Infrared overlays highlight every heat signature in red—moving guards, weapon placements, and motion sensors.

A second later, our jamming suite activates, frying their internal comms and short-circuiting any external call for backup.

They're going dark, going back into the stone age, just seconds before death arrives at their door.

They'll learn really quick that they fucked with the wrong man.

The wrought-iron gate comes into view.

I don't hesitate. I hit the gas. Hard.

Gunfire erupts before we even reach it, heavy caliber rounds pinging off the Hummer's armor like hailstones.

Silvano grips the Oh Shit bar with one hand, the other already sliding out his custom Staccato XC from its holster.

The gate explodes inward like it's made of sugar glass, not reinforced steel.

"Have the last two vehicles fall back and take care of the guards!" I bark, "We'll meet at the front entrance."

"You should wait in here until—" Silvano starts.

"The fuck I will," I cut him off.

We lurch to a halt at the base of the Giordano mansion. The opulence hits me like a punch: white marble columns, fifty stone steps, and a facade that screams overcompensation. I've been here before, for fake smiles and champagne toasts. Those were diplomatic visits; this visit is retribution.