Page 33 of Dangerous King (Savage Kings of New York #2)

The warehouse smells like bleach and rust. The kind of sterility that only comes from the absence of life. Concrete floors, walls, and high, blacked-out windows. No sound but the slow drip of water from somewhere in the ceiling and the echo of my footsteps.

He's still in the same kennel he was put in three days ago. Three days of nothing but kneeling or curling into himself on metal grating while the world forgets he ever mattered. Three days without food and water, without the sound of another human voice.

Giovanni Giordano, once a made man, is now shivering like a dog in a cage. Silvano stands just behind me, silent. He doesn't need direction; this part's routine.

I nod toward the corner.

One of my men picks up the hose. Giovanni barely reacts before the stream slams into him full force. He chokes, sputters, and flails weakly against the cage bars, skin already raw from days without sleep, food, or solid ground. When I raise a hand, the water cuts off.

"Let him out."

The man opens the cage and hauls Giovanni up by the arms. He staggers, legs trembling, and collapses into the metal chair waiting in the center of the room. I walk up slowly.

His eyes are bloodshot. One of them is nearly swollen shut. His lips are split. But he's breathing. That's all he's earned.

"You look like shit," I say calmly.

"Fuck you," he rasps.

I smile faintly and hold up the photograph in my hand, the printed still from the security footage at the Valente.

The man standing beside Kingsley. His face partially turned, the man who abducted my sister and placed her in Giovanni's basement.

I need to know if he recognizes him, even if it's doubtful.

He's probably just some hired gun, but at this point, every loose end needs checking.

"Do you know this man?" I ask.

Giovanni squints at it. Then spits out, "Senator Kingsley. The rotten bastard."

I stare at him for a beat. "Don't be cute. You know that's not who I meant."

He tries to smirk, but it's hard with a busted lip and half his face caved in. I take a slow step forward, crouching beside him like we're about to have a friendly little chat. I hold the photo higher, forcing his gaze to it. "The man standing next to him. Bald. Dead eyes. Do you know him?"

His tongue darts out, licking at the blood on his lip. "Never seen him."

I hum. "Shame. I was hoping you'd say that. Because lying to me right now? It's not going to help your situation."

I lean in closer. "Why was my sister in your basement?"

He flinches.

"I didn't touch her," he says quickly. "I didn't even know she was there."

"Bullshit."

"She was planted, Enrico. I swear to God. One minute we were upstairs; next thing I know, she's in the basement. I thought Roberto brought her. Roberto thought it was me."

I study him. He's a liar. A coward. But not a good enough actor to fake this kind of confusion.

"You're saying someone used you as a pawn?" I check.

"I'm saying we've both been played," he mutters.

I stand slowly, the photo still in my hand. He looks up at me through hollow eyes.

"If you believe anything I say, believe this: I might be a bastard, but I wouldn't have touched your sister. I'm not that stupid."

Now there is the lie. It pours out of his pores. My fist slams into his face. "Liar!"

The chair teeters with him in it. "You were about to kill her. Would have killed her, if?—"

I break off. Giovanni is as good as dead, but I'm not going to take any risks when it comes to Cat's safety. The less he knows of how much she's helped us, the better.

I rise to my full height, and my shadow spills across him like a grave marker. He flinches before he can stop himself. Then I step back. Force my breathing to slow. But it's like trying to cage a hurricane.

Giovanni shifts in the chair, testing the cuffs like he thinks there's a way out of this. There isn't. I look down at his trembling form. His soaked, broken body. I should feel something like pity.

I don't.

All I feel is the blistering reminder of her hand in mine.

The missing finger. She tried to hide it; she thinks it makes her less.

That it's her shame to carry instead of mine to avenge.

My vision tightens; the edges burn red with the kind of fury I've spent a lifetime controlling.

I'm not a man who enjoys torture. It's messy.

Inefficient. A waste of time when a bullet to the head sends a cleaner message.

But this?

This isn't a message.

This is vengeance.

This is mine.

"Silvano," that's all I have to say. Silvano knows me; he steps forward and lays out the roll of blades and pliers on the nearby tray. Cool and efficient, there's no need for theatrics. I roll up my sleeves.

"You like hurting little girls?" I murmur, selecting a slender blade, thin enough for precision.

Giovanni doesn't answer. So I grab his hand.

His eyes widen. "Wait—Enrico—wait?—"

The blade slides through his finger, hits bone with an audible crack, and I apply enough pressure to keep going.

Giovanni howls in pain and tries to pull his hand back, but the chair's metal and my other hand holding him are unforgiving.

This chair might not be as sophisticated as his little torture device in his basement, but it'll suffice.

One down.

I move to the next.

"Don't—please?—"

His voice cracks. His legs kick at the chair's base, the cuffs rattling.

"Stop? You want me to stop?" I lift an eyebrow as I set the blade down and pick up a pair of bolt cutters instead.

"You didn't stop when she cried. You didn't stop when you had her finger cut off to keep her father in line."

He's panting now. "I didn't hurt your sister! I didn't hurt her?—"

That stops me. "You don't know who I'm talking about, do you?" I ask, disgusted, crouching down again. "You did that to a child, and you don't even care enough to remember her name?"

He blinks rapidly. The blood loss is making him shake. I'm too enraged now to stop, teetering on the verge of being relieved that he doesn't know why I'm doing this, and the utter disgust of him not remembering doing this to Cat. I grab his hand tighter. "Let me help you understand."

Snap.

He howls like a wounded animal as the first joint gives way under the pressure of the cutters, and I don't stop.

Sweat runs down the back of my neck; the blood is clouding my vision when I think that he did that to her .

I want to keep cutting him to pieces until there is nothing left but minced meat.

And I do. Finger by finger, until his screams turn hoarse and he slumps, barely conscious, in the chair, his blood dripping to the floor, staining the concrete.

"Wake him up," I say coldly.

Silvano's hand lands on my shoulder. He won't contradict me in front of the soldiers, but his eyes tell me everything I need to know. You need to stop. We might still need him.

He's right, too. I take a deep breath. I'm not a savage like Toni.

I'm known for keeping my cool. What is this girl doing to me?

I've never been this furious in my life.

I send a sharp nod, and two of my soldiers move forward, pouring blood clotting powder over Giovanni's useless hands.

They'll stitch him up later, too. They'll keep him alive—barely.

But enough for me to interrogate him again if I need to.

Roberto will never know what happened to his father, and he'll be the next on my list. He doesn't know it yet, but I'm coming for him too. I haven't found out what he did to Cat, but I will. And if nothing else, he deserves to die just for thinking he could kill Izzy.

The picture of the man who took her catches my eyes. For a few beats, I stare at it. Who are you ? I'll find you and make sure you regret the day you were born . I hand the photo to Silvano as we turn to leave.

"Keep digging," I say.

Because if Giovanni didn't order putting my sister in that chair…

Then someone else did. And they're going to wish they hadn't.

The moment we're back in the car, I pull the door shut and lean back in the leather seat.

I've seen a thousand faces in this life.

Most of them forgettable. But this one doesn't sit right.

Maybe because it is so forgettable. An average man.

One that can fly under the radar, one nobody pays attention to.

Too calm. Too clean. Too much purpose in the way he stood beside Kingsley, just far enough away to avoid notice but close enough to control the room.

A ghost in a tailored suit.

I rub my thumb along the edge of my jaw. We're missing something. I need a brain. Someone sharp enough to break what we can't even trace. One name comes to mind.

I tap out a number, and my call is answered on the second ring.

"Stephano."

"Enrico," comes the drawled reply. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Or is this one of those calls where you say nothing and I wake up with a server in flames?"

I don't humor him. "I need help."

That gets his attention. "All right. What kind?"

"I've got a face. I want to know who he is, where he's been, and what he eats for breakfast."

"Sounds like my kind of problem," Stephano mutters. "Send me the image. I'll run a facial scan across my on-the-books network. If it gets no hits, I'll try the less legal ones."

I already have a copy on my phone, so I forward it to the secure number he gave me last year when we were still circling each other like rival princes.

It's silent for a moment. Then: ping.

"Got it," he says. "Give me a few hours. You're lucky I like puzzles."

"I'm lucky you like leverage."

That earns a dry laugh. "Touché."

I end the call without saying goodbye.

Outside the window, the city hums. Unaware that one of its princes is on the hunt. I don't know who that man in the photo is. But when I find him—and I will—he'll learn the first rule of my world: You don't touch what's mine.

Not my sister.

Not my blood.

And not the girl who makes me feel like I still have a soul.