Page 37 of Dangerous King (Savage Kings of New York #2)

The next day…

I'm at the warehouse again. This will be my last visit to Giovanni.

It's time. The bastard has been locked in that steel dog crate for days.

No light. No food. Only water when someone remembers to hose him down.

Others may take a sick joy out of torturing, cutting, whipping—whatever gets them off, I guess.

Not me. Dead is dead. There is no coming back, and after all, in the end, that's all that matters. Getting rid of your foe.

I'm not saying I've never tortured someone before.

But never for revenge, joy, or fun. Only to get information.

There has never been any need in my mind to prolong the inevitable until now, with Giovanni.

I'm taking great pleasure in seeing him like this, curled on the grated metal floor, dirty and shaking, a filthy blanket twisted beneath him.

What little dignity he had is long gone, just like the stench of his cologne has been replaced by sweat and piss.

When I walk in, he doesn't look up. Not until I kick the side of the cage with my boot. The clang echoes like a death knell. He flinches and slowly lifts his head. He might be half-dead already, but that flicker of defiance is still in his eyes. Still smoldering even if it's barely.

"You know," I say, crouching down, "you always were a piece of shit. I just didn't realize how deep the rot went until you put your hands on my sister."

His cracked lips twitch. I don't know if it's a sneer or a plea. Not that it matters.

"I don't care if it was you who took her or not. You were going to kill her instead of calling me." My voice stays calm, measured.

I rise. Nod once to my men, who know the drill and haul him out like the sack of garbage he is.

He collapses onto his knees, hardly able to hold himself up.

I don't offer him a chair. He stares up at me with bloodshot eyes.

There's no more threat in him anymore, just a low, hopeless wheeze.

I press the muzzle of my gun to his forehead.

Let it rest there a beat too long. Let him think— hope —that maybe I'll spare him.

Then I lean in close.

"You don't touch my family. You don't threaten what's mine. Not without consequence."

Crack.

One shot. Clean. Right between the eyes.

His body slumps to the concrete like a dropped puppet.

To Silvano, I say. "Bury him somewhere no one will ever find him."

He nods, already pulling out his phone. "Deep woods or the marsh?"

"Both," I say. "I want him scattered."

Then I turn and walk out. I don't need to watch my men cutting him up. It's done. Giovanni Giordano is gone. Nothing left but blood cooling on concrete and a legacy that ends in rot.

Good.

His son will follow soon, and then I'll take my time with the man who took Izzy. He will tell me why and who is behind it, and then I will go after them.

I get behind the wheel of my Hummer, alone. I don't want company, not after that. My men know better than to offer to drive. I need the solitude, the silence, the dark hum of the engine to pull me out of the part of myself that kills.

It should feel satisfying. Final. Instead, my mind drifts. Not to revenge, or even the political fallout that Edoardo is still mulling over. He's taking his time, thinking he's making me uneasy, when, in reality, I've barely taken that part of the whole clusterfuck into account.

No, my mind drifts to her .

To the girl with amber eyes, to her laughter when Shadow trips over his own feet. The way she curls against me when we kiss, like she was built for that exact place.

Cat.

She's soft where I'm all sharp edges. Quiet where I'm thunder. But when I kiss her— fuck , when I kiss her—I come alive in a way I never have before. She doesn't just stir me. She ignites something in me I didn't know existed. She's reaching into the hollow places and filling them with light.

Even now, just thinking about her, how she looked the other night on the pier, how she gasped my name when she came, makes my cock stiffen painfully against the seatbelt.

I should be going to the city. The office.

There are a thousand things that need my attention.

But I'm not. I take the turnoff toward home.

To her.

We've grown closer over the past few days.

Late-night walks. Long talks. Hands tangled together, neither willing to let go.

We haven't had sex again since the night at the lake.

Like a teenager, I'm forcing myself to be satisfied with kisses and handholding.

She deserves this and so much more. I'm not sure why I'm prolonging the inevitable—me fucking her senseless until she screams my name, until her body is so spent she can't move a limb.

But the right moment hasn't shown itself yet.

It'll be her first time. I will be her first. It will have to be special.

I'm not sure if tonight will lead to that, but I have something planned. Something that will show her she's not a passing fascination. That she's not just another pretty face in my bed.

She'll be dressed in whatever she wants, but preferably in something I'll enjoy taking off with my teeth.

I don't do dates. Never have. I don't court.

I claim. But with her? It's different. She deserves more than a rough fuck in the back seat of my Hummer—though, make no mistake, she'll get that too, when she's ready.

But not tonight.

Tonight is about the build. About watching her eyes light up when she realizes this is for her. About pulling chairs out and holding doors and letting her know exactly what kind of man she's tangled with.

Not a gentleman.

A king. A dangerous king.

And if she's still with me at the end of the night—if she looks at me the way she did in that lake, breathless and open and so fucking ready—then I'll take her to my bed and show her what it means to be worshipped by a man who doesn't believe in mercy.

I'm not letting her stay hidden in that house any longer. She belongs in the world. I need others to see us, to know that she's mine.

Tonight, I'm taking her out. On a real date. Somewhere beautiful. Somewhere worthy of the girl who saved my sister and is now stealing my goddamn soul one kiss at a time.

The road curves toward the estate, and my headlights cut through the trees like blades. I'm still thinking about where to take her. Paris? Milan? Or maybe something quieter. More private.

The ringing of my phone interrupts my planning, Stephano. I hit Talk on my souped-up steering wheel. "Yes."

"I found him." His voice is cool, a little distant as always, but this time there's something in it. Not excitement. Not apprehension. Something in between, a foreboding that makes me grip the wheel tighter.

"How the fuck did you manage to get a picture of him ?" Stephano asks. "That man is a ghost. A phantom. A fucking myth , Enrico. Do you know what you just handed me?"

"No. Enlighten me," I deadpan, because I have no fucking clue what he's talking about.

He exhales, like he's been waiting to drop this bomb all day.

"His name—one of his names, anyway—is Alaric Bastian.

But he's gone by over fifty aliases in the last decade.

The man has no fingerprints. No records.

No ID. He's not on any international database.

There are only five verifiable photos of him in existence—and one of them is the one you sent me.

And get this—he's a freelancer. Top-tier.

An invisible assassin for hire. Works for whoever pays the most, finishes the job, and disappears. "

"That's not newsworthy." I scowl. "Plenty of ghosts out there."

"Sure," Stephano agrees, "but most of them don't pull off a triple kill at the King of Bahrain's private wedding with six bodyguards in the room and no witnesses left alive.

He was seen walking into the reception disguised as a priest. Cameras caught him entering but not leaving.

The bride's father had been blackmailing a Russian oligarch.

And then the king was dead. Boom. No evidence. "

I stare ahead. My mind is racing. I've heard of the wedding massacre. You'd have to live under a rock not to. It was a security nightmare. If a king could be killed… I've also heard the name Alaric Bastian before. The man who gets the job done . "Why the fuck would he be in my backyard?"

Stephano doesn't answer, probably as mystified as I am.

Sure, I have plenty of enemies out there who want me dead or who want to hurt someone I love, but Alaric Bastian is a bit more than a mafia killer.

His kills are high-stakes, political. His starting bid is a billion dollars, or so I heard.

Why the fuck would a man like him take a job of kidnapping my sister and planting her in Giovanni's basement?

Rage coils in my chest like a living thing. My vision narrows, and I almost miss the turnoff to the estate. I skid slightly as I take it too fast, gravel spitting under the tires. The guards were already alerted to my arrival by the Hummer's system and have the gates open for me.

"I'll dig deeper," Stephano finally says, "But Enrico, this one's different. If he's in play? You're not just dealing with family drama anymore."

I don't respond. I've already realized that. This isn't about Giovanni.

Or even Kingsley. This is much bigger . If Alaric Bastian is working for someone. They're coming for more than blood.

"Do you have any idea how to get in contact with him?" I ask, coolly, even though I'm gripping the wheel like it's the only thing keeping me from detonating.

Stephano exhales slowly, "You don't. That's the thing. Nobody contacts him. There's no number. No burner. No handler. He finds you. If he takes your contract, it means one of two things: either you're rich enough to buy a small country, or someone above you vouched hard for the job."

"And the people who hire him, do they live long enough to vouch again?"