Page 38 of Dangerous King (Savage Kings of New York #2)

Stephano exhales a sharp, humorless breath. "Depends. Some don't. The ones who don't keep their mouth shut." There is a pause. "You do know what they call him, right?"

"I've heard things," I murmur. "Ghost. Phantom. Shadow."

" Ledyanoy Prizrak, " Stephano says in an almost reverent tone.

Ledyanoy Prizrak, or translated from Russian, The Icy Ghost. I've heard the name.

Whispers, mostly. Legends in the underground, the kind people laugh off because the alternative is being afraid.

Stories passed between arms dealers and blackmail brokers like urban myths.

A man who leaves no trace. Who speaks only once.

Who kills with a surgeon's precision and vanishes into smoke.

They say if you feel a cold wind before you die, it's him. They say he doesn't leave blood. Just silence. They say no one ever survives seeing his face.

And now… I've not only got a photo of that face, but Izzy must have seen him—and got away.

That bastard touched my sister.

The leather of the steering wheel creaks at how tightly I'm holding it.

My foot hovers over the brake, but I don't stop.

Because suddenly this thing isn't a mafia vendetta.

It's so much darker. And I have no doubt who they'll use to get to me again.

I glance at the photo still open on my phone.

That bland face. That smooth, bald skull. Forgettable.

"Find me his pattern," I tell Stephano coldly. "Find me what he wants. Where he moves. Who he's killed. And if he has a fucking shadow of a handler, I want to know."

Then I hang up. Because if Ledyanoy Prizrak wants to play ghost in my world? I'll become his fucking exorcist.

I'm almost home when my phone rings again. I look at my father's name and contemplate not taking it; after all, I'm on the road leading to the house. Long ingrained duty, however, compels me to answer.

"I need you to stop by Don Edoardo's house and make an appearance." He starts without preamble or greeting the moment I press accept.

"Why?" I ask curtly, picking up on his mood.

"Carlos is out on bail, and Don Edoardo is throwing him a welcome back party." My father replies dryly.

Fuck. That's going to make Toni go apeshit. I check my mirrors and turn the Hummer 180 degrees. For a vehicle this size, it's amazingly easy to navigate, and it corners like a much smaller car.

"What am I supposed to do there? Lie to Carlos about how happy we are he's back?" I ask, knowing the old man didn't call me to check on Toni. As much as he approves of our friendship, it's the furthest from his mind.

"Exactly."

"Why don't you—" he hangs up on me.

"What the fuck?" I curse out loud. "He hung up on me."

My father is curt and to the point when it comes to business. And I suppose this was just a business call from the boss to the heir-in-waiting.

I hit the gas pedal, and the speedometer immediately jumps from fifty to eighty miles an hour.

I don't care about the guards, who scramble to reopen the gate.

I'm prepared to drive through, and they know it; it wouldn't be the first time.

Mentally, I'm daring a cop to come and stop me.

I'm in the right mood for a confrontation.

Talking Toni out of trying to kill Carlos tonight would likely take a saint, which I'm not.

I can get him drunk and out of there, though.

I think of the date I had planned with Cat and check the clock.

It's three in the afternoon. With any luck, I'll be able to get Toni out of there and still make my date.

If not… Shit, no, I'm not even going there.

The gates to Edoardo's estate are wide open, and cars are parked all the way from the entrance to the huge fountain up front.

Looks like everyone with a name is here.

That was to be expected. Carlos being out on bail is a big surprise, and everybody wants to lick his boots in case he's back in Edoardo's good graces.

I throw the key at a waiting valet and say, "Keep it close." I hand him a hundred before heading up the large marble steps.

The last thing I want to do is congratulate Carlos, but his loud, obnoxious laughter is the first thing I hear when I enter the living area.

He's standing in a circle of his friends, smoking a cigar and looking smug as fuck.

It's my dad's voice inside my head that makes me straighten my jacket, plaster a smile on my face, and walk over to the group.

Carlos barely acknowledges me; to him, I'm just another capo's son. Fine, I don't even offer my hand, "Carlos. My father sends his best wishes."

Carlos regards me like I'm a butler who brought him the wrong drink.

Eyes half-lidded, lips curled just enough to suggest I should feel honored he's looking at me at all.

Like I'm nothing more than my father's mouthpiece or an errand boy in expensive shoes.

Maybe tonight, that's exactly what I am.

But he'd be wise to remember who's next in line in the Sartori family.

"Well, isn't that sweet of him?"

And I'm sure he means every word, just like I mean it when I say I hope you trip into traffic, you smug bastard.

I nod at the others, but single out only Stephano's father, "Gustave."

"Enrico," he nods back. Before they can rope me in for a longer conversation, I excuse myself, my eyes searching the room for Toni.

As capo of the DeLuna family, he has to be here; Edoardo would have insisted.

I find him sitting at the bar. Not alone, though.

I narrow my eyes when I see Donna Margarita with him.

What does the old bat want with him? I'm really not in the mood for another scene with her.

From a passing waiter's tray, I pick a glass of champagne and lean against one of the pillars, waiting in the shadows for Donna Margarita to leave and hoping nobody else will notice me, which appears to be easy, since all eyes are either riveted on Carlos or the spectacle Toni and Margarita are making.

Toni doesn't look comfortable with her nearly draped over him.

Her hands are everywhere, brushing off imaginary lint from his jacket and thighs.

She talks animatedly to him. What the hell?

Finally, she sashays off. I finish the champagne and leave it on one of the many side tables before approaching Toni. "Don't look so gloomy. They're all staring, and what did the old bat want?"

I plop into the chair next to his, holding up my hand to the bartender to get something stronger than champagne. Toni plasters a smile on his face, "You're right."

His face still looks more menacing than a cobra about to strike, but I let it go. He's under enough stress. I can literally see the wheels turning in his head, plotting Carlos' demise. "What are you planning?"

It's a question I've been asking him a lot lately. His answer is always the same. "Me? Why would I plan anything? I was compensated for the loss. Generously."

He's referring to the LA territory that Carlos was forced to cede to him, to make up for the loss of his father, one of Edoardo's grand ideas.

"Toni, it's me," I sigh. "You know you can talk to me."

He swirls the last of his whiskey, watching the slow spin of the amber liquid—reminding me of Cat's eyes—considering taking me into his confidence. We've been friends—or as close as one comes to friendship in our line of work—for years.

He exhales loudly, tilting his head slightly to measure my reaction. I prepare myself to keep my best poker face on. "Let's say I was planning something," he murmurs. "Something that would shift the balance."

Toni's expression is tight. He got the nickname Savage King after his dad's murder.

I can see it in his eyes, too. He's not the man I knew before.

The man who went out drinking with me. He's a capo now, and every pore of his body oozes the power and responsibility of that job.

I know one day I will feel the weight of my father's job on my shoulders, too.

I pray, though, it's not because he was killed, like Toni's father.

Toni's pissed at Edoardo and hellbent on killing Carlos. But there is more in his eyes tonight.

"If you were," I respond warningly, "I'd tell you to be smart about it. And to make sure there's no blood on your hands when it's done."

He looks like he wants to add something, but instead, he only says, "Smart man."

He slaps me on the shoulder, sharp and solid, and I know I'm dismissed.

The bartender has put a glass of Blue Label in front of me, and I drink it down, enjoying the smooth burn as the liquid runs down my throat.

Whatever Toni is planning for Carlos, I don't need to worry; it's not going to happen tonight.

He might be savage, but he's also calculating.

The moment I get home, all I want is to see Cat, but I need to see Dad.

I text him and Izzy to meet me in my office, where, first thing, I pour myself a Blue Label.

What a fucking day. I'm glad it's almost over.

After this last little bit is done, it's just me and Cat.

I've already made reservations for us and texted her.

Probably not my smoothest move, but I'll make up for it.

I take a long swallow from the glass. The burn of the whiskey cuts through the fog of adrenaline still crackling in my system. Unfortunately, it doesn't help much. I'm too keyed up.

The door opens without a knock, and Izzy rushes in breathlessly, followed by my father, slower, but no less sharp-eyed.

"Am I in trouble?" She asks, flopping into one of the leather chairs across from my desk. "Because I've been on good behavior for at least two days."

"You're not in trouble," I say. "Not yet."

Dad raises a brow. "That's comforting."

I toss my phone into Izzy's hands. The screen is still open to the surveillance image. "You're sure that's the guy who took you?"

Izzy leans forward, squints, then stiffens so fast that the blood drains from her face. "I already told you, yeah, that's him."

My father looks from her to me. "Who?"

"The man who took her," I say. "The man who kidnapped her and dumped her in Giovanni's basement."

Izzy doesn't speak for a second. Just stares off. The ordeal of being kidnapped must have been more traumatizing to her than she's letting on. She's a prideful woman underneath the happy-go-lucky giggles.

Grimly, I fill them in, "His name's Alaric Bastian. He's a top-notch assassin. He has a reputation in the international black book circuit so deep it's damn near carved in bone. Goes by a nickname, too."

Dad crosses his arms. "What nickname?"

"Ledyanoy Prizrak."

My father neither flinches nor scoffs. That's how I know he's heard it before. He just presses his lips into a hard line and mutters, "Figlio di puttana."

"Yeah," I say. "That one."

"What in the hell does he want with my daughter?"

Izzy's voice is smaller. "Why would someone like that… come after me?"

"That's the billion-dollar question," I answer. "I'll figure it out," I promise her.

"This guy doesn't work for low-level criminals. Not even dons. His jobs are global. Political. Strategic. Not your run-of-the-mill family business," my dad adds. "What's he doing here?"

"Either someone with deep pockets and reach wants to hit us where it hurts," I say. "Or…" I hesitate. "Or he wasn't here for us at all. He was planting a message."

"To whom?" Dad demands.

I shake my head. "That's what we're going to find out."

Izzy is pale, but her jaw sets stubbornly. "What do you want me to do?"

"I need everything you remember about him," I say. "Even if it's weird. What he wore. How he moved. What he said. If he said anything at all."

"He didn't," she whispers. "He didn't say a single word. He bound me, dragged me around… and then I was sitting on that chair…" She wipes a tear from her face, and I clench my fists. That bastard is going to die. Slowly. Judging from my father's expression, he's on board with that plan.

Dad paces. "This is bigger than I thought. Than all of us. You need to be careful, Enrico."

I level him with a look. "I am. That's why I'm going to make the next move. And it starts with figuring out who hired him."

Because if Ledyanoy Prizrak came for my sister, it means someone thinks I have a weak spot. That I'll fold if they press hard enough. They have no idea. I don't bend. I'll burn every single one of these assholes down first.