Page 48 of Dangerous King (Savage Kings of New York #2)

As the heir to the Giordano family, he has the most to gain. He would be the capo, and he wouldn't lose his revenue if Kingsley were dead."

"Possible." I nod.

"Let's not lose sight of how hard it is to hire Ledyanoy Prizrak . Someone needs a lot of connections to get him to do a job." Stephano points out.

Marcello curses under his breath. "What the fuck have we stumbled into?"

"Not stumbled," I say. "They want something. And they're using us to get it."

Marcello mutters, "Shit. I hate chess."

Stephano lets out a slow, harsh breath. "And now Ledyanoy Prizrak came back to finish the job to kill Kingsley."

Marcello rubs his face once, then gestures toward Kingsley, who's now pacing in muttering circles.

"The bastard used an EMP. The chaos of not having any communication brought Kingsley's bodyguards together.

A grenade took them out and opened the door to the penthouse for him.

My men were in the other suite; as soon as the commotion started, they came out.

They startled Ledyanoy Prizrak enough that they had time to open fire before he made it into Kingsley's suite.

He got two of my men before he finally turned tail. You want to know how?"

The expression on Marcello's face is filled with admiration and rage, raising my curiosity. He's shaking his head, as if he still can't believe it. "He used a fucking glass breaker charge."

Since arms distribution falls into my specialty, I know exactly what a glass breaker charge is and that it is only used by Special Forces. "Fuck!" I exclaim, looking at Stephano.

"I'm already on it. If this bastard was Special Forces for any nationality. I'll find him."

"Then he jumped out of a fifty-first-floor window using a fucking parachute," Marcello finishes fuming.

"Like some fucking action flick move," Stephano adds, not even hiding his admiration for the assassin.

Marcello glares at the floor. "He went there to take Kingsley down."

I pull out my phone and march over to Kingsley, grabbing him by his pretentious ascot and shoving the phone with Ledyanoy Prizrak's image in his face. "Who is this?"

"The fuck? Get off me," Kingsley declares.

Still holding my phone, I punch the bastard in the gut with it. Hard enough that he goes down on his knees, coughing and wheezing. Stephano and Marcello come closer, listening curiously.

I lower myself down to my haunches. "Let's try that again." I grab Kingsley's hair and pull his head up, once again shoving the photo into his face, "Who is this?"

Kingsley is still wheezing, but his eyes narrow on the image.

He blinks a few times, like he's having a hard time recalling the man.

"I don't know. I've never seen him before…

stop…" he holds up his hand before I can punch him again, "before that night.

He only approached me to shake my hand, he said.

He said he liked my stance on international trade and was proud to have voted for me. That's it. I swear."

Stephano takes Kingsley's hand, frowning as he tilts it under the overhead light. "Hold still," he mutters, running his thumb along the webbing between the thumb and forefinger.

Kingsley winces. "What the hell are you?—?"

"There," Stephano says, more to himself than anyone else. He snatches a small penlight from his inner pocket and clicks it on. UV blue floods the space. A shape flickers into view just beneath the skin.

Marcello leans in. "What is that?"

Stephano's expression sharpens. "A micro-patterned RFID lattice. Subdermal. Damn near impossible to spot unless you know where to look, and even then, you need the right light." He glances up at us. "It's a tracker."

Kingsley stares at his hand, pale. "He tagged me?"

Stephano nods grimly. "He sure as hell did."

"Can you remove it?" I want to know.

Stephano straightens. "I can. But it'll take a micro-scalpel, a clean room, and someone steady as hell." He looks back at Kingsley. "And once we do, he'll know because this thing's got a feedback signal. The moment it's removed? He gets a ping."

Marcello swears under his breath. "So if we dig it out, we tip him off."

Stephano nods once. "Exactly."

My jaw clenches. "And if we leave it in?"

"He keeps watching, maybe listening. Some of these newer implants have thermal sensors and ambient audio. Not enough to record full conversations, but enough to tell him Kingsley's not alone."

Kingsley's breathing turns shallow. "You're telling me I've been walking around… tagged like a fucking lab rat?"

Stephano's voice is calm. Cold. "No. You're walking around like a target that hasn't been activated yet."

Marcello rubs a hand down his face. "We need a new safehouse."

"No," I cut in. "We need bait."

They both look at me.

I stare at the faint glowing outline under Kingsley's skin.

"If he's watching, we feed him what we want him to see."

Stephano exhales through his nose. "Classic predator-prey reversal. Dangerous, but it could work. If we control the narrative."

Marcello shifts his weight. "That still doesn't explain why he didn't take the shot."

Stephano doesn't answer right away. Instead, he stares down at the hand like it's a puzzle he hasn't quite solved yet.

"This is how he works," he finally says, sounding analytical. "He tags. Observes. Plans. His movements are precise and methodical. He doesn't miss unless he chooses to." Then he adds, "I don't like making assumptions. I'm going back through the security footage from the casino."

I nod. "Do it. Anything he touched, stood near, looked at—pull it."

"I'll scrub the raw feeds manually," Stephano says, already pulling out a portable drive and plugging it into the laptop on the crate beside him. "Algorithms won't catch what he does. But I might."

Kingsley slumps against the wall, holding his glowing hand like it might bite him. "So what am I supposed to do now?"

Marcello answers before I can. "You do what we fucking tell you. You go about your schedule like nothing happened. Play the part."

"But if he's listening?—"

"Then he'll hear what we want him to," I growl.

Kingsley swallows hard, glancing down at the faint UV glow under his skin again. "You don't understand, this guy tagged me. Like some fucking animal. What if he decides to finish the job? What if I wake up with my throat cut?"

Marcello's expression darkens as he takes a slow step toward him. "Maybe start by thanking the men who kept your throat intact. My men. The ones you didn't even know were watching your sorry ass when your own detail was dropping like flies."

Kingsley blanches.

"You're alive," Marcello continues, voice low and flat, "because I covered you. You play ball, I'll keep covering you. You don't? Then I pull my men back and let fate do what it wants."

He glares down at Kingsley with open disgust. "I already told you I don't like cowards who beat on women. But just to make it clear, once again, how much you owe us, I loathe protecting your sorry ass."

Kingsley looks between us like a trapped animal, adrenaline rising behind the whites of his eyes. "Why would anyone want to kill me? I'm just?—"

"You're a pawn," I snap, stepping in. "A corrupt, greasy, spineless little pawn who got caught between the wrong hands. And for the record, you're more valuable alive to us than dead. But don't mistake that for fondness. I hate your fucking cowardly guts too."

He tries to puff up. It doesn't work.

"Then why help me at all?" He spits, desperate now. "If I'm so useless, why not just let him take me out?"

"Because," Marcello says coolly, "whoever hired him might come looking for what he didn't finish. And we want to see who shows up. Plus, your services will still come in handy for us when we need them."

"And we care more," I add, folding my arms, "about why a billion-dollar ghost assassin suddenly landed in New York and somehow ended up chasing after my sister. That's the real mystery. Not your pathetic life."

Kingsley's voice goes small. "But you think he was after her?"

Stephano doesn't look up from his laptop. "We don't know what to think, yet. But the timing's too tight. He marked you after he grabbed her. Still, someone's orchestrating this."

I lean in slightly, letting Kingsley feel the weight of my gaze. "We're not protecting you. We're watching you. There's a difference."

He nods frantically, sweat beading at his hairline. "Okay. Okay. I get it."

Marcello raises a brow. "Do you?"

Kingsley hesitates. "Yeah. I'm bait."

Stephano finally glances up. "Smart rat."

Kingsley slumps again, hands at his sides. "So what do I do now?"

Marcello's voice is cold as steel. "You smile for the cameras. You kiss babies. You pretend the world isn't burning around you. And you don't go off-script. Most of all, you keep pushing your bill through, got that?"

Kingsley's still talking like he matters. But he's just leverage. He's not a player—he's bait. And if feeding him to Prizrak gets me one step closer to gutting that ghost, I'll do it with a smile.