Page 65 of Dangerous King (Savage Kings of New York #2)

A few days later…

After the debacle in the cleaning closet , as I've come to call it, there is no stopping us.

To hell with having our firsts in a bed.

We have our firsts wherever, whenever the opportunity arises.

Mamma might have stationed a guard underneath Cat's balcony, but even she is no match for Cat's and my ingenuity in finding hiding spots for clandestine meetings.

Not that we have that many opportunities.

Between Mamma, Izzy, and Cat's family, I hardly get to see her.

The wedding preparations are in full swing; though, thankfully, I'm excused from most prep meetings, except a few, like the cake tasting.

I told Mamma that the best bakery was in the city, and Cat and I spent the entire day and night in New York in a hotel.

One of my favorite memories is eating cake off Cat's naked body on the top floor of the Astraéa hotel.

I might have to repeat that with our wedding cake.

I still get hard as fuck whenever I think about it.

In the meantime, my father has come to an understanding with Edoardo; it cost us another five percent of our income, but in the end, Edoardo gave his blessing to my marriage.

I've already put my feelers out for more buyers to make up for the loss in revenue, which I feel responsible for.

My anger towards our Don is growing by the day.

The idea of getting the four of us, Toni, Marcello, Stephano, and me, together has been constantly on my mind—when it's not occupied by Cat, of course.

Together, we could make a force Edoardo won't see coming. A reckoning that will dethrone him.

"Okay, good, hold the treat out and tell him to stay," I instruct Cat.

It's late afternoon, and Cat is proving herself a natural when it comes to training dogs, or maybe it's just Shadow who is desperate to please her.

He's still growling at me any chance he gets, and I need to put a stop to it sooner rather than later, but I don't want to do it around Cat.

I'll have to prove to the little runt who the alpha is in this relationship, and it sure as hell isn't him.

He's already grown in the short time since she got him, and the longer I wait, the harder it will get.

But honestly, I'm getting a certain amount of amusement from my new frenemy .

My phone dings with a message.

Don Asshat, aka Edoardo:

Emergency board meeting. Zanello Tower. NOW

Little prick.

"I have to go," I tell Cat regretfully, wondering what this is all about.

"Something bad?" She rises from her hunched position.

"I don't know. The Don ordered a meeting."

"Now?" Her beautiful forehead creases, and I kiss it to smooth the lines out. "That can't be good."

"No worries, we're good with him," I assure her. I've already told her about my father's deal with Edoardo. She'd responded with a guilt-laden smirk, probably feeling a bit like a bride from the old days. Five camels for that one , she'd said.

"For you, all the camels in the world wouldn't be enough," I'd told her, and I'd been rewarded with a kiss that still thickens my cock when I think about it.

"Be careful," she says now, embracing me as if this is the last time we'll ever see each other again.

"I'll be back soon, Piccolina. And if you get a hankering for wine later…" I wink; the wine cellar is one of our favorite meeting spots.

"I'll be waiting for you there," she grins back, but her smile is strained.

I wish I had the time to stay and reassure her, but an emergency meeting is not something to put off. I can already see my father and brothers marching toward the terrace through the open doors, no doubt looking for me.

"I love you," I tell her, before kissing her and rushing off.

"I love you, too," she calls after me, and a grin spreads over my face. No matter how many times we've said those three words in the last few days, I'll never get enough of them.

"Ready?" Papa urges me.

"Any idea what this is about?" I ask, certain that as a capo, he would have received more information about the meeting than his sons.

"None," my father responds darkly as we pile in one of the limousines parked out front.

"That can't be good," Mattheo echoes my thoughts. He's right. If an emergency meeting is called and the capos don't even have any idea why… it usually means blood is going to flow. Capo blood.

"You haven't done anything stupid with Toni yet, have you?" Papa scrutinizes me. He knows more than he lets on, which is a good thing. Deniability is staple currency in our line of work.

I start to shake my head to keep up with the lie, but I change my mind. "Toni and I had a small discussion."

Papa sighs. But leaves it at that. Yeah, deniability.

Dante looks at me questioningly, but I shake my head. If things go south, he's the next in line; it's better for him to have deniability, too.

The rest of the fifty-minute drive is done in silence.

The limo has no problem with the side mirrors when we enter the Zanello tower.

Just like last time, four guards are stationed by the elevator.

Gustave and Stephano are about to enter the cab and hold the doors open for us.

Both men are dressed in tuxes; this meeting must have interrupted something important.

Stephano looks grim, his foot taps impatiently against the metallic floor as if he'd rather be anywhere but here.

The boardroom is filled with men and the usual cigar and cigarette smoke. No hors d'oeuvres this time of night, but whiskey and scotch are flowing heavily.

Edoardo enters with a rush, followed by Roberto, who seems to have been surgically attached to our Don lately. I don't like it.

"What's this about?" My father asks.

"You'll see," Edoardo waves his hands for everybody to take a seat. And then we wait. My eyes search the room; one pass is all it takes to notice Toni's chair is empty.

"Don't do anything stupid," my father mutters, leaning in. His voice is low, his eyes sharp. Having caught my gaze and, apparently, come to the same conclusion. I stiffen. That bastard's going to make a show of it. Use Toni to send a message.

Not on my fucking watch.

Across the table, Marcello and Stephano clock it too.

We don't need words. Marcello's eyes meet mine.

He's got a score to settle with Carlos. He was only dragged back to New York when the precious firstborn son, Angelo, turned up dead in that convenient boating accident.

Marcello's not sentimental, but he plays the long game.

He knows Toni is his best shot at cutting off Carlos's influence at the root.

Stephano? The jury's still out on him. Gustave taught him to stay clean and how to hover on both sides of the line. Let the old man stay loyal to the Don while the son quietly cozies up to the rebellion . They'll be ready to pivot, whichever way the knife falls.

Finally, the panel doors swing open, and Toni walks in.

"Late as always," Edoardo sneers, "Traffic again?"

Toni keeps that flat, impassive mask locked on his face.

The bastard even glances at his own blood-stained cuff like it's a wrinkle in his sleeve.

My gaze tracks every detail: the creased jacket, his askew collar, the blood on his shirt.

He doesn't look like the man who strolled into the last meeting with a grin and a tailored suit.

This looks like a battlefield aftermath.

I brace for the impending war.

Toni doesn't blink. He straightens his tie and sits. As expected, Edoardo's the first to fold. "Since you're late already, you should have changed."

"That's what work looks like. You probably wouldn't know it if it hit you in the head," I say, leaning back like I've got all the time in the world, letting my voice cut like a blade across the table. Firing my first shot. Papa's glare scorches a hole in my cheek. I ignore it.

"Enrico, enough," he grinds out.

"Where is Matías?" Toni tosses the first grenade, glancing around the room, pretending to search for someone.

Probably worried I might say something again, Papa questions, "Matías as in Matías Rivera?"

My brain kicks in fast. Matías runs the Conquistadores out of LA.

That's Carlos's old turf—until he lost it to Toni.

The Conquistadores are not exactly Sunday brunch guests, but a small-time gang, plus they are in California.

But they're a Venezuelan gang. That's the second time the Venezuelans have come up in our conversations.

How does the saying go, Once is chance, twice is coincidence, three times is a pattern? I don't believe in coincidences.

Edoardo waves it off. "I've already spoken to Matías and soothed the waves you created."

Bullshit.

Carlos snaps, "Will someone fill us in on what the fuck is going on?"

Edoardo gives Toni the floor like he's tossing meat to a wolf pack. "Go ahead, it's your fuckup after all."

Toni looks ready to kill Edoardo, but remains calm, "Yesterday, Matías's Conquistadores snatched Alfonso Romano and his wife in broad daylight from their friends' house."

The whole room freezes. The bookkeeper.

My blood chills.

Carlos practically salivates at the opportunity to take the man down who has him marked. "The fucking bookkeeper? You allowed the Venezuelans to take our bookkeeper?"

Carlos's voice is thick with undisguised glee; this is his opportunity to call for Toni's blood.

Toni's family controls the money laundering arm of our organization.

Bookkeeping falls squarely under his jurisdiction.

If our bookkeeper is taken, that makes it Toni's responsibility.

And that? That's bad. As in capo's-blood-on-the-marble-floor bad.

If the other families demand a head for this, it'll be Toni's.

Unless he has one hell of an explanation, there won't be a damn thing I can do to stop it—because this? This is on him.