Page 37 of Wounded King

"Who the fuck are you talking to?" A male voice sounds out, making me grind my jaw.

"It's just Marcello," Sophia responds, and I don't like the tone in her voice. I don't know her well enough anymore—something I want to remedy—but the inflection of fear is there, as if she screamed it out loud.

"Let me talk to him," I order, clenching my teeth.

"He wants to talk to you." Sophia's voice is merely a whisper.

"Christ, it's ten at night. Tell him I'll call him tomorrow."

"Now!" I bark loud enough that he hears it.

"You do know there's a time diff—" a man's voice, Roberto, I assume, comes on the line.

I don't let him finish. "She's my blood, Roberto. If I find out you hurt her, I'll break every bone in your body with my bare hands—and when I'm done, I'll get creative."

"You've got it twisted, Marcello. I take care of your sister. You think I'd be stupid enough to lay a hand on her?" He responds, sounding more flustered than outraged.

"I think you're arrogant enough to think you can get away with it." The edge is still in my voice, and if he has any brain, he'll take the hint.

"Don't threaten me over nothing. She's emotional. She exaggerates."

He's giving me the perfect opening, so I coldly educate him: "So do I. Except I don't scream—I break things. And people."

Now he sounds sullen, "We're on vacation. She's fine."

"For your sake, I hope so. Because if she's not? You'll be my vacation. Now put her back on the line."

There is a quick shuffle, then Sophia comes back on. "What did you say to him?"

"Just made it clear that hurting you won't be good for his health, Soph."

"He doesn't?—"

I don't let her finish her lie. "We'll talk when you come back. When are you coming back?"

"Just a few days," she replies.

"If he touches you, you call me."

Her nervous laugh doesn't reassure me in the least. As soon as they're back, I'm going to have a word with her and him. Separately. "He doesn't hurt me, Marcello."

"We'll talk about it when I see you," I say, disconnecting the call before I get on my jet and fly to California to paint the inside of their hotel suite red. Because I want to. God knows, I want to.

But I can't.

Not yet.

I'm still healing from the damn gunshot wounds. Hell, I'm still limping. The enemy tried to erase me. I need to show New York I'm still standing before I fly off to play executioner in LA. Power is perception, and I've only just started clawing mine back.

I'll kill Roberto—but I'll do it on my terms. The fucker won't dare touch her in the next few days, I'm sure of it. I might not know him, but I know his kind—spineless bastards, who at the first sign of trouble, cry for their mammas. Instead of calling my jet, I do the sensible thing. Pour myself a glass of Blue Label and hobble back onto the patio to drink it, staring out into the night. Atmycity. It doesn't know it yet, but I'm still its king. Wherever I go, doors will open. People will fall over themselves to seat me at the best table, serve the best food, and offer the finest clothes.

I've been gone for weeks; I've been weak and bleeding.

That's about to end.

My next act is already in motion: finding out who the fuck had the balls to try and kill me—not once, not twice, but three times!

And when I'm done?