Page 136 of Dangerous King
"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 thatconvenientboating 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 therebellion. 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.
"The real question should be, why did the Venezuelans take our bookkeeper? They know this means war," Toni counters, staring directly at Edoardo and proving that he's not done yet.
"I've already spoken to Matías. It was an unfortunate incident. There will be no war," Edoardo responds, casually dismissing treason like spilled espresso.
I lean in, my tone tight and sharp. Calculated. "No war?" I press out, making it appear like I'm losing the calm I usually portray, but on the inside, I'm cool and collected. I want the other capos to see this for what it is: an outrage. "No war, he says." I turn from one capo to the other, meeting their eyes. "They snatch our bookkeeper… and no war?"
Stephano and Marcello throw quick glances my way, but nobody meets my eyes directly, least of all Edoardo, who emphasizes, "No war."
Silence follows. Edoardo reaches for his drink, signaling that this conversation is over as far as he's concerned. That's it? I can't believe this issue would be so easily dismissed. Unless… Edoardo wants it buried, for whatever reason. That's when I realize: this isn't incompetence, it's a cover-up.
