Page 59 of Dangerous King
"Piece of advice?" Marcello asks.
"I'm all ears."
"With my father, it's better to ask for forgiveness than permission."
I take a deep inhale. "I hear you, but I'm already on thin ice with Edoardo after this thing with Giovanni."
"As far as I'm concerned, it should be Carlos getting Kevin in line, but the bastard is too busy licking Edoardo's ass to do anything useful. Yours or Giordano's name getting in the news is bad business for all of us."
He's right. Edoardo won't be able to do shit if Italkto Kevin. "I'll take care of Kevin."
"Just keep him breathing, we still need the bastard."
"Ten four." I hang up.
I know this neighborhood.
Toni had it built. It's filled with luxury homes carved into the forested hills, like a crown around a man who sees himself as a king. His house is up on the highest point—stone and glass and power—overlooking the lake, the road, and every soul who dares to look up.
Kevin Jasper lives three turns down the hill. Still elevated. Still smug. But make no mistake, he's not the king here.Kevin Jasper thinks he's clever, hiding in plain sight, flaunting his state salary while living like a hedge fund billionaire. Good thing the press is firmly in our hands; otherwise, they'd have a field day reporting about how he can afford this.
I park out front. No need for subtlety. He made this political, now I'll make it personal.
The maid answers the door, young, pale, too pretty to be safe in a house like this. She blinks when she sees me, already stepping back.
"I need to see Mr. Jasper."
"I-I'll check?—"
I push past her without a second glance. "He's expecting me."
I move through the grand foyer, past the too-perfect art and all the fake warmth money can buy, and find his office. The door's ajar. Kevin's inside, pacing with a phone pressed to his ear. "Yeah, we'll spin it like a public safety issue—twelve dead, civilians in the crossfire—makes me look tough on crime. Voters love that?—"
The moment I open the door fully, he turns. His smile falters. "Mr. Sartori?—"
Wordlessly, I grab him by the collar and slam his face into the desk. The sound is wet and violent, bone and cartilage crunch. Blood sprays across the leather blotter and seeps into the wood grain. It splatters my pants and shoes, and I curse.
He cries out, half-screaming, half-sobbing, clutching his broken nose as he falls backward into his chair.
Behind me, the maid stumbles in, her face ghost-white. "Mr. Jasper! Oh my God! Should I call the police?"
I pull my gun and train it on her without looking. "Corner. Now."
She collapses backward against the wall and slides down into a crouch, trembling, saying nothing. I don't like intimidating women, but Christ, I don't have time for this shit.
Kevin is trying to speak, but it sounds garbled and wet; blood still gushes from his broken nose, and he tries to swallow. One of his hands clutches his nose, the other the edge of the desk for leverage. Without hesitation, I step forward and fire.
The gunshot is deafening. His hand, the one on the edge of the desk, jerks sideways, and one of his fingers hits the floor like a dropped pencil, spinning before it stops. His screams are shrill and ragged. His eyes bulge in disbelief and are joined by those of the maid. My ears are ringing, and I contemplate firing again, this time to shut both of them up permanently, but my rational side wins, as it always does.
"You're going to shut your mouth and listen to me," I say calmly, holstering the gun.
He's sobbing now, his face twisted in agony. Her cries are more subdued.
"You used the mall shooting like a fucking campaign ad. You went on national television and promised justice. You think you're the hero in this story?" I lean over him, quiet and cold. "You're nothing but a parasite in a better man's house."
"I didn't?—"
"Shut. Up."
