Page 69 of Dangerous King
"Wake him up," I say coldly.
Silvano's hand lands on my shoulder. He won't contradict me in front of the soldiers, but his eyes tell me everything I need to know.You need to stop. We might still need him.
He's right, too. I take a deep breath. I'm not a savage like Toni. I'm known for keeping my cool. What is this girl doing to me? I've never been this furious in my life. I send a sharp nod, and two of my soldiers move forward, pouring blood clotting powder over Giovanni's useless hands. They'll stitch him up later, too. They'll keep him alive—barely. But enough for me to interrogate him again if I need to.
Roberto will never know what happened to his father, and he'll be the next on my list. He doesn't know it yet, but I'm coming for him too. I haven't found out what he did to Cat, but I will. And if nothing else, he deserves to die just for thinking he could kill Izzy.
The picture of the man who took her catches my eyes. For a few beats, I stare at it.Who are you?I'll find you and make sure you regret the day you were born. I hand the photo to Silvano as we turn to leave.
"Keep digging," I say.
Because if Giovanni didn't order putting my sister in that chair…
Then someone else did. And they're going to wish they hadn't.
The moment we're back in the car, I pull the door shut and lean back in the leather seat. I've seen a thousand faces in this life. Most of them forgettable. But this one doesn't sit right. Maybe because it issoforgettable. An average man. One that can fly under the radar, one nobody pays attention to. Too calm. Too clean. Too much purpose in the way he stood beside Kingsley, just far enough away to avoid notice but close enough to control the room.
A ghost in a tailored suit.
I rub my thumb along the edge of my jaw. We're missing something. I need a brain. Someone sharp enough to break what we can't even trace. One name comes to mind.
I tap out a number, and my call is answered on the second ring.
"Stephano."
"Enrico," comes the drawled reply. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Or is this one of those calls where you say nothing and I wake up with a server in flames?"
I don't humor him. "I need help."
That gets his attention. "All right. What kind?"
"I've got a face. I want to know who he is, where he's been, and what he eats for breakfast."
"Sounds like my kind of problem," Stephano mutters. "Send me the image. I'll run a facial scan across my on-the-books network. If it gets no hits, I'll try the less legal ones."
I already have a copy on my phone, so I forward it to the secure number he gave me last year when we were still circling each other like rival princes.
It's silent for a moment. Then: ping.
"Got it," he says. "Give me a few hours. You're lucky I like puzzles."
"I'm lucky you like leverage."
That earns a dry laugh. "Touché."
I end the call without saying goodbye.
Outside the window, the city hums. Unaware that one of its princes is on the hunt. I don't know who that man in the photo is. But when I find him—and I will—he'll learn the first rule of my world: You don't touch what's mine.
Not my sister.
Not my blood.
And not the girl who makes me feel like I still have a soul.
The dining room is full of laughter. Forks clink against plates, wine flows freely, and chairs scrape as people lean in, toss napkins, and trade jokes like cards in a long-lost game I've forgotten how to play.
Everyone's here.
