Page 81 of Dangerous King
"Enrico," he nods back. Before they can rope me in for a longer conversation, I excuse myself, my eyes searching the room for Toni. As capo of the DeLuna family, he has to be here; Edoardo would have insisted. I find him sitting at the bar. Not alone, though. I narrow my eyes when I see Donna Margarita with him. What does the old bat want with him? I'm really not in the mood for another scene with her. From a passing waiter's tray, I pick a glass of champagne and lean against one of the pillars, waiting in the shadows for Donna Margarita to leave and hoping nobody else will notice me, which appears to be easy, since all eyes are either riveted on Carlos or the spectacle Toni and Margarita aremaking. Toni doesn't look comfortable with her nearly draped over him. Her hands are everywhere, brushing off imaginary lint from his jacket and thighs. She talks animatedly to him. What the hell?
Finally, she sashays off. I finish the champagne and leave it on one of the many side tables before approaching Toni. "Don't look so gloomy. They're all staring, and what did the old bat want?"
I plop into the chair next to his, holding up my hand to the bartender to get something stronger than champagne. Toni plasters a smile on his face, "You're right."
His face still looks more menacing than a cobra about to strike, but I let it go. He's under enough stress. I can literally see the wheels turning in his head, plotting Carlos' demise. "What are you planning?"
It's a question I've been asking him a lot lately. His answer is always the same. "Me? Why would I plan anything? I was compensated for the loss. Generously."
He's referring to the LA territory that Carlos was forced to cede to him, tomake up for the lossof his father, one of Edoardo's grand ideas.
"Toni, it's me," I sigh. "You know you can talk to me."
He swirls the last of his whiskey, watching the slow spin of the amber liquid—reminding me of Cat's eyes—considering taking me into his confidence. We've been friends—or as close as one comes to friendship in our line of work—for years.
He exhales loudly, tilting his head slightly to measure my reaction. I prepare myself to keep my best poker face on. "Let'ssay I was planning something," he murmurs. "Something that would shift the balance."
Toni's expression is tight. He got the nicknameSavage Kingafter his dad's murder. I can see it in his eyes, too. He's not the man I knew before. The man who went out drinking with me. He's a capo now, and every pore of his body oozes the power and responsibility of that job. I know one day I will feel the weight of my father's job on my shoulders, too. I pray, though, it's not because he was killed, like Toni's father.
Toni's pissed at Edoardo and hellbent on killing Carlos. But there is more in his eyes tonight.
"If you were," I respond warningly, "I'd tell you to be smart about it. And to make sure there's no blood on your hands when it's done."
He looks like he wants to add something, but instead, he only says, "Smart man."
He slaps me on the shoulder, sharp and solid, and I know I'm dismissed. The bartender has put a glass of Blue Label in front of me, and I drink it down, enjoying the smooth burn as the liquid runs down my throat. Whatever Toni is planning for Carlos, I don't need to worry; it's not going to happen tonight. He might be savage, but he's also calculating.
The moment I get home, all I want is to see Cat, but I need to see Dad. I text him and Izzy to meet me in my office, where, first thing, I pour myself a Blue Label. What a fucking day. I'm glad it's almost over. After this last little bit is done, it's just me and Cat. I've already made reservations for us and texted her. Probably not my smoothest move, but I'll make up for it.
I take a long swallow from the glass. The burn of the whiskey cuts through the fog of adrenaline still crackling in my system. Unfortunately, it doesn't help much. I'm too keyed up.
The door opens without a knock, and Izzy rushes in breathlessly, followed by my father, slower, but no less sharp-eyed.
"Am I in trouble?" She asks, flopping into one of the leather chairs across from my desk. "Because I've been on good behavior for at least two days."
"You're not in trouble," I say. "Not yet."
Dad raises a brow. "That's comforting."
I toss my phone into Izzy's hands. The screen is still open to the surveillance image. "You're sure that's the guy who took you?"
Izzy leans forward, squints, then stiffens so fast that the blood drains from her face. "I already told you, yeah, that's him."
My father looks from her to me. "Who?"
"The man who took her," I say. "The man who kidnapped her and dumped her in Giovanni's basement."
Izzy doesn't speak for a second. Just stares off. The ordeal of being kidnapped must have been more traumatizing to her than she's letting on. She's a prideful woman underneath the happy-go-lucky giggles.
Grimly, I fill them in, "His name's Alaric Bastian. He's a top-notch assassin. He has a reputation in the international black book circuit so deep it's damn near carved in bone. Goes by a nickname, too."
Dad crosses his arms. "What nickname?"
"Ledyanoy Prizrak."
My father neither flinches nor scoffs. That's how I know he's heard it before. He just presses his lips into a hard line and mutters, "Figlio di puttana."
"Yeah," I say. "That one."
