Page 136 of Savage King

The cold air hits my bare skin, but I don’t feel it. My focus is already on what’s coming. Unsurprisingly, the bathroom is in chaos, just like our bedroom. A smile escapes me when I notice all of Scarlet's toiletries strewn around the large countertopspace, glad now that I have another, smaller vanity area installed where I keep my stuff.

Scarlet's hair dryer still lies in one spot, the cap of a hairspray bottle next to it. The hairspray is nowhere to be seen. Her hairbrush, with some brown strands sticking to it, beckons me to touch them. Scarlet has a lot of redeeming qualities; neatness is not one of them, at least not in the bathroom. I fucking love it; her presence is everywhere. A forgotten bra in my office. A shoe under the living room table. A pair of earrings tossed on the nightstand.

Mine. She is all mine!

"Ouch," I nearly drop my phone as I step on one of her hairclips. Those things hurt like hell. I'm considering their use in my next interrogation. I pick it up and place it next to her hair dryer. Then I take a seat on her vanity chair after removing yet another hairclip—fuck, how many does she need?—and open my phone.

The text message is only one word: Enjoy

A slow, dark grin curls my lips. I click on the attachment, turn the volume up, and maximize the screen. Carlos has no idea that he is about to die. He’s showering, scrubbing away whatever filth coats his soul—not that there’s any soap strong enough for that.

The first shank hits his side. Satisfied, I watch his body jerk, note how his eyes widen in shock and disbelief. Then the first wave of pain hits him, dropping him to his knees, and he screams in agony for his bodyguard.

Who stands by the entrance, unruffled, and… watching? Lutz, Carlos’s only ally in prison. I don’t know what Grigori has on him, but it must be enough, because he doesn’t move or even flinch.

Carlos yells again, his voice raw with panic. He's begging Lutz to help him instead of trying to fight back like a man. What a disgusting piece of shit he is.

A chuckle escapes men when I watch Lutz lift his hand, extend his middle finger, and then turn, walking away.

The next cut is shallow; it's just a warning or a tease. Grigori's men are ready to play. Carlos tries to bargain with them, offering money and power, but his attackers aren't fazed.

The second shank slices his arm open. Blood sprays over the cold tile floor. I have no clue what Grigori's men are saying; they're speaking Russian, but I don’t fucking care. My focus is entirely on Carlos. I bathe in his fear and agony; his realization that he's about to die is like a hit of coke.That's for you, Dad, I think, satisfied.

It takes ten minutes. I wish it had been longer, but I understand that for a hit in prison, this is a long time. By the time it’s over, his blood is pooling at the drain, and his body is still twitching. The bastard is not quite dead. Not until one of Grigori’s men grips his hair, tilts his head toward the camera, and slashes his throat wide open.

The final proof.

Carlos Orsi is dead.

And with that, my father can finally rest in peace. It doesn’t make up for his loss. Nothing ever fucking will. But knowing that the man who killed him no longer breathes?

That’s a start.

I exhale slowly. My body finally unwinds, and the tension seeps from my muscles. I drop my phone on the counter and glance at the mirror, my reflection more relaxed than it’s been in months.

A grin tugs at my lips.

"One less enemy for you, Jellybean."

Now, I can finally focus on Edoardo. That bastard will be mine. I still have a bone to pick with Margarita, but since I'm in a generous mood, I'll leave that to Marcello.

A few days later…

The wake for Carlos Orsi is done. Not that the fucker deserved one, but it gives Marcello, Enrico, Stephano and me a chance to have a small meeting among ourselves without arousing Edoardo's suspicion too much. The wake was held in the city, and now we're all piled on Marcello's couch in his penthouse, watching Marcello pour Blue Label for us.

Just the four of us. No guards, no second-in-commands, no women. No distractions. The stench of Carlos’s legacy will linger for a while, but it's finally done; one king buried, another crowned, making the air taste like war.

Enrico leans forward, elbows on his knees, holding a glass balanced between his fingers. “My old man sends his regards; he’s not backing Edoardo if the vote comes.”

“First smart thing he’s done in years,” Stephano mutters, rubbing a hand down his jaw. “Mine’s still playing both sides. Pretends he’s loyal to Edoardo, but I’ve put some feelers out to my sources in Venezuela. He’s got cash going offshore there. Lots of it.”

Marcello lifts an eyebrow. “Venezuelans again?”

“Same network Matías came from,” Stephano says. “Only bigger. Cleaner. These aren’t your run-of-the-mill street gangs—they’re building something.”

“Something?” I ask, feeling my stomach turn sour.

He nods. “Shipping routes. Shell companies. Private security contracts. All backed by blood money. They’re laundering through oil and tech.”

---