Page 26 of Savage King

Ourfriendship—I'm hesitant to use that word, because Grigori doesn't cultivatefriends—began by doing business together. I produce highly luxurious helicopters, which the Russians seem to love, judging by the number of choppers they buy from me. Or that’s what the IRS records say. In reality, they only receive a handful. The helicopters are just a front for our illicit business transactions, drugs, and arms. The end result? Clean money.

I started this business before my father was killed. Over the years, Grigori and I realized we had a few things in common—mainly, a shared hatred for human trafficking.

Grigori’s father? Not so much. That sick bastard practically built his legacy on it. It was his favorite kind of dirty. He wouldn’t let it go—even when it meant going to war with the Giordano family. Grigori and I tried to stop it from getting out of hand, for both our families’ sake.

"I heard Marcello Orsi is back in town. Will he pose a problem for us?"

What Grigori’s really asking is: do I need to kill him?

They call me savage, but Grigori? Grigori’s the kind of man who’ll shake your hand with one of his and shoot you with the other. The bastard has zero feelings. Well, that's not entirely true. He loves his wife as much as a man like him is capable of.

When he took over the Russian mafia, he wiped out the human trafficking from their operations. I didn’t ask for details—just hearing secondhand stories is enough to keep me up at night.

"Let’s wait and see," I tell him.

Marcello’s still a wildcard. I don’t know him—not really. After Angelo’s death, Carlos dragged him back from Sicily. He’s only been stateside for a year, and aside from board meetings, we’ve had no real interaction. The fact that he didn’t show up to his father’swelcome-home party? That statement spoke louder than words.

"Only because I value our friendship,brat." Grigori's voice is cold and hard, despite him calling me his brother. "I'm not going to wait and wake up with a bullet in my head."

I run a hand through my hair in frustration. Dealing with Grigori is like walking an iced tight rope a hundred feet in the air—with the wind blowing at sixty miles an hour, wearing tap shoes.

"Understood. Remember, I have as much skin in the game as you," I remind him.

The bastard laughs. "I do like some of your American sayings. They're cute.Skin in the game." He lets out one final chuckle, and I prepare myself for one of his favorite idioms. Why did I have to bait him? “I keep trophies, Antonio. Skin’s just the packaging.”

The worrisome thing about the Russian? He means it, too. Fucker.

His moral compass is so skewed, it gives me whiplash. He'd watch you carve a guy piece by piece, without blinking an eye, but if you hurt a woman? You better pray he boils you alive, because that would be an easier death than anything else he’d give you. Something Angelo Orsi learned the hard way. I'm not sure what he sees in me, but for whatever reason, after helping him dispose of Angelo's body, he's seen me as more of a brother than a liability.

A brotherhood that will be strengthened by his ridding me of Carlos.

"That's not why you're calling me, though, is it?" Grigori has a talent for sniffing out other people's desires. I'm no exception.

"I want the bastard to suffer." There is no need for us to name names. We both know who we're talking about.

"I thought that was implied." Grigori chuckles. Like me, I'm pretty sure he would give his left nut to dish out the vengeancehimself. It wasn't enough for him to carve Angelo up like a Sunday roast; he wants the older Orsi, too. Not that I can blame him after what went down that night.

"What did he do now?" I don't want to bring Scarlet into this conversation. The less Grigori knows about her, the better. Not that I think he would hurt her, but like I said, he's a psychopath and unpredictable. He once killed a man for being late. Another time, he paid off a stripper's college debt because, in his words,she's cute.

I keep it vague. "He abducted and tortured the judge's daughter."

Grigori utters a string of words that I have no idea what they mean. At one point, I used a translator app, but after the words Grigori used, the thing went up in smoke. “Kozel-ebuchiy trus bez khrebta.”

I don't need this translated though, I know enough Russian by now to understand kozel, which means anything from goat to asshole and ebuchiy for fuck or fucking, so I get the idea.

"Yeah, that," I agree, eliciting more chuckles from Grigori.

I have no clue why he feels so protective of women; he's never shared that with me, but he went full berserker on Angelo that night. It took a bit of ingenuity to figure out a way to make it look like an accident after what was left of Angelo. But we did. I'm not privy to everything that went down, but I do know that there was a girl there before I arrived, and that she is now Grigori’s wife. Whatever happened, however Grigori found out, he was furious. He hunted down Angelo and cut him to pieces. Literally. Then he went home and killed his father.

I don't know why I helped him. It meant going against our family, betraying our family—even giving Grigori leverage against me—no matter that I had leverage against him too, like I said, unpredictable psychopath and all. But the deed was done, the deal with the Russians was mutually beneficial, and so on. I could have gone to our Don, and I would have, had it been any other man than Edoardo. I didn't trust him, nor did my dad.

So I cleaned up Grigori's mess and made it look like Angelo died during a boating accident when he got caught in the rotors. And it worked. Everybody believed it.

Not only that, but Grigori owes me, in addition to Carlos's death being in our mutual best interest. He'll take care of Carlos as soon as he's in prison. He'll make it look like a prison attack; people might suspect him, but nobody will be able to prove it. And with nothing to connect me to the hit or to Grigori, nobody will even suspect me. It would be fucking perfect, if only I could be the one killing Carlos.

Antonio is goneby the time I wake up. It looks like a maid has already been in because a cart with coffee, juice, and food is waiting for me by the sitting area. I don't trust my legs quite yet, but when I put them on the ground, I'm amazed at how sturdy they are. My strength is coming back! I'm happy about it, but I also know I need to do things to keep it up, like eating.

It's only a few paces to the sitting area, but by the time I make it, I'm ready to just plop down on an overstuffed chair. My heart is beating a little bit faster than usual, but that too is to be expected after what I've been through.

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