Page 4 of Savage King

I'm only here because it's expected. A celebration of Carlos's release on bail. Vito, my second in command, is already digging into how the fuck this happened. Like I said, Judge Lambert isn't a man to give in to bribes or threats. The only angle I can think of for Carlos's goons to have gotten to him would be through his family, and as far as I know, he only has one daughter. She could well be the reason Carlos is walking on bail right now. It might be time to have a little talk with the judge. A quick glimpse at my Rolex tells me I've been here twenty minutes now. As soon as Margarita decides to descend back into the bowels of hell, where she belongs, I'm out of here. I came, I drank, I'm ready to leave. I made my mandatory appearance; nobody said I had to enjoy being here at this farce of an impromptu release party.

Not even Marcello, his second son and now heir, is here.

I've heard there is no love lost between Marcello and Carlos. It's not a secret that Carlos groomed his firstborn son, Angelo, to take over one day. Unfortunately, Angelo got drunk, fell overboard, and got caught in the propellers of his yacht's rotors—according to the official version, only two people know what really happened—still, a nasty death. He was a few years older than me, so I didn't know him very well.

"What if I were?" Margarita answers. I lean back in my chair, regarding her with new eyes. What is she playing at? She has been rumored for years to be the one running the Giordano branch of our organization, officially headed by her son, Giovanni. I've never given those rumors much thought,but sheisthe mother of our Don's wife. It takes some serious manipulation to get where she is, especially as a woman—a widowed, unmarried woman at that. Political alliances are a strong part of our world, which is why Edoardo’s marriage to Margarita's daughter, Isabella, had always puzzled me. Isabella was one of his capo's daughters, and there was absolutely no political gain for him by agreeing to it. He hadn't fallen head over heels in love with Isabella, either; it was an open secret that he was in love with Helen Gordon. So why did he marry Isabella, not Helen? My suspicions that the reason was sitting right in front of me grew with every sly word that left her mouth. Margarita was as cunning as they came, and she had been around long enough to know where the bodies were buried. Bodies that not even our Don wanted to ever come up again.

"Now, why would you do that?" I say, but I’m already calculating. Margarita is dangerous, but danger can be useful. If she wants me to kill Carlos, then she’s invested in the outcome. And if she’s invested, it means she has something to lose. That’s leverage. And leverage is power.

"I'll leave you to figure that out, my dear boy," she leans forward to kiss me on both cheeks, sending more cold shivers down my spine. Her hand caresses the inside of my thigh, and it takes a good amount of self-control not to jump off the bar stool. She's an attractive woman, but way too conniving for my taste.

"In the meantime, you should have a chat with Judge Lambert. Ciao." She calls over her shoulder before she walks off like a high-paid runway model, but I don't give her ass a second glimpse; my mind shifts to what she said and hinted at. Maybe it would be a good idea to talk to Bruce Lambert. It's been a while.

"Don't look so gloomy. They're all staring, and what did the old bat want?" Enrico plops into the chair next to mine. Holding uphis hand, he indicates to the bartender that he wants whatever I'm having.

Slow and measured, I plaster a smile on my face. Enrico is right—I don’t need to give the others what they came to see. But I let them look, let them wonder what I’m thinking, let them question if I’ll snap. I like the way their gazes linger too long, how they shift uncomfortably when they catch my eyes. And well they should. I'm not called savage for nothing. My part in our family might be tame compared to some of the others—money laundering—but none of the others understand how much fear is needed to keep all the middlemen under control. Everyone wants to siphon from the top. It's my job to ensure they don't even get tempted.

Enrico's father deals in arms and gambling. His dad is grooming him to take over, just like mine did me before Carlos gunned him down. Enrico and I went to the same college as all the other capos’ sons, but Enrico and I are closest in age and hung out a lot together. Not to mention that we've known each other since we could walk. He’s more collected than I am, so more often than not, we complement each other perfectly.

Family is everything in the Cosa Nostra. No matter what, a large family reunion is held every six months, with a big party that usually ends with a fistfight and sometimes gunshots, but hey, we all have fun.

This party doesn't qualify as a family reunion, but most of the family is here and expects me to either kill Carlos or be happy that he's out on bail.

I empty my glass after the bartender refills it for a second time and point for another.

"You're right." A nod is all the thank you Enrico will get from me. He knows me better than that to expect any fucking sentimentalities.

"What are you planning?" Enrico asks, leaning forward.

He's been asking me that question since we found out my father was killed. And like every time before, I put an innocent face on. "Me? Why would I plan anything? I was compensated for the loss. Generously."

I refer to the LA territory that Carlos was forced to concede to me.

"Toni, it's me," Enrico persists. "You know you can talk to me."

I swirl the last of my whiskey in the glass, watching the slow spin of the amber liquid. Enrico isn’t just any man—he’s my oldest friend, the heir to his father's kingdom, and one of the few people I trust. But trust doesn’t mean I'll lay all my cards on the table.

I exhale, tilting my head slightly, measuring his reaction. “Let’s say I was planning something,” I murmur, keeping my voice light and casual. “Something that would shift the balance.”

Enrico’s expression tightens. He’s already thinking ahead, weighing the consequences. That’s why he’s the only one I’d even entertain having this conversation with.

“If you were,” Enrico says slowly, “I’d tell you to be smart about it. And to make sure there’s no blood on your hands when it’s done.”

I let the silence stretch, considering him. He’s not asking for details or pushing for the answers he knows he won't get from me. That’s why we work.

A smirk tugs at my lips as I toss back the last of my drink. “Smart man.”

I clap him on the shoulder, sharp and solid. No more words are needed. We both know what we’re talking about without saying it outright. The understanding is there, silent but absolute.

There are five branches of our New York ring—six if you count Edoardo. Each family controls a vital piece of the empire. Mine is money laundering. The Orsi family handles extortion and loan sharking, the Giordano’s control narcotics, prostitution, and drugs, Enrico's family, the Sartoris take care of arms trafficking and gambling, while the Conti branch deals in fraud and cybercrime.

Whatever I do next, I can’t upset the balance too much. A bloody vendetta within our ranks would be a death sentence, not just for me but for the entire family. We’re already standing on a battlefield.

The Russians, the Hondurans, the Chinese—every major syndicate in New York is waiting, circling like wolves. One misstep, one sign of weakness, and they’ll carve us up and take what’s ours. Which is why I have to plan carefully. Move too fast, and I start a war. Move too slow, and I'll be called weak. It's a tightrope. Good thing I have excellent balance.

Water cascadingdown my face wakes me. Sputtering, I try to clear the pain from my addled brain to figure out what happened. Every breath I take hurts, and it takes me a few moments to realize that I'm tied to a metal chair in the middle of what looks like an industrial room, or… shit, is this a morgue?

I try to yank my arms free, but they're restrained behind the back of the chair while my legs are tied to two of the legs.

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