Page 53 of The Masked King

I stand under the shower until I can move my head without the floor sliding out from under me. I towel-dry and dress for back-to-back meetings with Giovanni, which, now that I think of it, I’ve probably missed over the past week, and make my way to the kitchen.

I’m greeted by the aroma of pancakes, grilled bacon, and scrambled eggs.

“Sit.” Bianca doesn’t even follow through with a glance. Her tone is enough to stop me from protesting. “I won’t try to stop you, but I’m not letting you walk out of here without some food in your stomach.”

I sit at the breakfast bar and check my cell phone. Giovanni has tried calling me over the past couple of days, but it’s the message from Megan that turns my blood to ice.

Enzo, please come for dinner. I’m worried about you.

Did they read my messages when they brought me back to my apartment, undressed me, and tucked me in bed? Megan and Amber survived the Fish; I’m not letting these assholes get anywhere near them.

I open the back of my phone, remove the sim card, and trash the handset against the side of the marble counter. Then I grab the scissors from a drawer, snip the sim into tiny pieces and toss them into the trash can.

Bianca serves breakfast on two plates and places them on the breakfast bar along with maple syrup and two cups of black coffee. She sits down, drizzles maple syrup over her pancakes, and chews a mouthful of eggs before finally looking at me.

“So, now you’re on the Bratva’s radar and uncontactable. I thought that was my playbook.”

I fork eggs and bacon into my mouth, realizing how hungry I am when the flavors explode on my tongue. “You don’t have the monopoly on taking risks.”

She inclines her head, conceding the point. “You’re going back then.”

“Unless you can give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”

“How about you’re too young to die?” She swallows a mouthful of coffee. “Or you don’t need to do this alone. Or here’s a good one that you should’ve learned from our father: stay one step ahead of the enemy and then shoot them in the eye instead of in the back like a fucking coward.”

I would smile if I thought my facial muscles would cooperate. “You’re calling me a coward?”

“No, Enzo, I’m calling you a fucking idiot. Did you not listen yesterday when I told you the Bratva is closing ranks?”

“I heard you, but I had to go back and make sure Nyx was okay.”

“So, what now?” Her eyes narrow.

“Now, she’s in danger because of me. Our father would never have sacrificed someone who tried to help him.” I smother bacon in syrup and chew a sweet, crispy rasher; Bianca remembered exactly how I like it. “Where were you last night exactly?”

“Another casino. There’s someone you should be aware of. Dmitri Malevsky. He has a reputation amongst the Bratva families for being a sick bastard who carves up the enemy and disposes of them in small pieces. He also has mommy issues.”

“Meaning?” I’m not even going to ask where she gets her information from.

“Meaning, women are disposable assets to him. You know how some people collect artwork or earthenware plates with lemons painted on them or underwear supposedly worn by their favorite actor.” She gives a small smile. “He collects virgins and keeps their blood as a souvenir.”

I lower my fork while this sinks in. “What did that information cost you?”

“Does it matter?”

My jaw is so tight I could crack teeth. “It matters if you’re putting yourself in danger.” I don’t mention the fact that she turned up in a bloody mess in my private elevator a week ago.

“We’re Sabatellis. Danger has been embedded in our lives for generations, so unless you’re thinking of renouncing the family name and joining a monastery, I suggest you stop worrying about keeping me safe and go with Plan B.”

“Assuming I had a Plan A to begin with.”

She smiles. “Then promise me that you’ll be careful. Who else can I turn to when I have nowhere else to go?”

The buzzer is gone from the entrance when I return to JADED.

The door has been painted royal blue overnight with fading patches here and there, there are white shutters inside the windows, and although I’ve only seen the outside of the club at night before, it feels as if someone changed the street sign as a prank before I got here.

I stand back on the sidewalk and peer up at the façade. Once upon a time, the building might’ve been used as a factory of some sort, but now, with a coat of paint, a fancy sign, and a covered entrance with a suited concierge, it could pass as a hotel rather than a sinister nightclub where the paying guests get tasered for breaking the rules.