Page 101 of Vicious King

“I completely agree,” Mildred says. “And you need to set that rule into place. I don’t think Carson will balk at that. I’m sure it’s simply habit for his men to only report to him.”

I reach for another cookie.

“Yeah, well, they’re going to learn some new habits.”

Thirty-Three

CARSON

“Jesus Christ.” I shake my head and stare out the window as Leo drives us to Manhattan, where we’re meeting with DeLuca.

“What’s wrong?” Julian asks.

“There was a threat at Charlie’s school. It was taken care of, but of course it happens when I’m out of town. And my wife is fucking pissed because the security detail didn’t call her.”

“She should be pissed,” Julian says.

“I’ll take care of it when I get home.”

I want to get in and out of this city as fast as I can, with Damien’s head on a fucking platter. I don’t need to draw it out and make him suffer. Sure, in a perfect world, I’d have him in my cell and work him over for a good month before I let death take him, but today I’ll be happy with a bullet between the eyes so I can get back to my family.

First, we need to make nice with the boss of this territory.

We pull into a garage beneath a skyscraper, and then we’re escorted to an elevator and surrounded by DeLuca’s men as it climbs to what I assume is his office level.

There’s no way he’d invite us to his home. We’re not at war with the Italian family, but we’re not as tight with them as we are the Irish.

We’re escorted down a hallway and into a vast office with views of Central Park, and Damiano DeLuca is sitting behind the massive mahogany desk, puffing on a cigar.

“Gentlemen,” he says, gesturing for us to sit in the visitors’ chairs. “Have a seat. Leave us.”

All the guards leave, including ours, and it’s just the three of us left in the office.

Interesting. I thought for sure he’d keep some manpower here, just in case.

DeLuca’s in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair, and looks every inch the gangster he is. It’s as if he walked off the set of Scarface and decided to live the lifestyle rather than take off the costume.

And he’s done well for himself. I admit, DeLuca runs his city well, and my brothers and I don’t have any complaints whenever we’ve worked with him.

“Thanks for allowing us to come,” Julian says, always the politician. It’s common courtesy to reach out to the head of an organization in any city if we’re going to be doing business there.

Of course, I never do when it’s an assassination job.

Because fuck that.

But in this case, I don’t want anything to fuck this up.

“I’m curious what brings you here,” Damiano says.

“Lincoln,” I reply, not wanting to waste any time, and Damiano’s face goes hard as stone.

Yeah, we all fucking hate that asshole. After changing his face, Lincoln spent years trying to ingratiate himself into the organized crime families all over the country, and then when he discovered that we were hot on his tail, he attacked a fundraiser, trying to kill all the heads that had gathered in Vegas for the event.

Of course, it was a setup for Lincoln, and he retaliated.

“What about the fucker?” Damiano asks.

“We have evidence that he was here in New York last night, and I want to slit his fucking throat,” I reply, and shrewd brown eyes shift to me. “Respectfully, of course.”