King of Wrath (Kings of Sin)

“Congrats! You had your first fight as a real couple. Let’s toast to that.” Isabella raised her mimosa in the air, her smile totally sincere.

My and Sloane’s glasses remained on the table.

“It’s not something to celebrate, Isa,” I said wryly.

“Of course it is. You wanted the full couple experience. That includes fights, especially over family.” She finished her drink, undeterred by our unwillingness to participate in her toast. “Honestly, couples who don’t fight freak me out. They’re like one broken dish away from snapping. The next thing you know, they’ll be the subjects of a Netflix documentary series titled Love and Murder: The Couple Next Door. ”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “You listen to way too much true crime.”

Isabella, Sloane, and I were eating brunch at a hot new spot in the Bowery. It’d been two days since my fight with Dante, and I was still fuming over it.

Not because he was wrong, but because he was right.

Nothing stung more than the acrid taste of truth.

“It’s research,” Isabella said. “Therefore, it’s work. You can’t blame me for working overtime, can you? Look at Sloane. She’s on her phone even though the world’s best eggs Benedict is sitting untouched in front of her.”

“It’s not untouched. I ate two bites.” Sloane finished whatever she was typing and looked up. “You try enjoying your food when one of your clients posts a social media tirade about their very famous ex-wife and proceeds to get into online arguments with…” She checked her phone again.

“User59806 about who should drive their car off a cliff first.”

“Sounds tame for the internet,” Isabella said. “I’m kidding. Sort of.

Look, there’s not much you can do about it now except take away your client’s social media access, which I assume you’ve already done. People will act stupid all day, every day. Enjoy your food, and deal with them later.

Two hours of digital detox won’t kill you.” She pushed Sloane’s plate closer to her. “Plus, you need energy for all the fire breathing you’ll do later.”

Sloane pursed her lips. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I’m always right. Now…” Isabella shifted her attention back to me.

“This fight. I think you should let it go on for another day before you have hot makeup sex. Three days is adequate time for all that tension to build and —”

“Isa.”

“I’m sorry! I don’t have a sex life at the moment, okay? I’m living vicariously through you.” She sighed. “And the argument isn’t a dealbreaker, right? He’s kind of…”

Right.

Silence cloaked the table.

I stared at my half-eaten plate, my skin icy despite the warmth from two mimosas.

“Don’t get me wrong. I know how you feel.” Isabella’s voice softened.

“But I think it’s one of those cultural differences that’ll take time to smooth over. Dante cares about you, or he wouldn’t have been so upset. He’s just…

not great at expressing his thoughts tactfully.”

“I know.” My sigh carried days’ worth of agonizing. “It’s just hard to remember that when I’m in the moment and he’s being so…so stubborn. ”

In Dante’s world, his word was law. He was always right, and people bent over backward to accommodate or appease him.

But that was the thing. It wasn’t just his world anymore; it was ours, at least when it came to our home life. Arranged marriage or not, I’d signed up for a husband, not a boss.

I just wasn’t sure he knew that.

“He’s Dante Russo,” Sloane said, as if that explained everything.

“Inflexibility is his middle name. Personally, I think you should make him sweat. Shut him out until he comes to his senses.”

“Great. So we’ll be waiting until the turn of the next century,” Isabella said. “Viv, what do you want to do?”

“I—”

“Vivian. What a pleasant surprise.” A smooth, creamy voice interrupted our conversation.

I straightened when an elegant older woman with a sleek silver bob and the skin of someone thirty years her junior stopped next to our table.

“Buffy, it’s nice to see you,” I said, hiding my surprise. She and her friends rarely stepped foot outside their uptown bubble. “How are you?”

I pointedly ignored Isabella’s quiet splutter when I mentioned the name Buffy.

“I’m well, dear. Thank you for asking.” The sixty-five-year-old grande dame looked immaculate as always in a cream silk blouse, gray tailored pants, and Mikimoto pearl drop earrings. “I normally don’t come all the way down to the Bowery…” Her tone insinuated the twenty-five-minute car ride from her house was as arduous as the trek from Fifth Avenue to Brooklyn. “But I hear the brunch here is divine.”

“The best lobster eggs Benedict in town.” I gestured at an empty chair.

“Would you like to join us?”

Neither of us wanted her to stay, but it was the polite thing to ask.

“Oh, what a sweet offer, but no, thank you,” Buffy said on cue. “Bunny and I reserved the corner table. She’s glaring at me as we speak—she simply hates sitting alone in public…” She shot a reproving look at where a well-groomed blonde woman sat with her equally well-groomed toy poodle poking out of the top of her Hermès bag. Dogs weren’t allowed in the restaurant, but people like Buffy and her friends operated by different rules.

“However, I wanted to stop by and congratulate you in person on securing Valhalla for the Legacy Ball venue. It’s generated quite the buzz.”

“Thank you,” I murmured.

I’d tried my best to find other alternatives, but none of them panned out, so I’d reluctantly gone with Dante’s Valhalla Club suggestion. I’d insisted on putting together the pitch, which he presented to the management committee since they didn’t allow non-members in the meeting.

The approval process took almost a month, but I received the final confirmation two weeks ago.

While part of me thrilled at landing such an exclusive venue, another part worried about what it would cost Dante. Not monetarily, but in terms of leverage and reciprocation.

“I’m sure Dante put in a good word for you.” Buffy smiled. “It pays to marry a Russo, doesn’t it?”

My own smile tightened. The dig was subtle, but it was there.

“Since we’re on the subject of the ball, I have a suggestion regarding the entertainment,” she said. “It’s a shame Corelli lost his voice and can no longer perform.”

The famous opera singer was on hiatus while his voice recovered.

The issue wasn’t as severe as the venue flooding, but it was yet another problem in the pile that was mounting daily.

Murphy’s Law of event planning—something always went wrong, and the more important the event, the more went wrong.

“Don’t worry. I’ve already confirmed an alternative,” I said. “There’s a wonderful jazz singer who agreed to perform for half her regular rate considering the audience that’ll be in attendance.”

“How lovely,” Buffy said. “However, I was thinking we should book Veronica Foster instead.”

“Veronica Foster…the sugar heiress?”

“She’s transitioned into the music scene,” Buffy said smoothly. “I’m sure she would appreciate the opportunity to perform at the ball. As would I.”

Her pointed statement pierced my confusion.

I suddenly remembered the other reason why Veronica’s name sounded familiar. She was Buffy’s goddaughter.

“I’m happy to meet with her and review her tape if she has one.” I kept my tone measured despite the knots twisting my stomach. “However, I can’t guarantee a spot in the lineup. As you know, the schedule is tight, and I’ve already agreed to book the jazz singer.”

Buffy’s eyes cooled into blue ice. “I’m sure she’d understand if you had to cancel,” she said, her smile intact but sharper. More deadly. “This is an important event, Vivian. There’s a lot riding on it.”

Including your reputation and place in society.

The unspoken threat hung over the table like a guillotine.

Across from me, Isabella and Sloane watched the scene play out with wide eyes and icy fury, respectively. I could tell Sloane was holding back some choice epithets but, thankfully, she didn’t intervene.

She didn’t need to.

Between my parents’ visit, my argument with Dante, and headaches I’d encountered with the ball, I’d reached the end of my rope.

“Yes, there is,” I said in response to Buffy. Frost layered beneath my otherwise polite tone. “That’s why every detail must be flawless, including the performers. As the chair of the Legacy Ball committee, I’m sure you understand anything less than perfection on stage would not be ideal. I have full faith in Veronica’s commitment to her craft, which is why an audition shouldn’t be a problem. Wouldn’t you agree?”

The sounds from the restaurant became white noise as my heartbeat drummed in my ears.

I was taking a huge risk, insulting Buffy in front of other people, but I was sick of people trying to manipulate me into doing what they wanted.

She could blacklist me after the ball, but until then, it was my name on the invitations and my professional reputation on the line. I’d be damned if I let anyone destroy what I’d worked years for in the name of poorly concealed nepotism.

Buffy stared at me.

In reality, the silence lasted less than a minute, but every second stretched for an eon until her initial shock melted into something more inscrutable.

“Yes,” she finally said. “I suppose you’re right.” Her voice was as cold as her eyes, but if I didn’t know better, I’d say it contained the tiniest hint of respect. “Enjoy the rest of your meal.”

She turned to leave, but before she did, she cast a last look at me. “And Vivian? I expect this to be the best Legacy Ball in the event’s history.”

Buffy departed in a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and icy regality.

Her exit pulled the pent-up air from my lungs. I slumped, no longer held upright by indignation and a need to prove she couldn’t walk all over me.

“Telling off Buffy Darlington.” Sloane’s green eyes glittered with rare admiration. “Impressive.”

“I didn’t tell her off,” I refuted. “I presented an alternative viewpoint.”

“You told her off,” Isabella said. “There was a moment when I thought she would have a coronary and collapse right into your eggs. Buffy and Benedict, the new brunch combo.”

We stared at each other for a moment, stunned by the cheesiness of her joke, before we broke into laughter.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe we were all delirious from overworking and lack of sleep, but once we started, we couldn’t stop. Tears sprung to my eyes, and Isabella’s shoulders shook so hard the table rattled.

Even Sloane was laughing.

“Speaking of B names,” Isabella said after our mirth finally died down to a manageable level. “Did I hear wrong, or did she say she was here with her friend Bunny?”

“Bunny Van Houten,” I confirmed with a grin. “Wife of Dutch shipping magnate Dirk Van Houten.”

Horror wiped the remaining amusement from Isabella’s face.

“Who comes up with these names?” she demanded. “Is there a rule that the richer you are, the uglier your name has to be?”

“They’re not that bad.”

“Buffy and Bunny, Viv! Buffy and Bunny!” Isabella shook her head.

“Once I have the power, I’m banning all names beginning with the letters B and U. God forbid they add a Bubby to their group.”

I couldn’t help it. I burst into laughter again, with Isabella and Sloane joining me soon after.

God, I needed this. Food, drinks, and a fun, silly morning with my friends, the Buffy incident notwithstanding. Sometimes, it was the simple things in life that kept us going.

We lingered for another hour before we left. I insisted on covering the meal since they’d spent the majority of the time listening to my problems, and I’d just paid the check when my phone buzzed.

My heart flipped when I read the new message, but I kept my expression neutral as we exited the restaurant.

“There’s a new romantic comedy coming out next week,” Sloane said.

“Let’s watch it.”

Isabella eyed her with suspicion. “Will you actually watch the movie this time, or will you just complain during the entire film?”

Sloane slid on her sunglasses. “I don’t complain. I provide real-time criticism of the film’s application in the real world.”

“It’s a rom-com,” I said. “They’re not supposed to be realistic.”

Some people liked to unwind by reading or getting a massage. Sloane liked to watch romantic comedies and type up dissertation-length papers detailing every single thing she disliked about the movie.

And yet, she kept watching them.

“We’ll agree to disagree,” she said. “Next Thursday after work. Does that work?”

We’d survived years of rom-com evisceration. We’d survive another night.

After we confirmed the movie date and parted ways, I wound my way up Fourth Street toward Washington Square Park.

My pulse thudded louder with each step until it crescendoed at the sight of a familiar tall, dark figure standing by the arch.

The park bustled with street musicians, photographers, and students in NYU sweatshirts, but Dante stood out like a slash of boldness against a faded backdrop. Even in a plain white T-shirt and jeans, his presence was powerful enough to draw not-so-subtle stares from passersby.

Our eyes connected across the street. Electricity crackled down my spine, and it took me an extra beat to start walking after the last car passed.

I stopped two feet from him. The sounds of music, laughter and car honks fell away, as if he existed within a force field that prevented any outside intrusion.

“Hi,” I said, oddly breathless.

“Hi.” He tucked his hands in his pockets, the gesture endearingly boyish compared to his rugged features and broad, muscled frame. “How was brunch?”

“Good.” I pushed a lock of hair behind my ear. “How was…your day?”

I had no clue what he’d been doing that morning.

“I beat Dominic in tennis. He was pissed.” A crooked smile formed on Dante’s lips. “Good day.”

A laugh bubbled up my throat.

It’d only been two days, but I missed him. His dry humor, his smiles, even his scowls.

He was the only person who could make me miss every individual part of him as much as his whole—the good, the bad, and the mundane.

His eyes and mouth sobered. “I wanted to apologize,” he said. “For Friday night. You were right. I should’ve tried harder to understand where you were coming from instead of…ambushing you when we went home.”

His voice carried the stiffness of someone delivering an apology for the first time, but the underlying sincerity melted any grudge I might’ve held.

“You were right too,” I confessed. “I don’t like admitting it out loud, but I am different around my parents. I wish I wasn’t, but…” I blew out a breath. “There are some things that might be too late to change.”

I was twenty-eight. My parents were in their late fifties or early sixties.

At what point were our habits and dynamics so ingrained that trying to change them would be akin to trying to bend a concrete pillar?

“It’s never too late for change.” Dante’s eyes softened further. “You’re fucking perfect the way you are, Vivian. If your parents can’t see that, then it’s their loss.”

His words grabbed hold of my heart and squeezed.

To my horror, a familiar prickle sprung up behind my eyes, and I had to blink it away before I spoke again.

“Maybe I’ll wear a silk suit instead of tweed at our next dinner,” I half-joked. “Spice things up a bit.”

“Silk suits you better, anyway. Next time they drop in for a surprise visit, we can also tell them we’ve contracted a terrible, highly contagious stomach bug and lock ourselves in our apartment until they leave.”

“Hmm, I like it.” I tilted my head. “But what would we do, locked all day in the apartment?”

He slid me a wicked grin. “I can think of a few things.”

Heat washed over my skin, and I fought back a blossoming smile. “I’m sure you can. So,” I said, switching topics. “Do you have any plans for the rest of the day?”

“Yes.” He slid his hand into mine, the action as casual and natural as breathing. “I’m spending it with you.”

My smile broke free, as did the butterflies in my stomach.

Just like that, we were okay again.

It wasn’t a long reconciliation, but it didn’t need to be. Moving on didn’t always involve big gestures or heavy talks. Sometimes, the most meaningful moments were the small ones—a softening glance here, a simple but sincere apology there.

“Perfect,” I said. I kept my hand in his as we walked away from the park. “Because there’s a new exhibit at the Whitney I’ve been dying to check out…”