King of Wrath (Kings of Sin)

“I’m sorry, you want us to go where?” I looked up from my sushi and pinned Dante with a disbelieving stare.

“Paris.” He leaned back, the picture of nonchalant ease.

Jacket off, tie loosened, expression unruffled like he hadn’t just suggested I drop everything to jet off to Europe.

It was Wednesday, five days after our short-lived fight and three days after our reconciliation.

We were eating lunch in my office and having a perfectly pleasant conversation when he dropped the Paris bombshell out of nowhere.

“I found out today I have to meet some of our subsidiary CEOs there ahead of the Cannes Film Festival,” he said. “My VP was supposed to do it, but his wife went into early labor. I’m leaving Saturday and staying there for a week.”

Normally, I would’ve jumped at the chance to join him. Paris was one of my favorite cities, and I was long overdue for another visit, but I couldn’t drop everything to cavort around France when the Legacy Ball was only weeks away.

“I can’t,” I said reluctantly. “I have to be here for ball prep.”

Dante raised his eyebrows. “I thought everything’s pretty much set.”

Technically, he was right. The venue was secured, the caterers on track, and the seating charts and entertainment finalized—Veronica Foster turned out to be surprisingly talented, and I’d squeezed her in for a short performance at the end of the night—but with my luck, something would go wrong the minute I stepped foot on French soil.

“Yes, but still. This is the biggest event of my career. I can’t fly off at the last minute. My team needs me.”

“Your team seems competent enough to hold down the fort for five days.” Dante tapped the stack of papers on my desk. “You’ll still have over a week when we get back to finalize everything, and you don’t need to be physically in New York to do your work in the meantime. I’ll be busy in the mornings too, so we work during the day and explore Paris at night. Win-win.”

“What about the time difference?” I argued. “My team will still be working when it’s evening in Paris.”

“So schedule your meetings for the early afternoon. It’ll be morning here,” Dante said, practical as always. “It’s Paris in spring, mia cara.

Beautiful flowers, fresh croissants, walks along the Seine…”

“I don’t know…” I wavered, torn between the picture he painted and my paranoia that something would go wrong.

“I already booked a suite at the Ritz.” Dante paused before dropping the second bombshell of the day. “And you can pick out a gown from the Yves Dubois showroom for the ball.”

My breath stilled in my lungs. “That’s cheating.”

Yves Dubois was one of the world’s top couturiers. He produced only eight gowns a year, each one of them unique and exquisitely hand-crafted.

He was also notoriously picky about who he allowed to wear one of his creations; rumor had it he once turned away a world-famous movie star who’d wanted to wear his design to the Oscars.

“It’s an incentive.” Dante grinned. “If you really can’t or don’t want to come, you don’t have to. But you’ve been working damn hard these past few months. You deserve a little break.”

“Nice way to spin it. Are you sure it’s not because you have separation anxiety?” I teased.

“I didn’t use to.” His eyes held mine like a lone flame flickering on a cold winter night. “But I’m beginning to think I might.”

Warmth filled my stomach and rushed to the surface of my skin.

I shouldn’t, but maybe I was tired of living my life by should s.

I made my final decision in a split second.

“Then I guess I’m going to Paris.”

Over the next two days, I prepped my team as much as I could. I gave them six different numbers where they could reach me and ran through emergency protocol so many times I thought Shannon would march me onto the plane herself before she strangled me.

Still, I remained apprehensive about the trip until I was in the car on our way to our hotel, watching the city whiz by outside the window.

Like New York, Paris was a love-it-or-hate-it type of city. I happened to love both. The food, the fashion, the culture…there was nothing quite like it, and once I was actually in Paris, it was easy to get lost in the magic of it all.

Our first three days consisted of settling in and, in my case, adjusting to my new work schedule. I spent the quiet morning hours knocking out administrative tasks and took meetings in the afternoon when my team and New York-based vendors were online. I thought I’d be distracted by the draw of the city outside my window, but I was surprisingly productive.

That being said, I couldn’t resist a quick shopping trip to Rue Saint-Honoré and, of course, a visit to Yves Dubois’s showroom, where I spent two hours choosing and fitting a gown for the Legacy Ball.

“Not that one.” Yves pursed his lips when I ran my fingers over a breathtaking blush and silver beaded piece. “Pink is too soft for you, darling. You need something bolder, more daring. Something that’ll make a statement.” He tilted his head, his eyes narrowed, before he snapped his fingers. “Frederic, bring me the Phoenix gown.”

His assistant darted out of the room and returned minutes later with the piece in question.

I sucked in an audible breath.

“My latest creation,” Yves said with a flourish. “Eight hundred hours to hand sew, bursts of gold thread embroidered over the entire surface of the gown. My finest work to date, in my humble opinion.”

Nothing about Yves was humble, but he was right. It was his finest work to date.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away from it.

“Normally, it’s one hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” he said. “But for you, the future Mrs. Russo, to wear it at the Legacy Ball? One hundred and thirty thousand. Even.”

It was a no-brainer. “I’ll take it.”

That night, Dante returned to a hotel suite littered with shopping bags on the floor, tables, and half the bed. Yves would send my gown directly to New York, so I didn’t need to worry about ruining it on our flight back, but I may have gone a little overboard on the shopping.

“Should I have booked a separate room for your purchases?” Dante eyed the pile of Dior hat boxes on the bed.

“You should’ve, but it’s too late for that.” I locked my new Bulgari diamond necklace in the hotel safe before I fished something from one of the smaller bags. “I bought you something too.”

I handed him the small black box and waited, heart thudding, while he opened it.

His eyebrows shot up when he popped open the lid.

“They’re ice cream cufflinks,” I said brightly. “I know a jeweler on Rue de la Paix who makes customized pieces. The onyx is the soy sauce. The ruby is the cherry, even though you don’t eat it with cherry, but I think the red ties the design together.”

It was a half-joke gift, half-sincere. Dante owned dozens of luxury cufflinks, but I wanted to give him something more personal.

“Do you like them?” I asked.

“I love them.” He removed his current cufflinks and replaced them with the new ones. “Thank you, mia cara.”

The warmth of his voice caressed my skin before he cupped my face with one hand and kissed me.

We never made it out to dinner that night.

Our other nights, however, were filled with whatever activities struck our fancy. We wandered through the charming book-lined nooks of Shakespeare and Company, explored the Louvre after hours, and pretended to watch black and white French indie films in an arthouse cinema while secretly making out in the back like teenagers.

I’d visited Paris many times, but exploring it with Dante was like seeing it for the first time. The smells wafting from the bakeries, the texture of cobblestones beneath my feet, the rainbow of flowers blooming all over the city—everything was brighter, more vivid, like someone had sprinkled fairy dust over the city.

On our last night, Dante took me to a private dinner at the Eiffel Tower.

The monument had three restaurants; ours was on the second floor and offered spectacular views of the skyline. He’d booked the entire space, so it was just us, the seven-course menu, and the city laid out at our feet in all its glittering nighttime glory.

“Okay, what’s one food you can’t stand that everyone loves?” I swallowed a thin slice of sea bass before adding, “I’ll go first. Olives. I hate them. They’re a blight to humanity.”

“I want to say I’m surprised, but you’re the same person who eats pickles with chips and pudding, so…” Dante lifted his wine to his lips.

“Enough said.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I’m not the one who cleaned out our pickle supply two weeks ago because he couldn’t stop stealing my snack.”

“Don’t be dramatic. Greta bought more pickles the next day.” He laughed at my frown. “To answer your question, I can’t stand popcorn. The texture’s weird, and it smells awful even when it’s not burnt.”

“Seriously? Then what do you eat during movies?”

“Nothing. Movies are for watching, not eating food.”

I stared at him. “Sometimes, I’m convinced you’re an alien and not an actual human being.”

Another laugh rolled over me. “We all have our quirks, mia cara. At least I don’t sing Mariah Carey in the shower.”

My cheeks warmed. “I did that once. I heard the song in a commercial and it got stuck in my head, okay?”

“I’m not saying it’s a bad quirk.” The corner of his mouth tipped up. “It was cute, even if it was off-key.”

“I was not off-key,” I muttered, but my indignation lasted only seconds in the face of his smile.

“How’s the prep for Cannes?” I asked when our server swapped out our empty plates for the third course. “Did you get everything done in time?”

“Yes, thankfully. If I had to sit in another meeting discussing what champagne we should serve at the after-party, I would’ve been arrested for murder,” he grumbled.

“I’m sure you would’ve found a way out of it. You’re a Russo,” I teased.

“Yes, but the paperwork would’ve been a pain in the ass.”

“You love paperwork. That’s what you do all day.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just insult me horribly in the middle of what’s supposed to be a romantic last night in Paris.” He sounded wounded, but mischief glinted in his eyes.

I laughed before asking, “Do you ever think about what you would’ve been if you hadn’t been born a Russo?”

His life had been set from day one. But where would he be if he could’ve chosen his own path?

“Once or twice.” Dante shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. “I never know the answer. Work takes up most of my time, and while I enjoy my hobbies—boxing, tennis, travel—I wouldn’t have entertained them as careers.”

I frowned, strangely saddened by his answer.

“I’m a businessman, Vivian,” he said. “That’s what I was born to be. I enjoy my work, even if certain aspects are not always fun. Don’t think I’m throwing my life’s passion away to toil in a corner office because I feel obligated to.”

I suppose he was right. Dante—brash, bold, charming when he wanted to be but aggressive when provoked—was born to rule the boardroom. I couldn’t imagine him in any other role other than CEO.

“And you?” he asked. “If not event planning, what would you be doing?”

“I want to say I’d be an astronomer, but honestly, I’m terrible at math and science,” I admitted. “I don’t know. I guess I’m like you. I’m happy doing what I’m doing. Event planning can be stressful, but it’s fun, creative…and there’s nothing more satisfying than taking an idea and bringing it to life.”

A smile touched his lips. “So we’re both happy where we are.” The velvet weight of his words made my heart flip.

“Yes,” I said. “I suppose we are.”

The air turned thick and humid with meaning. I hesitated, then added softly, “I’m glad I came to Paris.”

Dante’s eyes were a lit match against my skin, bright and hot enough to burn.“Me too.”

We stared at each other, our food forgotten. The weight of a dozen unspoken words sat between us and threatened to spill into the silence.

Before they could, a harsh ring yanked our gazes apart and toward his phone.

He let out a low curse in Italian. “I’m sorry. I have to take this,” he said.

“Work emergency.”

“It’s fine,” I reassured him. “Do what you have to do.”

He pushed back his chair and answered the call on his way toward the exit.

I finished my course, but I was so distracted I barely tasted the langoustine.

I’m glad I came to Paris.

Me too.

Even in Dante’s absence, my pulse raced like it was competing for Olympic track and field gold.

Like I said, I’d been to Paris many times.

But this was the first time I was actually falling in love in the City of Love.