King of Wrath (Kings of Sin)

I was a law-abiding citizen, but if anyone could drive me to mariticide, it was my future husband.

I hated his arrogance, his rudeness, and the mocking way he called me mia cara.

I hated the way my pulse kicked at the rough span of his hand around my neck.

And I hated how he always seemed larger than life, like the molecules of any space he entered had to fold in on themselves to accommodate him.

Are. We. Clear? His maddening voice echoed in my head.

It was clear, all right. It was clear Dante Russo was Satan in a nice suit.

I forced my lungs to expand past my anger. In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three.

Only when my blood pressure returned to normal levels did I open the door to my new room instead of hunting down the sharpest knife I could find.

As promised, a business card with Dante’s assistant’s number and a black Amex waited on the nightstand next to a distinctive red ring box.

When I popped open the lid, a six-carat diamond winked back at me.

I brushed my fingers over the dazzling gem. Five carats, a rare Asscher cut, with smaller baguette diamonds adorning each shoulder.

I should’ve been thrilled. The ring was stunning and, judging by the diamond’s color and clarity, worth at least a hundred thousand dollars. It was the type of ring most women would kill to have.

But when I plucked it from the box and slid it onto my finger, I felt… nothing.

Nothing except the cool brush of platinum and a heavy weight that felt more like a prison than a promise.

Most engagement rings were a symbol of love and commitment. Mine was the equivalent of a signature on a merger contract.

A strange tightness gripped my throat.

I shouldn’t have expected anything more than what Dante gave me.

Some arranged marriages, like my sister’s, turned into real love, but the overall odds weren’t great.

I sank onto the bed. The tightness spread from my throat to my chest.

It was stupid to feel sad. So what if Dante had proposed in the most impersonal way possible? I’d known since our first meeting we wouldn’t mesh. At least he’d been honest about his intentions and boundaries.

Still, a part of me had hoped our previous interactions were flukes and we would gradually warm up to each other, but no. My future husband was simply a jerk.

The buzz of a new text interrupted my wallowing.

I picked up my phone, expecting another congratulatory message or a reminder from Isabella to invite her over once I settled in.

Instead, I saw a text from the last person I’d expected to hear from.

Heath: Happy Pumpkin Hot Chocolate Day 🙂

I stared at the words, waiting for them to disappear like I’d accidentally conjured them. They didn’t.

My stomach twisted.

Of all the days he could’ve texted out of the blue, it had to be today, right after I moved into Dante’s house.

The universe possessed a sick sense of humor.

There were a million things I wanted to say, but I stuck with something safe and neutral.

Me: Do they have those in California?

Heath: Pumpkin hot chocolate? Nah

Heath: You’re only allowed to drink smoothies and green juices here or you’ll get voted off the island

My small smile faded as quickly as it appeared.

We shouldn’t be talking, but I couldn’t bring myself to block him.

Heath: I’ve been emailing Bonnie Sue’s every day asking them to

open shop in SF, but no dice so far

A pang hit me at the mention of Bonnie Sue’s.

It was a popular cafe near Columbia, where Heath and I had attended undergrad. It was famous for its seasonal pumpkin hot chocolate, and even though I didn’t like pumpkin and he didn’t like hot chocolate, we’d showed up every year for its annual return in mid-September.

Forget the fall equinox; the real first day of fall was the day the drink reappeared on Bonnie Sue’s menu.

Me: It’ll happen. Persistence always wins

Guilt ballooned in my chest as Heath and I exchanged more small talk.

He asked about my job and the city; I asked about his dog and the weather in San Francisco.

It was our longest conversation in years. Normally, we only texted each other on holidays and birthdays, and we never talked on the phone. It was easier to pretend we were casual acquaintances that way even though we were anything but.

Heath Arnett.

My college best friend. My ex-boyfriend. And my first love.

Once upon a time, I thought we’d get married. I’d convinced myself we would overcome my parents’ objections and live happily ever after, but our breakup two years ago proved my hopes had been just that—hopes. Flimsy and insubstantial in the face of my parents’ wrath.

I shook off memories of that day and tried to refocus.

Me: How’s your company doing?

After our breakup, Heath moved to California and expanded his language-learning app into the powerhouse it was today. The last time I checked, it was one of the top fifteen most downloaded apps in the U.S.

Heath: Pretty amazing. We’re going public at the end of this year

Heath: We’re expecting a big IPO. Perhaps…

The three dots that indicated he was typing popped up, disappeared, then popped up again.

Heath: We can revisit things after it does

My guilt hardened into dread.

He didn’t know about the engagement. I hadn’t posted about it online, we didn’t have mutual friends anymore, and Heath didn’t follow the society pages, which meant I had to tell him. I couldn’t lie by omission and let him think there was a chance of us getting back together.

Heath: If you want to, of course

I could practically see him pushing his hand through his hair the way he always did when he was nervous.

My teeth dug into my bottom lip.

I knew part of the reason he’d worked so hard on the startup was to prove my parents wrong. They’d been furious when they found out I’d kept our relationship from them for years and even more furious when they discovered Heath didn’t come from an “appropriate” background.

At the time, he’d made a good living as a software engineer who’d worked on his app on the side, but he wasn’t a Russo or a Young. My father had threatened to disown me if I didn’t end things with Heath, and in the end, I’d chosen family over love.

Heath probably thought my parents would change their minds after his company went public and he became a millionaire. I didn’t have the heart to tell him they wouldn’t.

My family had plenty of money, but we were nouveau riche. No matter how much we donated to charity or how many zeroes we had in our bank accounts, certain parts of society would always remain closed to us… unless we married into old money.

Heath would never be old money, which meant my parents would never approve of him as a love match.

Just tell him.

I eased a deep breath into my lungs before I bit the bullet.

Me: I’m engaged

It wasn’t the smoothest transition, but it was short, clear, and direct.

I resisted falling back into my childhood habit of biting my nails while I waited for a reply.

It never came.

Me: It happened a few weeks ago. My parents set it up.

Me: I meant to tell you earlier

I should stop, but I couldn’t hold back my text version of word vomit.

Me: The wedding is in a year.

Crickets.

Five minutes passed, but my phone remained dark and silent.

I let out a small groan and tossed it to the side.

I shouldn’t feel guilty. Heath and I broke up a long time ago and, honestly, I was surprised he wanted a second chance. I would’ve thought—

A soft knock interrupted the chaos of my thoughts.

I sucked in another lungful of air and smoothed my expression into one of polite neutrality before I answered. “Come in.”

The door opened, revealing distinguished silver hair and a perfectly pressed black suit.

Edward, Dante’s butler.

“Ms. Vivian, Mr. Dante requested I take you on a full tour of the house,” he said, his British accent as crisp as his clothes. “Is now a good time, or would you like me to return at an hour of your choosing?”

I glanced at my phone, then at the cold, beautiful room around me.

Like it or not, this was now my home. I could lock myself in my suite, throw a pity party, and agonize over the past, or I could try and make the most of my situation.

I stood and summoned a smile that felt only mildly forced.

“Now is perfect.”

That night, Dante and I ate our first meal together as a couple.

I meant that in the loosest sense of the word.

I wore his ring, and we lived under the same roof, but the chasm between us made the Grand Canyon look like an ordinary hole in the ground.

I made a valiant attempt to close it. “I love your art collection,” I said.

“The paintings are beautiful.” Except for the one that looks like cat vomit.

The piece, titled Magda, was so out of place in his gallery I did a double take when I saw it. “Do you have a favorite piece?”

It wasn’t the most inspired topic, but I was grasping at straws. So far, I’d pulled six words out of Dante, three of which had been pass the salt. He was basically two devolutions away from being a nicely dressed mime.

“I don’t play favorites.” He cut into his steak.

My teeth clenched, but I swallowed my irritation.

Since our less-than-stellar interaction during my move-in, I’d moved past the shock and anger stages of our engagement into resignation.

I was stuck with Dante, whether I liked it or not. I had to make the most of it. If we didn’t…

Images of cold days, lonely nights, and fake smiles filled my head.

My stomach tightened with unease before I took a sip of water and tried again. “What are your expectations in private?”

His knife and fork paused over his plate. “Excuse me?”

A noticeable reaction. Progress.

“Earlier, you said we’ll play the part of a loving couple in public and warned me to, quote-unquote, get rid of any romantic notions I may have of us falling in love. But we never discussed what our private lives would look like beyond separate bedrooms,” I said. “Do we eat dinner together every night? Discuss our work problems? Go grocery shopping and argue over which brand of wine to buy?”

“No, no, and no,” he said flatly. “I don’t grocery shop.”

Of course you don’t.

“We’ll live our lives separately. I’m not your friend, therapist, or confidante, Vivian. Tonight’s dinner is simply because it’s your first night, and I happen to be home.” His knife and fork moved again. “Speaking of which, I have a business trip in Europe coming up. I leave in two days. I’ll be gone for a month.”

He might as well have slapped me in the face.

I stared at him and waited for him to tell me it was a joke. When he didn’t, a surge of indignation washed away my attempts to play nice.

“A month? What type of business trip requires you to be gone for a month?”

“The type that makes me money.”

The indignation fanned into anger. He wasn’t even trying. Maybe the business trip was legitimate, but I move in, and he leaves for a month? The timing was too convenient to ignore.

“You have plenty of money already,” I snapped, too annoyed to mince words. “But you clearly don’t have an interest in even being civil, so why are you here?”

Dante cocked an eyebrow. “This is my house, Vivian.”

“I mean here. This engagement.” I gestured between us. “You avoided my question the first time, but I’m asking again. What could you possibly get out of our match that you couldn’t get on your own?”

Lau Jewels was a big company, but the Russo Group eclipsed it tenfold.

It didn’t make sense.

My father told me it had something to do with market access in Asia, which was admittedly Lau Jewels’s strong point and the Russo Group’s weak one, but was that important enough for Dante to upend his personal life for?

His expression stiffened. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Considering it’s the reason we’re together, I think it does.”

“No, it doesn’t. Why do you care about the reason we’re together?” His voice turned cold, mocking. “You’ll marry me either way. The dutiful daughter who does everything her daddy says. I could be gone for the next year until our wedding, and you’d still go through with it. Wouldn’t you?”

An icy claw of shock snatched the breath from my lungs.

I didn’t know how the conversation had escalated so quickly, but somehow, without trying, Dante had hit me right in the ugliest, most undesirable part of myself. The part I loathed but couldn’t shake.

“Now I understand.” I fought for calm, but a tremble of anger bled through. “An arranged marriage is the only way you could get someone to marry you. You are so…so…” I struggled to find the right word.

“Horrible.”

Not my best work, but it’d do.

Dark amusement slid through his eyes. “If I’m so horrible, then tell your family the wedding’s off.” He nodded at my phone. “Call them right now.

We’ll move you back into your apartment like this never happened.”

It was equal parts challenge and seduction. He didn’t think I would do it, but his voice was so rich and coaxing it almost compelled me to obey.

My fingers curled around my fork. The metal dug into my skin, cold and unforgiving.

I didn’t touch my phone.

I wanted to even more than I wanted to toss my wine in Dante’s smug face, but I couldn’t.

My father’s anger. My mother’s criticism. The failure if I didn’t go through with the wedding…

I couldn’t do it.

Dante’s amusement disappeared into the tense atmosphere. Something sparked in his eyes. Disappointment? Disapproval? It was impossible to tell.

“Exactly,” he said softly.

The finality of that word cut deeper than a freshly honed knife.

We finished dinner in silence, but my steak had lost its flavor.

I washed it down with more wine and let the warmth eat away at my shame.