Empire of Sin (Empire #2) by Rina Kent

I stop near the house’s entrance, waiting for the whole charade to end. Yes, I came to the fucking birthday, but that doesn’t mean I’ll enjoy the happy-go-lucky crowd.

Happiness isn’t my scene.

Neither are birthdays. Not when mine was supposed to be a funeral.

Gwyneth, Kingsley’s only daughter, grins wide as tears gather in her lids and she quickly wipes them away with the backs of her hands. She has a soft smile that’s nothing like her father’s—in fact, she barely resembles him. His hair is dark, hers is auburn with streaks of lighter strands. His eyes are blue-gray, hers have a rare heterochromia, where the insides are green and the outsides are a mixture of blue and gray.

Now that she’s all grown up, she looks more like she’s his sister, not his daughter. But then again, he’s barely aged with all the physical activities he takes part in.

The song comes to an end as King reaches her, and they both blow out the eighteen candles among cheers and random shouts of “Happy birthday” from the crowd before he pulls his daughter in for a hug. They stay like that for long moments, then he steps back and kisses her forehead.

If someone had told me the ruthless King who used to street fight like a champ would grow up into a mushy father, I would’ve gone the blasphemy route.

But the evidence is right in front of me. He’s wrapped around that girl’s finger and the worst part is he’s well aware of it.

It could be because he had her when we were in our final year of high school and was clueless as fuck about the meaning of having a child—he still is sometimes. Or because he always called her his second chance at life.

I remain near a tree and check my emails, replying to the urgent ones while I wait for the whole scene to be over.

It takes more than ten minutes—five minutes away from my self-imposed deadline—and I haven’t even shown my face yet. After Gwyneth finally goes to accept birthday wishes and King disappears into the house, probably to get more drinks, I make my way toward him.

Going unnoticed is hard as fuck when most of the people present either work for me or used to work with me, but the cake—and the birthday girl herself—have them preoccupied. I’m safe. For now.

I find King in his kitchen, rummaging for beer bottles in the fridge and giving distinct, methodical orders to the catering staff. Now, that’s the King I know. Clear-cut and precise. Which is one of the reasons I got along with him in the first place.

After all, devils recognize each other.

Or maybe he’s an ex-devil now, considering all the mushy shit he does whenever his daughter is involved.

I lean against the counter and cross my legs at the ankles. “You’re only short a maid’s outfit to complete the role.”

King turns around holding two cases of beer and his expression immediately sharpens. Gone is the soft man who was singing Happy Birthday not too long ago.

He straightens to his full height, but no matter how much he tries to get more on me, his six-foot-two is still an inch shorter than me. But he’s more buff.

Aside from boxing with him for old times’ sake and doing some hiking, I’m not as obsessed as he is with sports.

“You can go.” He hands the beer to one of the staff and they all scurry out of the kitchen at his order.

After slamming the fridge shut, he retrieves a Zippo from his pocket and flicks it open, then closed. He quit smoking a long time ago, soon after Gwyneth’s birth, but he’s never lost the need to have that lighter. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Nice save, because I was planning to kick your ass.”

“You can’t win against me. Not in this lifetime, at least.”

“Last week’s match says otherwise.”

“In last week’s match, you cheated by throwing the towel in my face.”

“It’s called street fighting, not noble martial arts. I’ll let you win this week.”

“Fuck you. Don’t act benevolent when you’re going down.”

“We’ll see about that. Now, why are you late?”

“It’s just a birthday, King. I don’t see what the big deal is.”

“My daughter’s birthday. That’s the big deal, Nate.”

I resist the urge to tell him it’s still just a birthday since those words will definitely get me punched. My face is kind of real estate now and can’t be bruised in any way. King’s, too. Which is why the face is a red zone in our fights.

King flicks his lighter shut, slips it back in his pocket, and reaches into the cabinet. He retrieves a bottle of The Balvenie 21 Year Old PortWood Finish and pours two glasses, then slides one across the counter to me.

“Drinking this early?” I swirl the contents.

“It’s a special occasion.”

I take a sip to hide whatever grimace my mouth was about to make. “Because it’s her birthday or because it reminds you of her mother?”

“Her mother can go fuck herself. That woman doesn’t exist.” He downs the whole glass.

“Clearly. Judging by the million PIs you’ve hired over the last eighteen years.”

“There’s no harm in knowing one’s enemies' whereabouts.”

“You want me to believe that you won’t do anything once you find her? Really, King?”