King of Sloth (Kings of Sin #4) by Ana Huang

“Yes.”

“So why…” My question trailed off at Xavier’s smirk. My eyes narrowed and drifted to the tattoo of the Castillos’ rival family’s crest on his bicep. It represented the duality of Xavier: his stubbornness and resentment, but also his dedication and passion. He was the type of person who’d ink a permanent symbol of his war against his father on his body, and I suddenly knew exactly what the catch was. “You’re donating to charities your father hated, aren’t you?”

His smirk widened into a grin. “I wouldn’t say he hated the charities themselves,” he said. “But he certainly wouldn’t have approved of donating to some of their causes.”

He handed me his phone. The Notes app was open, and I scrolled through the list of charities he’d put together. Most of them focused on civil and human rights, with a few arts and music causes thrown in. I’d bet my apartment those were for his mom.

She loved art, so she donated a lot of money and time to local galleries.

I also flashed back to the organizations listed in Alberto’s will.

All of them had been business or commerce oriented.

I reached the last name on the list and laughed out loud. “The Yale endowment fund?”

“My father was a Harvard guy; he hated Yale with a passion. School rivalry and all that.” Xavier’s dimples played peekaboo. “I’ll make sure he gets a nice library on campus.”

“You’re evil but genius.” I handed his phone back, still laughing. “You’re an evil genius.”

“Thank you. I’ve always aspired to be both those things. Evildoers have way more fun, and geniuses are, well, geniuses.” Xavier pocketed his phone. “To be fair, I would’ve donated to those causes anyway. The fact my father would’ve disapproved of ninety percent of them is the cherry on top.”

I lifted my half eaten cupcake. “To revenge.”

“To revenge.” He tapped his chocolate against my lemon raspberry. He chewed and swallowed before adding, “Don’t get me wrong though. I’m definitely keeping some of the money. I like my cars and five-star hotels.”

“You mean you like trashing five-star hotels.”

Xavier pointedly ignored my allusion to his birthday weekend in Miami. “But I don’t need all of it. It’s more than any reasonable person could spend in a lifetime.” His expression turned pensive. “Once I get the club off the ground, I’ll make my own money, and I won’t have to rely on his. It’ll be a clean break, once and for all.”

He didn’t mention Eduardo’s theory about the will’s loophole, and I didn’t bring it up.

“You’ll succeed,” I said simply.

Xavier’s answering smile was pure warmth, and later that night, when we lay sweaty and sated in each other’s arms, I still felt the brush of it against my skin.

For the first time since The Fish died, I fell into a dreamless sleep.





CHAPTER 37





Xavier





Bad luck comes in threes.

I’d been exposed to that superstition since I was a child, but no one ever defined the time period for when those three bad things happened. It could be a day, a week, a month or, in my case, three months.

My father’s death and new inheritance clause in October. Perry exposing our outing with Pen in November.

That was two, but the relatively smooth period after the blog exposé lulled me into a false sense of complacency. The issue with Pen and Rhea still hung over our heads, but at least Pen was in the city for the foreseeable future and Rhea was taken care of until she found a new job.

After Perry’s social media takedowns and the unspoken but significant shift in my relationship with Sloane—namely, the realization that I loved her but couldn’t tell her lest I send her running for the hills—life resumed its normal pace. That was to say, it was batshit busy.

Despite the upcoming holidays, work on the club was in full swing. I’d hired a construction crew, plumbers, electricians, and everyone else I’d need to get it up to speed before Farrah could start on the actual design, and I was already knee-deep in grand opening plans by the time late December arrived.

We were making good progress on the club, but it wasn’t enough. The clock ticked down toward my thirtieth birthday, and every passing day amplified my anxiety. Whenever I thought about my endless to-do list, my breath ran short and a tidal wave of overwhelm crashed over me.

However, I kept all that to myself as I took Vuk and Willow on a tour of the vault.

“We’re preserving the original floors and windows, but we’re turning the teller enclosures into bottle displays,” I said. “The bathrooms will be where the private counting rooms are, and safe-deposit boxes will be painted over so they form an accent wall.”

Vuk listened, his face impassive. Instead of the designer suits favored by most CEOs, he wore a simple black shirt and pants. Beside him, his assistant took copious notes on a clipboard.

Willow was a fortysomething woman with bright coppery hair and a no-nonsense attitude. Either she could read minds or she’d worked for Vuk long enough to read his mind because she asked all the questions he would’ve asked had he, well, actually talked.

“When’s the construction going to be finished?” she asked.