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

Basically, I could try harder, but my chances of failure had increased exponentially.

I rubbed my temple, wishing not for the first time that I’d been born into a simple, normal family with regular jobs and regular lives instead of this Succession-esque mess.

“Isabella put you up to this, didn’t she?” Even in my current state, I was clearheaded enough to recognize that Kai’s appearance in this particular place, on this particular day, wasn’t a coincidence. He didn’t respond, but the small twitch of his mouth said it all.

“How’d you know I’d be here today?” I asked.

“Educated guess. This bar has seen its fair share of comfort drinking.” He nodded at the glittering display of expensive bottles and crystal glasses. “I may have also asked security to alert me if and when you check in.”

I snorted. “I’m flattered you went to the trouble.”

“Don’t be. I didn’t do this for you,” Kai said dryly. “I did this for my reputation and for Isa. I was the one who connected you with the people on my list, and it’ll reflect poorly on me if the club doesn’t succeed. Plus…” His gaze flicked to his phone. “Isa would never let me hear the end of it if I didn’t get you to pull your head out of the sand.”

Sloane.

My hand flexed around my glass as another wave of regret crashed into me. She’d tried to help, and I’d driven her away. Then I couldn’t be bothered to say a simple I’m sorry, not even on Christmas, because I’d been too wrapped up in my own mental bullshit.

God, I was an idiot.

I stood abruptly and grabbed my coat from the hook beneath the counter. “Listen, this was a good talk, but—”

“Go.” Kai returned to his drink. “And if anyone other than Isa asks, this conversation never happened.”

I didn’t need him to tell me twice.

I sprinted out of the club and into one of Valhalla’s chauffeured town cars. I gave the driver Sloane’s address.

It’d been eight days, two hours, and thirty-six minutes since we last spoke.

I only hoped I wasn’t too late.





CHAPTER 40





Xavier





“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t let you go up,” the concierge said with zero traces of sympathy. “You don’t have authorized access.”

“I’ve been coming here for weeks.” I tamped down my frustration in favor of a smile. Catch more flies with honey than vinegar and all that. “Apartment 14C. Call her. Please.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” This concierge was different from the one who’d let me up when I thought something had happened to Sloane, and he proved remarkably resistant to my powers of persuasion. “Ms. Kensington specifically left instructions stating that no guests are to be admitted without her explicit written approval.”

“She’s my girlfriend. I have written approval,” I said. I wasn’t technically lying. We were dating, and I didn’t know for sure that she hadn’t added my name to her list of approved guests. “Perhaps you lost it.”

“I didn’t.”

“Perhaps another concierge lost it.”

“They didn’t.”

I gritted my teeth. Fuck honey. I wanted to shove this guy’s head in a bucket full of raw vinegar, but I didn’t have the time for petty violence or arguments.

“Let me up, and this is yours.” I slid a hundred-dollar bill across the counter.

The concierge stared at me, stone-faced. He didn’t touch the money.

I added another hundred to the pile. Nothing.

Three hundred. Four hundred.

Goddammit. What was wrong with him? No one said no to Benjamin.

“Ten thousand cash.” That was all I had in my wallet. “That’s tax-free money if you let me up for just a few minutes.”

I could bypass him physically, but without a resident key card, the elevator wouldn’t budge, and I wouldn’t be able to open the door to the stairwell.

“Sir, this is unnecessary and inappropriate,” he said calmly. “I do not accept bribes. Now, I must insist you vacate the premises, or security will have to escort you out.”

He nodded at the pair of Hulk-sized security guards who’d seemingly popped up out of nowhere.

Sloane’s building would be guarded by two stone mountains and the only incorruptible concierge in Manhattan.

However, I wasn’t leaving without seeing her, which meant I needed a plan C. I scanned the lobby, searching for another plausible avenue when my eyes fell on a small plaque mounted on the wall.



The Lexington: An Archer Group Property.



My pulse jumped. Archer Group.

There was only one person who could help me in that moment. Asking him for a favor wasn’t the smartest idea considering I’d just burned down one of his properties, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

One call to an annoyed Alex Volkov and one very bitter concierge later, I stepped out into Sloane’s hall.

Surprisingly, Alex hadn’t given me a hard time, though I suspected he was saving that for our meeting. But I’d worry about that tomorrow; I had something more urgent to attend to.

I rapped my knuckles against Sloane’s door. No answer, but she was in there. I could feel it.