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

Let me in, Luna.

She opened her mouth, but a familiar ringtone cut her off. Her eyes shuttered, and fragility hardened into cool professionalism as she turned to take the call. “This is Sloane.”

Fuck. I rubbed a hand over my face, frustration chafing beneath my skin.

I’d never hated the invention of the cell phone more than tonight.

“Yes, we are…I see.” Her tone changed, and an ominous foreboding prickled my scalp. “Of course. I’ll handle it.”

Sloane hung up and faced me again.

A heavy sensation dropped like a lead weight in my stomach. I knew what she was going to say before she said it, but that didn’t soften the impact of her words.

“It’s your father,” she said, her eyes sober for the first time since she showed up at the club. “He’s taken a turn for the worse. They don’t know if he’ll make it through the night.”





CHAPTER 11





Sloane





There was nothing like a death scare to shock someone sober.

After I broke the news to Xavier, we returned to the villa and started packing. We didn’t say a word to each other on our walk back or the subsequent ride to the airport.

It was late, but I’d successfully roused his pilot, who got us in the air hours after Eduardo’s call. I also checked out early from our resort, left a brief note for Xavier’s friends, and tied up other loose ends while the younger Castillo retreated within himself.

I glanced across the aisle at Xavier. He was sleeping or pretending to sleep, but even if he were awake, it would be impossible to gauge his true thoughts regarding his father’s health. That was the one topic where he completely shut down.

I rubbed my temple and tried to hold down my meager breakfast. I’d grabbed a few hours of sleep right after we boarded, but a vicious hangover kept me from true rest.

On the bright side, I had plenty of work to distract me from everything that happened yesterday, including my father’s email and my argument with Xavier.

Now that I was sober, I was grateful he’d stopped me before I humiliated myself further at the club, but I still didn’t appreciate how he’d hauled me out of there like a caveman.

I didn’t dwell on the small flutter I’d experienced on the beach, which had clearly been the result of too much alcohol and nothing else.

As I was halfway through crafting a press strategy for if and when Alberto Castillo died, my phone went wild with incoming texts. Considering it was the crack of dawn in New York, that couldn’t be good, and a quick scroll through my texts confirmed it.



VIVIAN



Just wanted to check in on you. Call me when you get a chance.





ALESSANDRA



Have fun! Drink some sangria for me <3





ISABELLA



You look so hot! And so does Xavier ;) Go, girl





My breakfast rose in my throat again when I clicked on the link Isabella sent and saw the photos splashed across the front page of Perry Wilson’s blog along with a blaring red headline.



Girl Gone Wild! Celebrity Publicist Gets Down and Dirty in Spain with Client!



In one photo, I was talking to Xavier while he was sitting and staring up at me with an amused smile. The second photo showed him carrying me over his shoulder and out of the club.

The article itself was a mishmash of speculation and outright lies.



The PR queen has allegedly been hooking up with her most infamous client for weeks, which may explain why the notoriously unflappable Castillo heir went all caveman when he saw her dancing with someone else at Mallorca’s most exclusive nightclub…

Sources also say Castillo’s friends crashed their secret romantic getaway, which led to an “explosive” argument between the couple and a plan to make Castillo jealous. Did the plan work? See for yourself…



There were more photos interspersed within the text, including a grainy shot of us on the beach, another of me dancing with some random guy, and a close-up of Xavier facing down said guy on the fucking tabletop.

Rising anger burned my initial shock to ash.

Perry fucking Wilson. That little toad was probably enacting revenge for the time I’d gotten him booted from Mode de Vie’s Fashion Week party, which everyone knew was the party to attend for those who wanted to see, be seen, and gather society intel.

I didn’t care that he was the most influential gossip blogger in Manhattan; I was going to peel the skin from his sorry body and use it as a canvas for his obituary.

I replied to my friends with a brief message telling them I was okay and that I’d explain later (plus another ask for Isabella to please keep feeding The Fish while I was in Colombia). I was about to email Perry and chew him out when Xavier woke up.

“I know that look,” he said, his first words in hours colored with exhaustion. “Who pissed you off?”

I handed him my phone with the article open.

He scanned it with a disinterested expression. “Ah.”

I was still too riled up to pay much attention to his unusual subduedness. “That’s all you have to say?”

“What else do you want me to say? It’s Perry. This is what he does.” Xavier shrugged and handed the phone back to me. “Besides, he’s the least of my worries right now.”