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

On Wednesday, I took care of more unofficial business.

The Arthur Vanderbilt Tennis Club was one of the oldest private tennis clubs on the East Coast. A favorite haunt of the polo-wearing, polo-playing crowd, it charged an obscene amount of money for annual access and was famous for the time visiting tennis superstar Richard McEntire attacked a ball boy with his tennis racket and knocked several of his teeth out. I hadn’t known it was possible to knock someone’s teeth out with a racket, but apparently it was, because McEntire and the club settled the case for a cool two million dollars.

As a Castillo, I was granted automatic admission, so on Wednesday afternoon, at the tail end of lunch hour, when old-money bankers flocked to the indoor courts for a workout and boys’ talk, I strode through the halls toward the men’s locker room.

A cacophony of noise greeted me when I stepped inside. Steam thickened the air, partially obscuring the mahogany panels and crowd of finance bros as they prepared to return to work. Nevertheless, it didn’t take me long to find who I was looking for. Bentley Harris II held court in the coveted center aisle. He was busy laughing and joking with several guys who looked like carbon copies of him: clean-cut, clean-shaven, and half-dressed in business formal.

He had his back to me, so he didn’t notice my approach. “Our new receptionist is hot, but she’s blond,” he said. “I get enough of that at home. Georgia’s been a real bitch lately. She came home Monday all pissed about something—what?”

One of his friends had noticed me and nudged his arm. Bentley turned, his expression souring when he saw me. “Harris.” I donned an affable tone, the type I’d use to greet an old classmate or a friendly acquaintance.

“Castillo,” he said stiffly. “I didn’t realize you were a member of the club.”

“They offered me a courtesy membership when I first moved to New York,” I said lazily, my smile hiding the flicker of rage in my gut. “Of course, I don’t use it often. Why come here when I could go to Valhalla?”

A wave of embarrassed discontent rippled through the air, subtle but distinctive.

I barely used my Valhalla membership either, but everyone knew the tennis club was a consolation prize for people who couldn’t get a Valhalla invite—like Bentley and company, for example.

Bentley’s jaw ticked. His eyes darted to his friends before he forced a laugh. “How lucky of us to see you here then,” he mocked. “Are you slumming it, or did Valhalla finally kick you out after they realized your spot could go to someone more worthwhile?”

“You mean like you? Sadly, their roster’s still full,” I drawled. “As for slumming, you’re right. I came by to see you.”

The noise from the rest of the locker room dwindled as everyone tried, and failed, to pretend they weren’t eavesdropping. Brewing aggression crackled like static before a storm, and the steady drip, drip, drip of water from the showers sounded unnaturally loud in the tension-laced air.

Bentley took a step toward me, his face all smiles but his eyes hot and bright with humiliated anger. “If you want to see me, make an appointment,” he said with a misplaced sense of bravado. He thought he was safe here, surrounded by his friends and the reek of privilege. “I don’t talk to jobless losers.”

My rage from Monday night reignited—not at his jab toward me but at the vision of him speaking to Sloane with that same snide condescension.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” I said, still with my affable tone. “I’m not here to talk.”

Then I drew back my arm and slammed my fist into his face.

There was a satisfying crunch of bone, followed by a howl of pain. Blood fountained from his nose as he staggered backward and the brewing storm broke, loosening a frenzy of shouts and jeers as the other locker room occupants shoved one another for the best view of the fight.

None of them intervened, but the ruckus fueled the anger burning swift and hot through me.

I wasn’t a violent person. I rarely had to resort to physical brawls to solve a problem, and in Bentley’s case, I didn’t have to; I wanted to.

He recovered enough to rush at me, fists clenched, but I was ready for him.

With a swift side step, I dodged his wild swing and took the opportunity to deliver a powerful punch to his midsection.

He doubled over from the impact and clutched his stomach, gasping for breath. I didn’t give him a chance to catch it before I hauled him up by his collar and slammed him against a nearby locker.

“That was your first and final warning,” I said, my words quiet enough to reach only his ears. “Touch, talk, or even think about Sloane again, and I’ll make what Richard McEntire did to that ball boy with his tennis racket look like a walk in the fucking park. That includes any indirect contact. If you make her life difficult in any way, you’ll be blacklisted from New York society so fast, it’ll make your head spin.”

“You don’t have the power,” Bentley sneered, but a glint of fear swam beneath his murky eyes. For someone like him, getting blacklisted was even worse than getting beat up.

“No?” I said softly. “Try me.”

I didn’t abuse my family’s wealth or last name often, but I was still a Castillo. Even with my inheritance tied up and my reputation as a hedonist, I could crush Bentley Harris II like a fucking bug.