King of Wrath (Kings of Sin #1) by Ana Huang

My answer only stoked the fire in Dante’s eyes. “I won’t have my fiancée pining away after another man before, during, or after the wedding.”

“Why does it matter?” My frustration bubbled over into a rush of words. “You’ll get your market access and business deal either way. Stop pretending like this is a normal engagement. It’s not. We may have kissed and…and gotten more intimate, but we are not a love match. You’ve told me that time and again. You have me. But you don’t get to dictate how I feel or who I think about. That is not part of the agreement.”

Silence reigned in the aftermath of my rant, so thick I tasted it in the back of my throat.

Dante and I stared at each other, the air crackling like a frayed electric wire between us.

One wrong move, and it’ll burn me alive.

I braced myself for an explosion or yelling or some kind of veiled threat.

Instead, after seconds that felt like hours, he turned and walked out without a word.

The door shut behind him, and I slumped against my desk, suddenly exhausted. I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes, my throat tight.

Every time we made progress, we took two steps back.

One minute, I thought Dante might be developing feelings for me. The next, he shut me out like an unwanted stepchild in the cold.

The caveman in Geico’s old commercials communicated better than him.

What had he been doing here anyway? Dante’s office was a few blocks from mine, but he’d never visited me at work before.

My eyes snagged on the paper bag he’d left behind.

After a moment’s hesitation, I opened it, and my stomach dipped in the strangest way.

Sitting at the bottom of the bag, nestled between paper-wrapped cutlery and a plethora of sauces, were two takeout boxes from my favorite sushi restaurant.





CHAPTER 22





Vivian





“Pay attention, micetta, or you’ll chop your finger off.” Greta clucked in disapproval. “No one wants human parts in their dinner.”

“Sorry,” I murmured. I tried to rein in my wandering thoughts and refocus on the task at hand.

If my mother could see me now, mincing garlic in an old cashmere sweater and jeans, she’d have a coronary. Laus did not “toil away” in the kitchen or wear last season’s clothes, but I enjoyed the mindless comfort of cooking.

I’d invited Isabella and Sloane over for dinner, and we’d decided a girls’ cooking night would be more fun than a formal sit-down.

We were right.

The kitchen smelled like the back of a rustic Tuscan restaurant. Tomato sauce bubbled on the stove, bowls of herbs and seasoning lined the counters, and the sparkling tartness of fresh lemons added an extra zing to the mouthwatering aromas.

At the other end of the kitchen, Isabella trimmed green beans while Sloane fixed us her signature martinis. Greta, who refused to leave us unsupervised, fluttered around the room, checking on a dozen different things and scolding us when we didn’t prep the food properly.

It felt cozy, and normal, like a real home.

So why did I feel so off-kilter?

Maybe because you and Dante are still on the outs, a voice in my head taunted.

We’d attended obligatory social events, celebrated Valentine’s Day at Per Se, and attended a Lunar New Year performance at the Lincoln Center, but our relationship at home had been cold and distant since Dante’s office visit.

I shouldn’t be surprised. Dante withdrew any time things didn’t go his way, and I was too annoyed by his overreaction to the flowers to seek him out.

So here we were, back in a stalemate.

I chopped the garlic with more force than necessary.

“Here.” Sloane appeared next to me and slid an apple martini onto the counter. “For when you’re done with the knives. You look like you need it.”

I mustered a small smile. “Thanks.”

Sloane’s platinum hair was twisted in its signature bun, but she’d removed her jacket and unglued her phone from her hand. In her world, she might as well be dancing barefoot on a bartop in Ibiza.

“Where’s your dashing husband-to-be?” Isabella asked. “Still sulking about the flowers?”

She was determined to prove Dante and I would turn into a true love match by the wedding and brought him up every chance she got. I suspected she had a bet going with Sloane to see who would be right, since Sloane’s opinion of love hovered somewhere between her appreciation for New York subway rats and people who wore sandals with socks.

“He’s not sulking,” I said, well aware of Greta’s eagle-eyed presence. “He’s busy.”

He’d been busy for three weeks. If there was one thing Dante excelled at, it was avoiding hard conversations.

“He’s sulking,” Isabella, Greta, and Sloane said in unison.

“Trust me. I raised Dante since he was in diapers.” Greta checked on the sauce. “You’ll never meet a more stubborn, hardheaded man.”

Don’t I believe it.

“But…” She stirred the pot with a wooden spoon. “He also has a big heart, even if he doesn’t show it. He is not…good with words. His grandfather, may he rest in peace, was a good businessman but not a good communicator. He passed those traits down to the boys.”