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

A ghost of a smile flickered over my mouth.

Under normal circumstances, I might’ve liked Vivian.

She was beautiful and surprisingly witty, with intelligent brown eyes and the type of naturally refined bone structure no amount of money could buy. But with her pearls and Chanel tweed, she looked like a carbon copy of her mother and every other uptight heiress who only cared about their social status.

Plus, she was Francis’s daughter. It wasn’t her fault she was born to the bastard, but I didn’t give a damn. No degree of beauty could erase that stain on her record.

“It’s not polite to speak to a guest that way,” I mocked softly. I reached for the salt. My sleeve grazed her arm, and she visibly tensed. “What would your parents say?”

I’d already clocked Vivian’s hangups less than an hour into our acquaintance. Perfectionism, non-confrontation, a desperate need for her parents’ approval.

Boring, boring, boring.

Her eyes narrowed. “They’d say guests should adhere to social niceties as much as the host, including making an effort to hold a polite conversation.”

“Yeah? Do social niceties include dressing like you stepped out of a Fifth Avenue Stepford Wives factory?” I flicked a gaze over her suit and pearls.

I didn’t give a shit if people like Cecelia wore such an outfit, but Vivian looked as out of place in the dowdy clothing as a diamond in a burlap sack. It pissed me off for no good reason.

“No, but they certainly don’t include ruining a nice dinner with discourtesy,” Vivian said coolly. “You should buy a nice set of manners to match your suit, Mr. Russo. As a luxury goods CEO, you know better than anyone how one ugly accessory can ruin an outfit.”

Another smile, still faint but more concrete.

Not so boring after all.

However, the embers of my amusement hissed into a smoky death when her mother inserted herself into our conversation.

“Dante, is it true all Russos get married at the family estate in Lake Como? I hear renovations will be finished by next summer before the wedding.”

My smile vanished as my muscles tightened at the reminder.

I turned away from Vivian to face Cecelia’s eager expression.

“Yes,” I said, my tone clipped. “All Russo weddings have taken place at Villa Serafina since the eighteenth century.”

My many-times great grandfather had built the villa and named it after his wife. My family could trace its roots to Sicily, but they later migrated to Venice and built a fortune trading luxury textiles. By the time the Venice trading boom ended, they’d diversified enough to hold onto their riches, which they used to acquire property throughout Europe.

Now, centuries later, my modern relatives were scattered across the world—New York, Rome, Switzerland, Paris—but Villa Serafina remained the most beloved of all the family estates. I would rather drown myself in the Mediterranean than tarnish it with a farce of a wedding.

My anger came roaring back.

“Wonderful!” Cecelia beamed. “Oh, I’m so thrilled you’ll be part of the family soon. You and Vivian are a perfect match. You know, she speaks six languages, plays the piano and violin, and—”

“Excuse me.” I pushed my chair back, cutting Cecelia off mid-sentence. The legs scraped against the floor with a satisfyingly harsh screech. “Nature calls.”

Silence thudded in the wake of my shocking rudeness.

I didn’t wait for anyone to speak before I walked out and left a fuming Francis, flustered Cecelia, and red-faced Vivian in the dining room.

My anger remained a restless burn beneath my skin, but it cooled with each step farther away from them.

In the past, I’d exacted retribution on those who crossed me immediately. Fuck revenge being a dish best served cold; my motto has always been strike fast, strike hard, and strike true.

The world moved too quickly for me not to move along with it. I took care of the problem harshly enough to ensure there wouldn’t be any future problems, and I moved on.

Resolving the Lau situation, on the other hand, required patience. It was a virtue I wasn’t familiar with, and it stretched tight over me like an ill-fitting suit.

The echo of my footsteps faded as marble floors gave way to carpet. I’d visited enough mansions with similar layouts to guess where the restroom was, but I bypassed it in favor of the solid mahogany door at the end of the hall.

A twist of the knob revealed an office styled after an English library. Wood paneling, overstuffed leather furniture, forest green accents.

Francis’s inner sanctum.

At least it wasn’t overly festooned with gold like the rest of the house. My eyes were starting to bleed from the eyesore.

I left the door open and walked to the desk, my pace unhurried. If Francis had a problem with me snooping through his office, he was welcome to confront me.

He wasn’t stupid enough to leave the photos lying around behind an unlocked door when he knew I’d be here tonight. Even if the photos were here, he’d have backups stashed elsewhere.

I settled into his chair, plucked a Cuban cigar from the box in his drawer, and lit it while I examined the room. My anger gave way to calculation.

The dark computer screen tempted me, but I left the hacking to Christian, who was already tracking down digital copies of the photos.

I moved on to a framed picture of Francis and his family in the Hamptons. Research told me they had a summer house in Bridgehampton, and I’d bet my newly acquired Renoir he kept at least one set of evidence there.