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

Technically, he was right. The venue was secured, the caterers on track, and the seating charts and entertainment finalized—Veronica Foster turned out to be surprisingly talented, and I’d squeezed her in for a short performance at the end of the night—but with my luck, something would go wrong the minute I stepped foot on French soil.

“Yes, but still. This is the biggest event of my career. I can’t fly off at the last minute. My team needs me.”

“Your team seems competent enough to hold down the fort for five days.” Dante tapped the stack of papers on my desk. “You’ll still have over a week when we get back to finalize everything, and you don’t need to be physically in New York to do your work in the meantime. I’ll be busy in the mornings too, so we work during the day and explore Paris at night. Win-win.”

“What about the time difference?” I argued. “My team will still be working when it’s evening in Paris.”

“So schedule your meetings for the early afternoon. It’ll be morning here,” Dante said, practical as always. “It’s Paris in spring, mia cara. Beautiful flowers, fresh croissants, walks along the Seine…”

“I don’t know…” I wavered, torn between the picture he painted and my paranoia that something would go wrong.

“I already booked a suite at the Ritz.” Dante paused before dropping the second bombshell of the day. “And you can pick out a gown from the Yves Dubois showroom for the ball.”

My breath stilled in my lungs. “That’s cheating.”

Yves Dubois was one of the world’s top couturiers. He produced only eight gowns a year, each one of them unique and exquisitely hand-crafted. He was also notoriously picky about who he allowed to wear one of his creations; rumor had it he once turned away a world-famous movie star who’d wanted to wear his design to the Oscars.

“It’s an incentive.” Dante grinned. “If you really can’t or don’t want to come, you don’t have to. But you’ve been working damn hard these past few months. You deserve a little break.”

“Nice way to spin it. Are you sure it’s not because you have separation anxiety?” I teased.

“I didn’t use to.” His eyes held mine like a lone flame flickering on a cold winter night. “But I’m beginning to think I might.”

Warmth filled my stomach and rushed to the surface of my skin.

I shouldn’t, but maybe I was tired of living my life by shoulds.

I made my final decision in a split second.

“Then I guess I’m going to Paris.”





Over the next two days, I prepped my team as much as I could. I gave them six different numbers where they could reach me and ran through emergency protocol so many times I thought Shannon would march me onto the plane herself before she strangled me.

Still, I remained apprehensive about the trip until I was in the car on our way to our hotel, watching the city whiz by outside the window.

Like New York, Paris was a love-it-or-hate-it type of city. I happened to love both. The food, the fashion, the culture…there was nothing quite like it, and once I was actually in Paris, it was easy to get lost in the magic of it all.

Our first three days consisted of settling in and, in my case, adjusting to my new work schedule. I spent the quiet morning hours knocking out administrative tasks and took meetings in the afternoon when my team and New York-based vendors were online. I thought I’d be distracted by the draw of the city outside my window, but I was surprisingly productive.

That being said, I couldn’t resist a quick shopping trip to Rue Saint-Honoré and, of course, a visit to Yves Dubois’s showroom, where I spent two hours choosing and fitting a gown for the Legacy Ball.

“Not that one.” Yves pursed his lips when I ran my fingers over a breathtaking blush and silver beaded piece. “Pink is too soft for you, darling. You need something bolder, more daring. Something that’ll make a statement.” He tilted his head, his eyes narrowed, before he snapped his fingers. “Frederic, bring me the Phoenix gown.”

His assistant darted out of the room and returned minutes later with the piece in question.

I sucked in an audible breath.

“My latest creation,” Yves said with a flourish. “Eight hundred hours to hand sew, bursts of gold thread embroidered over the entire surface of the gown. My finest work to date, in my humble opinion.”

Nothing about Yves was humble, but he was right. It was his finest work to date.

I couldn’t tear my eyes away from it.

“Normally, it’s one hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” he said. “But for you, the future Mrs. Russo, to wear it at the Legacy Ball? One hundred and thirty thousand. Even.”

It was a no-brainer. “I’ll take it.”

That night, Dante returned to a hotel suite littered with shopping bags on the floor, tables, and half the bed.

Yves would send my gown directly to New York, so I didn’t need to worry about ruining it on our flight back, but I may have gone a little overboard on the shopping.

“Should I have booked a separate room for your purchases?” Dante eyed the pile of Dior hat boxes on the bed.

“You should’ve, but it’s too late for that.” I locked my new Bulgari diamond necklace in the hotel safe before I fished something from one of the smaller bags. “I bought you something too.”