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

I handed him the small black box and waited, heart thudding, while he opened it.

His eyebrows shot up when he popped open the lid.

“They’re ice cream cufflinks,” I said brightly. “I know a jeweler on Rue de la Paix who makes customized pieces. The onyx is the soy sauce. The ruby is the cherry, even though you don’t eat it with cherry, but I think the red ties the design together.”

It was a half-joke gift, half-sincere. Dante owned dozens of luxury cufflinks, but I wanted to give him something more personal.

“Do you like them?” I asked.

“I love them.” He removed his current cufflinks and replaced them with the new ones. “Thank you, mia cara.”

The warmth of his voice caressed my skin before he cupped my face with one hand and kissed me.

We never made it out to dinner that night.

Our other nights, however, were filled with whatever activities struck our fancy. We wandered through the charming book-lined nooks of Shakespeare and Company, explored the Louvre after hours, and pretended to watch black and white French indie films in an arthouse cinema while secretly making out in the back like teenagers.

I’d visited Paris many times, but exploring it with Dante was like seeing it for the first time. The smells wafting from the bakeries, the texture of cobblestones beneath my feet, the rainbow of flowers blooming all over the city—everything was brighter, more vivid, like someone had sprinkled fairy dust over the city.

On our last night, Dante took me to a private dinner at the Eiffel Tower. The monument had three restaurants; ours was on the second floor and offered spectacular views of the skyline. He’d booked the entire space, so it was just us, the seven-course menu, and the city laid out at our feet in all its glittering nighttime glory.

“Okay, what’s one food you can’t stand that everyone loves?” I swallowed a thin slice of sea bass before adding, “I’ll go first. Olives. I hate them. They’re a blight to humanity.”

“I want to say I’m surprised, but you’re the same person who eats pickles with chips and pudding, so…” Dante lifted his wine to his lips. “Enough said.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I’m not the one who cleaned out our pickle supply two weeks ago because he couldn’t stop stealing my snack.”

“Don’t be dramatic. Greta bought more pickles the next day.” He laughed at my frown. “To answer your question, I can’t stand popcorn. The texture’s weird, and it smells awful even when it’s not burnt.”

“Seriously? Then what do you eat during movies?”

“Nothing. Movies are for watching, not eating food.”

I stared at him. “Sometimes, I’m convinced you’re an alien and not an actual human being.”

Another laugh rolled over me. “We all have our quirks, mia cara. At least I don’t sing Mariah Carey in the shower.”

My cheeks warmed. “I did that once. I heard the song in a commercial and it got stuck in my head, okay?”

“I’m not saying it’s a bad quirk.” The corner of his mouth tipped up. “It was cute, even if it was off-key.”

“I was not off-key,” I muttered, but my indignation lasted only seconds in the face of his smile.

“How’s the prep for Cannes?” I asked when our server swapped out our empty plates for the third course. “Did you get everything done in time?”

“Yes, thankfully. If I had to sit in another meeting discussing what champagne we should serve at the after-party, I would’ve been arrested for murder,” he grumbled.

“I’m sure you would’ve found a way out of it. You’re a Russo,” I teased.

“Yes, but the paperwork would’ve been a pain in the ass.”

“You love paperwork. That’s what you do all day.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just insult me horribly in the middle of what’s supposed to be a romantic last night in Paris.” He sounded wounded, but mischief glinted in his eyes.

I laughed before asking, “Do you ever think about what you would’ve been if you hadn’t been born a Russo?”

His life had been set from day one. But where would he be if he could’ve chosen his own path?

“Once or twice.” Dante shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. “I never know the answer. Work takes up most of my time, and while I enjoy my hobbies—boxing, tennis, travel—I wouldn’t have entertained them as careers.”

I frowned, strangely saddened by his answer.

“I’m a businessman, Vivian,” he said. “That’s what I was born to be. I enjoy my work, even if certain aspects are not always fun. Don’t think I’m throwing my life’s passion away to toil in a corner office because I feel obligated to.”

I suppose he was right. Dante—brash, bold, charming when he wanted to be but aggressive when provoked—was born to rule the boardroom. I couldn’t imagine him in any other role other than CEO.

“And you?” he asked. “If not event planning, what would you be doing?”

“I want to say I’d be an astronomer, but honestly, I’m terrible at math and science,” I admitted. “I don’t know. I guess I’m like you. I’m happy doing what I’m doing. Event planning can be stressful, but it’s fun, creative…and there’s nothing more satisfying than taking an idea and bringing it to life.”