King of Wrath: from the bestselling author of the Twisted series (Kings of Sin)

5. Vivian

“What do you mean, you haven’t talked to your fiancé since your engagement?” Isabella crossed her arms and leveled me with a reproving stare. “What type of ridiculous relationship is that?”

“An arranged one.” The bar tilted before righting itself. Perhaps I shouldn’t have had two and a half mai tais in a row, but my weekly happy hour with Isabella and Sloane was the one time I could let loose.

No judging eyes, no need to be perfect and “proper.”

So what if I was a little tipsy? The bar was called The Tipsy Goat. It was expected.

“It’s better that we haven’t spoken,” I added. “He’s not the most pleasant conversationalist.”

Even now, the memory of my first and so far only meeting with Dante sent a rush of indignation down my spine.

He’d shown no remorse over skipping out on half our introductory dinner to smoke cigars in my father’s office, and he’d left without so much as a thank you or good night.

Dante was a billionaire, but he had the manners of an ill-bred troll.

“Then why are you marrying him?” Sloane raised a perfectly groomed brow. “Tell your parents to find you a better match.”

“That’s the problem. There is no better match in their eyes. They think he’s perfect.”

“Dante Russo, perfect?” Her brow arched higher. “His security team once hospitalized someone who tried to break into his house. The guy wound up in a months-long coma with broken ribs and a shattered kneecap. It’s impressive, but I wouldn’t say he’s perfect.”

Only Sloane would think putting a guy in a coma was impressive.

“Trust me, I know. I’m not the one you have to convince,” I muttered.

Not that Dante’s notorious ruthlessness mattered to my family. He could shoot someone during rush hour in midtown Manhattan and they’d say the person deserved it.

“I don’t understand why you agreed to any engagement at all.” Sloane shook her head. “You don’t need your parents’ money. You can marry who you want and there’s not a thing they can do about it.”

“It’s not about the money.” Even if my parents cut off my inheritance, I had plenty left over from my job, investments, and trust fund, which I came into when I was twenty-one. “It’s about…” I searched for the right word. “Family.”

Isabella and Sloane exchanged glances.

This wasn’t the first time we’d discussed my engagement or my relationship with my parents, but I felt compelled to defend them each time.

“Arranged marriages are expected in my family,” I said. “My sister did it, and so will I. I’ve known this was coming since I was a teenager.”

“Yeah, but what are they going to do if you say no?” Isabella asked. “Disown you?”

My stomach plummeted. I forced a tight laugh. “Maybe.” Absolutely.

They’d lauded my aunt for disowning my cousin after she turned down a scholarship to Princeton to open a food truck. Refusing to marry a Russo was a thousand times worse.

If I broke the engagement, my parents would never see or speak to me again. They weren’t perfect, but the prospect of getting cut off from my family and being all alone made the mai tais slosh dangerously in my stomach.

Isabella wouldn’t understand though. Culturally, we were similar, though she was Filipina Chinese instead of Hong Kong Chinese. But she came from a large, loving family who was okay with her moving across the country to bartend and pursue her writing dreams.

If I expressed similar desires to my parents, they’d either lock me in my room and perform an exorcism or toss me onto the streets with nothing except the clothes on my back, figuratively speaking.

“I don’t want to disappoint them,” I said. “They raised me, and they sacrificed a lot so I can have the life I have now. Marrying Dante would help all of us.”

Familial relationships shouldn’t be transactional, but I couldn’t shake the sense I owed my parents a huge debt for everything—the opportunities, the education, the freedom to live and work where I want without worrying about money. They were luxuries most people didn’t have, and I didn’t take them for granted.

Parents took care of their children. When the children grew up, they took care of their parents. In our case, that meant said children married well and expanded the family’s wealth and influence.

It was just the way our world worked.

Isabella sighed. We’d been friends since we met at a yoga class when I was twenty-two. The yoga lessons hadn’t lasted; our friendship had. She knew better than to argue with me about my family.

“Okay, but that doesn’t change the fact you haven’t spoken to him when you’re moving in with him next week.”

I fidgeted with my sapphire bracelet. I would’ve pushed back on giving up my West Village apartment to move into Dante’s Upper East Side penthouse, but what would be the point? I would just be wasting my breath arguing with my father.

However, other than Dante’s address, I didn’t have any details for the move. No keys, no building requirements, nothing.

“You have to talk to the man eventually,” Isabella added. “Don’t be a wuss.”

“I am not a wuss.” I turned to Sloane. “Am I?”

She glanced up from her phone. Technically, none of us were allowed to check our phones during happy hour. Whoever broke the rule had to pick up the tab for the night.

In reality, Sloane had been bankrolling our happy hours for the past six months. She put the work in workaholic.

“Although I disagree with Isabella’s advice seventy-eight percent of the time, she’s right. You have to talk to him before you move in.” An elegant shrug. “There’s an art exhibition at Dante’s house tonight. You should attend.”

Dante owned a notoriously impressive art collection rumored to be worth hundreds of millions of dollars. His annual private exhibition showcasing his latest acquisitions was one of the most coveted invites in Manhattan.

We were technically engaged, and my lack of an invitation would’ve been embarrassing had I not been so relieved.

After I move in, I’d have to spend every night with him, so I was clinging to my freedom while it lasted. The prospect of sharing a room, a bed with Dante Russo was…unnerving.

An image rose in my mind of him sitting behind my father’s desk, eyes dark and posture arrogant, with tendrils of smoke curling around that boldly charismatic face.

An unexpected heat ran between my legs.

The press of his thumb against my lip, the smoky glint in his eyes when he’d looked at me…there’d been a moment, just one, when I thought he would kiss me. Not to show affection, but to dirty me up. To dominate and corrupt.

The warmth curled low until the heavy expectancy of my friends’ gazes pulled me back to the present.

I wasn’t in my father’s office. I was in a bar, and they were waiting for an answer.

The exhibition. Right.

A cold rush of reality doused the heat.

“I can’t show up uninvited,” I said, hoping they couldn’t see me blush beneath my alcohol-induced redness. “It’s rude.”

“You’re not a random party crasher. You’re his fiancée, even if you don’t have a ring yet,” Isabella countered. “Plus, you’re moving in soon, anyway. Consider it a preview of your new home—which you can’t move into unless you talk to him.”

I sighed, wishing I could rewind time by a month so I could mentally prepare myself for what was coming.

“I hate it when you make sense.”

Isabella’s cheeks dimpled. “Most people do. I would go with you because I love a good party crash—er, house tour, but I have a shift tonight.”

By day, she was an aspiring erotic thriller author. By night, she served overpriced drinks to overgrown frat boy types at a dive bar in the East Village.

She hated the bar, its clientele, and its creepy manager and was actively looking for another job, but until she found one, she was stuck.

“Sloane?” I asked hopefully.

If I were to confront Dante tonight, I’d need backup.

“I can’t. Asher Donovan crashed his Ferrari in London. He’s fine,” Sloane said when Isabella and I gasped. Neither of us cared about sports, but the famous soccer star was too pretty to die. “But I have to put out the media fire. This is the second car he’s crashed in as many months.”

Sloane ran a boutique public relations firm with a small but high-powered client roster. She was always putting out fires.

She motioned our server for the check, paid the tab, and made me promise to call her if I needed anything before she disappeared out the door in a cloud of Jo Malone perfume and platinum blonde hair.

Isabella left soon after for her shift, but I lingered in the booth, debating what to do next.

If I were smart, I’d go home and finish packing for my move. Nothing good would come of crashing Dante’s party, and I could call him tomorrow if I really wanted.

Pack, shower, and sleep, I decided.

That was my plan, and I was going to stick to it.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you’re not on the list. It doesn’t matter whether you’re Mr. Russo’s mother, sister, or fiancée…” The hostess raised a brow at my bare ring finger. “I can’t let you in without an invitation.”

My smile didn’t falter. “If you call Dante, he’ll confirm my identity,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure he would. I’d deal with that bridge when we got there. “This is simply an oversight.”

I’d gone home as planned after happy hour and lasted a total of twenty minutes before I caved to Isabella and Sloane’s suggestion.

They were right. I couldn’t sit around waiting for Dante when my move-in date loomed so close. I had to suck it up and see him, no matter how much he annoyed or unnerved me.

Of course, in order to see him, I had to get into the party.

The hostess’s face reddened. “I assure you, there was no oversight. We are meticulous in—”

“Vivian, there you are.”

An aristocratic British accent cut smoothly through our standoff.

I turned, surprise coasting through me when I saw the handsome Asian man smiling at me. His flawlessly chiseled face and deep, dark eyes would’ve almost been too perfect were it not for the simple black frames lending him a touch of approachability.

“Dante just texted. He’s looking for you, but you weren’t answering your phone.” He came up beside me and retrieved an elegant cream invitation from his jacket pocket. He handed it to the hostess. “Kai Young plus one. I can bring Ms. Lau in so we don’t bother Dante on his big night.”

She glared at me but offered Kai a tight smile.

“Of course, Mr. Young. Enjoy the party.” She stepped aside, as did the pair of unsmiling, suited guards behind her.

Unlike nightclubs or bars, exclusive events like this rarely asked for IDs. The staff was expected to memorize and pair the guests’ faces with their names on sight.

I waited until we were out of earshot before I turned to Kai with a grateful smile. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

Kai and I weren’t close friends, but we often attended the same parties and chatted whenever we crossed paths. His thoughtful, reserved demeanor was a breath of fresh air in the narcissistic jungle of Manhattan high society.

“You’re welcome.” His formal tone made me smile.

Born in Hong Kong, raised in London, and educated at Oxford and Cambridge, Kai’s mannerisms were a clear reflection of his upbringing.

“I’m sure your absence on the list was an oversight on Dante’s part.” He whisked two glasses of champagne off a passing server’s tray and handed one to me. “Speaking of which, congratulations on your engagement. Or should I say, condolences?”

My smile blossomed into a laugh. “The jury is still out.”

From what I’d heard, Kai and Dante were friends. I wasn’t sure what Dante told him about our engagement, but I was erring on the side of caution.

As far as the public was concerned, we were a happy, loving couple who couldn’t be more thrilled to be engaged.

“Smart. Most people treat Dante like he walks on water.” Kai’s eyes sparkled. “He needs someone to remind him he’s mortal just like the rest of us.”

“Oh, trust me,” I said. “I don’t think he’s a god.”

More like the devil sent to work on my last nerve.

Kai laughed. We made small talk for another few minutes before he excused himself to talk to an old college friend.

Why couldn’t I have ended up with someone like him? He was polite, charming, and rich enough to meet my parents’ standards.

Instead, I was stuck with a brooding Italian who wouldn’t know good manners if they slapped him in the face.

I sighed and set my empty glass on a nearby tray before I wandered through the penthouse, taking in the gorgeous architecture and decor.

Dante had eschewed the modern minimalism so popular with his bachelor brethren in favor of hand-crafted furniture and rich jewel tones. Turkish and Persian silk rugs covered the gleaming floors, and lush velvet drapes framed floor-to-ceiling windows boasting panoramic views of Central Park and the city’s iconic skyline.

I passed two sitting rooms, four powder rooms, one screening room, and one gaming lounge before I entered the long, skylit gallery where the actual exhibition took place.

I hadn’t spotted Dante yet, but he was most likely…

My steps slowed when a familiar head of glossy black hair came into view.

Dante stood at the other end of the hall, talking to a beautiful redhead and an Asian man with cheekbones sharp enough to cut ice. He smiled at something they said, his expression warm.

So he was capable of normal human emotion after all. Good to know.

My blood burned a little hotter, either from the alcohol or from the sight of his real smile. I chose to believe it was the former.

Dante must’ve felt the weight of my stare because he stopped talking and looked up.

Our eyes locked, and the warmth disappeared from his face like the sun beneath the horizon.

My heartbeats crashed against each other.

A double-length hallway’s worth of space separated us, but his displeasure was so potent it seeped through the air and into my body like a deadly poison.

Dante excused himself from his guests and stalked toward me, his powerful, muscled frame slicing through the crowd with the single-minded surety of a predator locked onto its prey.

Tingles of alarm cascaded down my spine, but I forced myself to hold my ground even as every self-preservation instinct screamed at me to run.

It’s fine. He won’t kill you in public. Probably. Maybe.

“Lovely party. I’m afraid my invitation got lost in the mail, but I made it,” I said when he neared. I plucked a glass off a nearby tray and held it out. “Champagne?”

“Your invitation isn’t what’s lost, mia cara.” The velvety endearment would’ve been swoon-worthy had it not been for the darkness seething beneath the surface. He didn’t touch the offered drink. “What are you doing here?”

“Enjoying the food and artwork.” I brought the glass to my lips and took a sip. Nothing tasted quite as sweet as liquid courage. “You have exquisite taste, though your manners could use improvement.”

A hard smile slashed across his mouth. “How ironic you’re always lecturing me on manners when you’re the one who showed up uninvited to a private event.”

“We’re engaged.” I stopped beating around the bush and cut straight to the heart of the matter. The faster I got this out of the way, the faster I could leave. “We haven’t exchanged a single word since the dinner even though I’m supposed to move in next week. I don’t expect love declarations and flowers every day”—though that’d be nice—”but I do expect basic courtesy and communication skills. Since you appear incapable of taking the initiative, I did it myself.”

I finished my drink and set it down. “Oh, and don’t consider this me showing up uninvited. Consider it me accepting your invitation early. After all, you did agree to me moving in, did you not? I simply wanted a look at my new home before I committed to it.”

My pulse raced with nerves, but I kept an even tone. I couldn’t set a precedent of backing down whenever Dante was upset. If he sensed any weakness, he’d pounce.

Dante’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“That was quite a speech. You certainly didn’t have this much to say at dinner the other night.” The cold steel of his voice melted into rough silk as his gaze swept over me, gathering heat the farther it traveled. “I almost don’t recognize you.”

The intimacy of his double meaning throbbed in my veins and dropped between my legs.

My tweed and pearls were safely tucked in the back of my closet now that I’d returned to New York. Instead, I wore a classic black cocktail dress, heels, and my favorite red lipstick. Diamonds glittered around my neck and on my ears. It wasn’t anything groundbreaking, but it was the best I could do when rushing to get ready.

However, the intensity of Dante’s scrutiny made me feel like I’d showed up to a church reunion in a string bikini.

My stomach tightened when his gaze trailed from my face down over my chest to where my dress hugged my hips. It skimmed over the bare length of my legs, the perusal almost obscene in its laziness and erotic in its thoroughness, like the caress of a lover determined to map every inch of my body with his attention.

My throat dried. A flame ignited low in my stomach, and I suddenly wished I’d worn a conservative suit again tonight.

It was safer. Less capable of fogging my mind with rough drawls and electric attraction.

What were we talking about?

“Different occasions require different approaches.” I grasped for words and hoped they made sense.

I cocked an eyebrow, praying Dante couldn’t hear how fast my heart was beating. I knew it was physically impossible, but I couldn’t shake the eerie sense he could see straight through me like I was made of nothing more than a thousand pieces of broken, transparent glass.

“You might want to try that strategy sometime,” I added, determined to keep the conversation going so I didn’t sink into the mind-numbing heat of his stare again. “People might like you better.”

“I would if I cared about others’ opinions.” He dragged his eyes back up to mine, the picture of mocking cruelty once more. “Unlike some of my esteemed guests, I don’t derive my self-worth from what people think of me.”

The insinuation hit me in the gut, and my skin went from overly hot to ice cold in the blink of an eye.

Nobody flipped a switch from tolerable to asshole faster than Dante Russo. It took every ounce of willpower not to toss the nearest drink in his face.

He had some nerve, but the worst part was, he wasn’t wrong.

The insults with a grain of truth always cut the deepest.

“Good. Because I assure you, their opinion of you is quite low,” I snapped.

Do not slap him. Do not make a scene.

I took a deep breath and wrapped it up before I went against my own advice.

“As delightful as I find our conversation, I have to excuse myself as I have other places to be. However, I expect all logistical information related to my move-in my inbox by tomorrow at noon. I would hate to have to show up in front of your building and reveal your incompetence to your neighbors.” I touched the diamond pendant at my throat. “Imagine how embarrassing it would be if people found out the great Dante Russo couldn’t coordinate something as simple as his fiancée’s move-in.”

Dante’s glare could’ve melted the gold frames hanging on the walls.

“You might not care what others personally think of you, but reputation is everything in business. If you can’t handle your home life, how could you possibly handle your office dealings?” I took a business card out of my clutch and tucked it into the jacket pocket of his suit. “I assume you already have my contact information. In case you don’t, here’s my card. I look forward to your email.”

I walked away before he could respond.

The heat of his anger lashed at my back, but I’d detected a tiny flash of something else in his eyes before I left.

Respect.

I kept walking, my heart in my throat and my feet moving faster and faster until I reached the nearest guest bathroom. Only when the door closed behind me did I slump against the wall and cover my face with my hands.

Breathe.

My surge of adrenaline was already fading, leaving me drained and anxious.

I’d stood off against Dante and won...for now. But I wasn’t naive enough to think that was the end of it.

Even if standing up to him had garnered me grudging points in his eyes, he wouldn’t let an uneven score against him stand.

Somehow, I’d entered into a cold war with my fiancé, and tonight was just the opening battle.