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

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.”

A lump formed in my throat. That was exactly why I hadn’t given up on Dante yet. He was a terrible communicator, and his hot and cold attitude made me want to tear my hair out, but underneath it all, there was someone worth waiting for.

“Are you talking him up because he installed a TV in the kitchen for you?” I asked lightly.

Greta’s eyes gleamed. “When someone offers you bribery, it’s rude not to take it.”

Laughter floated through the kitchen, but it died a quick death when Dante and Kai appeared in the doorway.

I straightened, my pulse beating in my throat. Isabella stopped trimming her green beans while Sloane sipped her drink, her cool gaze taking in the newcomers like they were the ones entering her house.

“Dante, I didn’t know you would be home for dinner.” Greta wiped her hands on a dish towel. “The food’s almost ready. I’ll add two more plates to the table.”

“No need. We only stopped by to pick up some documents. We’ll be dining at Valhalla tonight.” Dante’s attention didn’t stray from Greta. “I’m also flying to D.C. for business tomorrow. I’ll be gone for a week.”

“I see.” Greta glanced at me.

I refocused on my garlic.

Dante’s announcement was clearly for my benefit, but if he wasn’t mature enough to address me directly like an adult, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of my acknowledgment.

Next to him, Kai’s gaze skimmed over me and Sloane to Isabella, who perched on the stool closest to the entrance. Her leather skirt, dangly earrings, and stiletto boots were the polar opposite of his suit, glasses, and silk handkerchief tucked in his breast pocket.

She arched an eyebrow at his scrutiny before plucking a cherry tomato from the bowl next to her and popping it in her mouth. She didn’t look away from him, making the otherwise innocent movement almost sexual.

Kai watched her show with the bland expression of someone waiting in line at the post office.

Next to him, Dante remained in the doorway, silent and unmoving.

The clock ticked toward the half hour. Sauces bubbled and hissed on the stove, and my knife chopped a steady rhythm against the cutting board.

The tension was almost as thick as Greta’s signature fettuccine.

Greta cleared her throat. “Well, have a safe flight to D.C. Bring back a souvenir or two, hmm? I’m sure people in the household will appreciate it.”

She slid another glance in my direction.

Smooth, Greta.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Dante said stiffly. “Enjoy dinner.”

He left without sparing a glance at me.

“Ladies.” Kai dipped his head before following him.

Their exit severed the tension holding us hostage.

I dropped my knife, and Greta muttered something under her breath while she removed the meat from the oven.

“I need some water.” Isabella slid off her stool and headed to the fridge, her cheeks pink.

I stared at the cutting board, trying to sort through my mess of emotions.

I should’ve been used to Dante’s business trips by now, but the news of his upcoming travel stung more than it should’ve. Even if we didn’t talk, his presence was a warm reassurance in the apartment.

It was always a little colder when he wasn’t home.