King of Sloth (Kings of Sin, 4)

Thanks to the time difference, we arrived in Bogotá before noon.

My father’s driver was already waiting when we landed, and he whisked us through the city’s winding roads and densely packed neighborhoods with enviable skill.

I was born in Colombia but educated abroad my entire life. I spent more time in the halls of boarding schools than I did at home, and I’d only visited my birthplace twice since my father was diagnosed with cancer last year.

The first had been after the diagnosis. The second had been right before my Miami birthday trip, when he’d summoned and berated me for failing to “uphold the family legacy” while he was dying.

If there was one person who’d use their illness to manipulate other people into doing what they wanted, it was Alberto Castillo. “Xavier.” Sloane’s voice sliced through my thoughts. “We’re here.”

I blinked, the pastel haze from the streets morphing into twin guardhouses and fully armed security personnel. Behind the black iron gates, a familiar white mansion rose three stories high, crowned by red tiles and latticed windows.

“Home sweet home.” Sarcasm threaded my words, but a sick feeling stirred in my stomach as we walked inside.

Decades-old smoke clung to the walls, making me nauseous.

My mother had died here. She’d burned alive right on this plot of land, and instead of moving, my father had rebuilt the house right over her deathplace.

People said he wanted to stay close to her in his own morbid way, but I knew the truth. It was his way of punishing me and making sure I never forgot who the real villain was in this house. “You don’t have to stay here,” I told Sloane. Her clean, crisp scent drifted over me, masking echoes of the smoke. “I’ll be happy to book you a suite at the Four Seasons.”

Sloane had visited the Bogotá house before for work, but beneath the shine and luxury, heaviness shrouded the mansion’s foundation. I couldn’t be the only one who felt it.

“Trying to kick me out already? That’s record timing.” “You’ll be more comfortable at a hotel.” We passed by a giant oil portrait of my father. He glared down at us, his face stern and disapproving. “That’s all I meant.”

“Maybe. But I’d rather be here.” Sloane stared straight ahead, her stride purposeful, but warmth flickered in my chest all the same. She was prickly, uptight, and as cuddly as a cactus. Yet somehow, she had a way of making even the worst situations more tolerable.

However, the warmth hardened into ice when we entered my father’s room. His staff had transformed it into a private hospital suite complete with the latest medical technology, a twenty-four-hour rotation of nurses and attendants (all of whom signed ironclad NDAs), and the best care money could buy.

But that was the thing about death—it came for everyone. Young and old, rich and poor, good and evil. It was life’s greatest equalizer.

And it was clear that, despite Alberto Castillo’s billions, he was standing at death’s door.

Conversation vanished when the room’s occupants noticed me. My father was the second youngest of two sisters and one brother. They were all gathered here along with my cousins, the family doctor, the family lawyer, and various attendants.

Eduardo was the only one who stepped toward me, but he halted when I approached my father’s bedside.

The carpet was so thick it muffled even the slightest noise from my footsteps. I might as well have been a ghost, gliding soundlessly to where my father lay with his eyes closed, his frail frame hooked up to a mass of tubes and monitors.

In perfect health, he was a titan both in reputation and appearance. He dominated any room he walked into and was equal parts feared and revered, even by his competitors. But over the past year, he’d withered into a husk of himself. He’d lost so much weight he was almost unrecognizable, and his olive skin resembled ashen wax beneath the sheets.

A rope snaked through my chest, winding tighter and tighter— “He made it through the night.” Dr. Cruz came up beside me, his voice pitched low so only I could hear him. “That’s a positive sign.”

I didn’t take my eyes off the motionless form before me. “But?” Dr. Cruz had been with my family since I was born. Tall and reedy, he resembled a swarthy beanstalk with silver hair and a prominent nose, but he was the best doctor in the country.

However, there were some things even the best doctor couldn’t hide, and I knew him well enough to pick up on the hesitation rolling off him.

“His situation remains critical. Of course, we’ll take care of him the best we can, but…I’m glad you arrived when you did.”

Meaning my father’s passing was inevitable, and soon.

The rope pulled tauter. I wanted to reach inside and tear it out. I wanted to run away from this fucking house and never come back. I wanted peace, once and for all.

But I didn’t say any of that to Dr. Cruz when I mumbled a generic reply, or to Eduardo when he came up to embrace me, or to my aunts and uncles and cousins, half of whom were here solely for their cut of my father’s fortune.

The only person who didn’t smother me with pity or concern was Sloane. She stood by the door, respectful of the family’s privacy but staying close enough in case anyone needed anything. When my father passed, she would be the one crafting the press statement and media strategy. Knowing her, she’d already started both.

Regular families buried the dead and grieved. Families like mine had to issue press statements.

Here lies Alberto Castillo, shitty father and guilt tripper extraordinaire. He was emotionally abusive and wished his only son had died, but man, he was a hell of a businessman.

The absurdity of it all punched a hole in my composure, and I couldn’t stop laughter from leaking out in the middle of Tía Lupe’s platitudes. The more I tried, the harder my shoulders shook until my aunt stopped and stared at me in horror.

Some of my cousins had drifted off to take advantage of the mansion’s pool or arcade, but the remaining family observed me like I’d murdered their favorite pet.

“What’s so funny?” Tía Lupe demanded in Spanish. “Your father is on his deathbed, and you’re laughing? That is beyond disrespectful!”

“It’s funny you should say that, tía, considering you only come around when you want my father to pay your bills. How’s the house in Cartagena? Still under the million-peso renovation you so desperately needed?” Steel flickered beneath my amusement.

“You should talk. You’re a spoiled little brat who wastes my brother’s money without ever—”

“Lupe. Enough.” My uncle placed a hand on her arm and firmly steered her away from me. “Now’s not the time.” He cast an apologetic glance at me, and I summoned a wan smile in response.

Unlike Tía Lupe, Tío Martin was quiet, even-tempered, and cautious. He lived in the same half dozen outfits year-round and didn’t give a crap about the lifestyles of the rich. I had no idea how he’d ended up with someone like my aunt, but I supposed opposites did attract.

“No, Lupe is right,” Tío Esteban, my father’s eldest sibling, said. “What’s so funny, Xavier? You haven’t been home in months. You refused to take over the company, so poor Eduardo here is stuck doing your job. You are constantly pictured in the gossip rags, partying and wasting God knows how much money. I told Alberto to cut you off a long time ago, but no, he refuses.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what he was thinking.”

I did. Money was another form of control for my father, and the threat of cutting me off was more powerful than the act. If he actually cut me off, that would be it. I would be free.

I could’ve cut myself off, but I’ll be honest—I was a hypocrite. I railed against Lupe for using my father as an ATM machine when I did the same. The difference was I admitted it.

The money was a prison, but it was all I had. Without it, Xavier Castillo as the world knew him would cease to exist, and the possibility of losing the only value I had was more terrifying than living the rest of my life in a gilded cage.

“Oh, you know Alberto.” Tía Lupe scoffed. “Always holding on to the romantic notion that my dear nephew will someday stop being a disappointment. Honestly, Xavier, if your mother were alive, she would hate—” The rest of her sentence cut off with a shriek when I grabbed her by the front of her shirt and yanked her toward me.

“Do not ever talk about my mother,” I said, my voice deceptively soft. “You may be family, but sometimes, that’s not enough. Do you understand?”

My aunt’s pupils were the size of dimes, and when she spoke, her words shook. “How dare you. Let go of me this instant, or—”

“Do. You. Understand?”

The feather in her ridiculous hat quivered with increasing intensity. It was a testament to her unlikability that no one, not even her husband, stepped forth to intervene.

“Yes,” she spit out.

I released her, and she scrambled back to Tío Martin’s side. “Excuse us.” Sloane’s cool touch soothed some of the flames raging in my gut. “Xavier and I need to discuss some media matters in private.”

I followed her out of the room, passing my aunt’s vengeful gaze, Dr. Cruz’s frown, and a host of other silent judgment.

I wished I cared.

I was glad I didn’t.

Sloane led me to my father’s office down the hall. She closed the door behind us and faced me, her expression not betraying an ounce of emotion. “Are you done?”

“She had it coming.”

“That wasn’t my question.” Four strides brought her close. “Are. You. Done?” She punctuated each word with precision.

My jaw tensed. “Yes.”

Was what I’d done smart? Probably not. But it’d felt damn good.

Of everyone in my family, Tía Lupe was the last person who should talk about how my mom would feel. The two had never gotten along. Tía Lupe had seen my mother as competition for my father’s time and money—which was disturbing on so many levels—and my mother had disliked her sister-in-law’s shameless self-aggrandizement.

“Good, because if you’re done, it’s my turn to speak.” Sloane tapped the globe on my father’s desk. Red pins highlighted every country where the Castillo Group’s beer had the biggest market share.

Half the globe was red.

“This is your inheritance,” she said. “A global empire. Thousands of employees. Billions of dollars. You are the only direct heir to the Castillo Group, and even if you refuse a corporate position, your name means something. It means there will always be people looking to take you down, to take from you, to get what they feel like they deserve. Some of those people are right down the hall. Your job”—she jabbed a finger at my chest—“is to be smart. This is a critical time not only for your father’s health but for your future. If he dies, it’ll be a feeding frenzy, no matter what his will says. So unless you’re willing to give up your inheritance and work for once in your life, keep your hands to yourself and your temper under control.”

Unlike earlier, her touch burned.

Indignation shriveled beneath her steady stare. She wasn’t being malicious or unsympathetic; she was being practical, and in typical Sloane fashion, she was right.

“Tough love, Luna,” I drawled. “You’re good at that.”

I stepped away from her and toward the globe. I spun it idly, watching the Americas roll by, followed by Europe and Africa, then Asia, then Australia.

I stopped it when South America came into view again and plucked the pin out of Colombia. It pricked my thumb, but I hardly felt it.

“Have you ever wished someone would die?” I asked softly. “I don’t mean figuratively or in a moment of anger. I mean, have you ever lain awake at night, dreaming of how life would be better if a specific person didn’t exist?”

It was the closest I’d ever come to shining a light on my darkest thoughts, and the somber ticks and tocks that followed sounded like hammers striking at my walls.

The English grandfather clock in the corner was one of my father’s prized possessions. Rosewood case carved with an intricate inlay design, face crafted of chased silver, hallmarked numerals by a famous London silversmith. He’d paid over one hundred thousand dollars for it at an auction, and its imposing sentry felt like an avatar for his reproach.

A breeze brushed my skin as Sloane reached for the pin. “Yes.” Her fingers grazed my palm for a single, lingering second before she pushed the pin back into the globe. “It doesn’t make us bad people, nor is it an excuse. We can’t always control our thoughts, but we can control what we do about them.”

Her gaze coasted from the antique surface of the globe to my eyes.

“The question then,” she said, “is what are you going to do next?”