King of Sloth (Kings of Sin, 4)

I hadn’t planned on telling Sloane about my past. I’d never told anyone what happened with the fire, but there was something about last night, the way she looked at me, and the ease I felt around her that pulled the words out of me before I processed what was happening.

Once they were out, it was like a giant weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I hadn’t realized how much the poison from my past was eating me up inside until I expunged it, and not only did Sloane listen without judgment, but she’d comforted me afterward.

Sloane Kensington didn’t comfort people, but she’d comforted me. If I’d ever thought I could walk away from her before, last night confirmed I couldn’t.

Thanks to her, I also showed up to Vuk’s office on Friday morning armed with my new strategy. I didn’t bring slide decks or shiny handouts; I didn’t even bring my old bar sketches. I simply told him the truth. My fractured relationship with my father, my refusal to take over his company out of fear and spite, his death and my mother’s letter…everything I shared with Sloane, I reframed into a story that wasn’t just about numbers; it was about the heart behind them.

“You’re worried the club will crash and burn if my inheritance committee doesn’t rule in my favor come May,” I said. “I would be too if I were in your shoes. But here’s the thing: I’m no longer doing it for my inheritance.” Vuk’s eyebrows notched up. “I’m no longer doing it just for my inheritance,” I amended. “My entire life, I relied on what other people gave me. I lived off something I didn’t build, and I told myself I was okay with it because I didn’t have the courage to stray from that path. But this club? Everything I’ve achieved so far? That’s mine, and I’m fucking proud of it.”

I’d had help along the way because no one built an empire alone. But the vision and execution were mine, and I hadn’t fucked them up so far. Things were going well, as well as starting a new business in the city could possibly go, and it made me think I could do this—take the Castillo name and make it my own.

“I would love to have you as a partner,” I said. As expected, Vuk hadn’t said a word during my spiel, but his eyes appeared marginally warmer than they had when I arrived. Either that, or I was delirious from lack of sleep. “But if you say no, the club will still open. If I don’t secure the vault, I’ll find another location. It’s not ideal, but business isn’t always about the ideal. It’s about getting things done, and I’ll get it done with or without you.” I paused, letting my words sink in. “However, I’d much rather do it with you. So.” I nodded at the contract on his desk. “What’s your answer? Are you going to take the risk, or are you going to play it safe?”

It was a gamble, provoking Vuk like that. Without him, my path to opening the club would be that much harder, but I would figure it out. I hadn’t realized it until I’d said it out loud, but I wasn’t lying when I’d said I could do it on my own. I’d have to fight like hell, and I probably wouldn’t sleep from now until May, but people had overcome worse obstacles to achieve their goals.

If they could do it, so could I.

Vuk studied me, his eyes so pale they were nearly colorless. He didn’t move. He didn’t smile. He didn’t speak.

I maintained his gaze, my heart pounding to an ominous rhythm.

Then, after an endless, agonizing silence, and without saying a single word, Vuk Markovic slid the contract toward him, picked up his pen, and signed on the dotted line.

I did it.

I fucking did it.

Vuk was officially my business partner, and with his stamp of approval, the rest of the pieces fell into place. That night, Sloane and I celebrated with food, wine, a so-bad-it-was-good rom-com, and lots of sex (obviously).

I also had the personal pleasure of delivering the news to Alex over the phone. He greeted the update with as much emotion as a block of granite, but he did sign off with something that made me smile.

“Delivered two weeks early,” he said. “You might survive the industry after all.”

It was the closest to a compliment one could expect from Alex Volkov.

But most importantly? The bank vault was mine.

Jules had fast-tracked my permits and licenses and was currently working with Alex’s lawyers on the commercial lease. My relationship with Sloane was developing into something more than I’d thought possible, and the financing from Davenport Capital was in the final stages of approval.

Opening a nightclub this big this fast required a ton of capital, and with my inheritance tied up and Vuk unwilling to pour too much cash into an untested venture, I was relying on the Davenport money to cover the shortfall. I was confident it would go through, especially with Vuk on board.

Overall, life was good. Really good.

But as someone wise once said, all good things came to an end, and this particular streak of luck came to a sudden, crashing halt the following Monday.

LUCA:

Did you see this?

His next text included a link to a Perry Wilson blog post.

I grabbed my coffee from my usual spot and tucked a twenty-dollar bill in the tip jar before I clicked on the link. Perry was always talking shit, and people knew better than to take half the stuff he said too seriously.

What was it this time? Did I have an orgy with models in the middle of Fifth Avenue? Get into a brawl with someone at a club? By now, it was semipublic knowledge that Sloane and I were seeing each other. It’d elicited some disapproving whispers and controversy among the more conservative crowd, but people weren’t as scandalized as she and Perry had originally expected.

One, there wasn’t concrete proof. Two, it was New York— more salacious things happened every day. And three, she was too damn good at her job for her clients to drop her over such a small “scandal.”

However, my disinterest exploded into shock when I saw Perry’s blog post. It was about me and Sloane, but it wasn’t what I’d expected.

Kensingtons not so estranged?? What’s going on with New York’s most famously dysfunctional family?

There was barely any text, but there were photos. Dozens of them.

Sloane and I entering the simulation center in Queens. Us leaving with Rhea and Pen. Me hugging Pen goodbye. So on and so forth, our perfect, secret day captured in high-definition detail for the world to see.

I scrolled to the end, the roar of my pulse drowning out the car horns and sounds of traffic from the street.

If there were photos of us at the hotel, and he’d published nudes of Sloane…

Rage prowled beneath a slick of panic, followed by a tingle of relief when the post ended without mentioning our night at the hotel. I didn’t know how long Perry’s photographer had followed us, but obviously, it hadn’t extended to the rest of that week.

However, my relief soon hardened into ugly, gnawing guilt.

Pen. Sloane. Rhea. All of them had been fucked over by my decision. I’d been so confident I could arrange the meetup without detection, and I’d done it without consulting Sloane despite knowing the risks. She’d been so worried about her sister, and I’d wanted to surprise her with something nice. I’d worried she’d talk me out of it if I told her, and dammit, she would’ve been right.

Because I might’ve just killed any chance she had of seeing Pen again in the future.

Fuck. I made an abrupt turn away from my house and toward her office.

Her family must’ve seen the blog post by now. No one liked to admit it, but everyone read Perry Wilson, if only to ensure they weren’t his latest target.

“Come on, Luna, pick up,” I muttered as I dodged an angry cab driver and crossed the street while the light was still green. The call went to voicemail, as did the next one and the one after that. Luckily, I was only a few blocks away from her office, and I made it there in record time. I’d pissed off half the drivers in Midtown along the way, but I didn’t give a shit. I needed to see her and make sure she was okay.

“Xavier!” Jillian half stood, her eyes widening when I burst in like a madman. “What are—”

“Is she in a meeting?”

“No, but she’s sitting in on a magazine interview with Asher Donovan. Silent observ—”

I was already gone before she finished her sentence.

Sloane was sitting at her desk when I entered her office. She was polished as always in a blouse and pencil skirt, her hair gathered in a perfect bun, but I knew her well enough to pick up on the tiny signs of tension—the ramrod-straight posture, the subtle clench of her jaw, the rhythmic tap of her pen against her desk.

She looked up from her computer at the sound of the door opening and closing. She must’ve read the unspoken question on my face because she clicked something on her computer, and Asher’s answer about his workout routine faded into silence.

“I saw it,” she said. A tinge of pink colored her cheekbones and the tip of her nose. “I got a call from Rhea this morning. They fired her.”

“Shit.” The jagged rocks of guilt multiplied, weighing down my stomach and feet as I crossed the room. “I’m so fucking sorry, Luna. I shouldn’t have brought them to the center. I wasn’t thinking—”

“Don’t be sorry. You had good intentions, and you did everything you could to minimize our chances of getting caught.” Sloane gave me a wan smile. “It was a perfect day, Xavier. I’ll never be sorry that I got to see Pen, and she was happier than I’d seen her in a long time. That was because of you. It’s not your fault George and Caroline would rather prioritize their pettiness over their daughter’s well-being.” Her grip around her pen tightened at the mention of her father and stepmother. “This is on them. Not you.”

Her reassurance eased only a smidge of guilt. The rest continued to fester like a nest of vipers, their serpentine coils slithering through my gut and squeezing tighter with each what if and shouldn’t have.

Yet another case of me fucking up.

But I could self-flagellate later. I was here to check on Sloane, not wallow in self-pity.

“How’s Pen?” I asked. “Do you know?”

Sloane shook her head. “They kicked Rhea out before she woke up. She didn’t even get to say goodbye. Rhea has taken care of her since she was born, and I can’t imagine…” Her voice hitched. “Anyway, with Rhea gone, I have no intel into what’s happening. They could’ve already shipped her off to a distant cousin in Europe for all I know. I wouldn’t put it past them.”

She maintained a brave front, but I saw past the matter-of-fact replies to the fissures underneath. She was breaking, and it fucking killed me to know I was the cause of it, however indirect.

She may not blame me, but that didn’t stop me from blaming myself.

However, something she said sparked an idea. With Rhea gone, I have no intel into what’s happening. Sloane didn’t have intel, but I knew someone who could get it. For the right price, they could get anything.

I kept the plan to myself for now. I didn’t want to raise her hopes without confirming with my contact first.

I’d started this mess. It was up to me to fix it.

“We’ll figure it out. I promise.” I managed a crooked smile. “Between you and me, we can figure out anything. We’re geniuses.”

Sloane released a half sob, half laugh.

Her eyes were dry, but when I opened my arms, she came around the desk and buried her face in my chest without protest. Her shoulders shook, and I kissed the top of her head, wishing I had the power to take her pain away even if it meant shouldering it myself.

We didn’t speak. She didn’t shed any tears. But I held her all the same.

SLOANE

Some people wallowed after a disaster. Others threw fits of temper.

Me? I planned.

I had a week to swallow my shock, anger, horror, and the thousand other emotions that exploded after Perry’s post. I could dwell on Rhea’s unfair firing or work myself into a state of panic over being cut off entirely from Pen, but that wouldn’t do anyone any good. Instead, I did what I did best: I figured out how to solve a crisis.

It started with taking down Perry.

I’d already planted the seeds for my revenge; it was time to harvest them.

I tapped my pen against my knee and stared at my laptop. It was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and I was working from home again. I’d already filled five pages of notes on Operation PW (Operation Perry Wilson).

Perry’s power stemmed from two things: information and the platform to disseminate that information. Over the years, the little weasel had cultivated a network of spies from New York to L.A. who fed him juicy tidbits about the rich, famous, and misbehaving. Some of them were true; many were embellished.

It was impossible to fully cut off his sources because anyone could be a leak. Hotel maids, gardeners, chauffeurs, random passersby on the street…there were no limits to who could send in an anonymous tip.

Since I couldn’t eliminate his sources, I had to eliminate the reason why people wanted to send tips to him specifically. He didn’t pay them, but for anyone who wanted to expose a celebrity, get back at someone they felt had wronged them, or simply gain the satisfaction of seeing their tip used, they turned to the biggest fish in the pond. People knew Perry had the means to bring their tips to a huge audience, which brought me to the second pillar of his power: his platforms, specifically his blog and his social media.

They were concrete. Tangible. Which meant they could be taken down.

I couldn’t do it on my own. I needed an army, and luckily, I knew exactly where to find one.

A new message popped up in my encrypted server. My heart skipped a beat as I read and reread it.

Confirmed.

For the first time since I’d seen Perry’s blog post, I smiled.

I knew Xavier blamed himself for what happened, but it wasn’t his fault. I didn’t resent him for organizing one of the best days I’d had in a while, but the blog post did light my fire when it came to Perry fucking Wilson.

Next to me, The Fish swam leisurely in his aquarium. Most people preferred cuddly pets like cats and dogs, but I liked having a fish. Our roles were clear, and our worlds never crossed. He stayed in his house; I stayed in mine.

Still, it was nice to have an animate being to talk to when I was home, even when they couldn’t talk back.

“He’s toast,” I told the oblivious goldfish. “I will not rest until that man’s career is reduced to writing cat-food copy for Fast and Furriness.”

The Fish stared at me for a second before swimming away, indifferent to my scheming.

My phone rang, and I was so distracted by visions of Perry sobbing over a bowl of wet cat food that I didn’t check the caller ID before I answered.

“Hello?”

“Sloane.”

The familiar voice dripped ice down my spine. Images of Perry’s bad highlights and signature pink bow tie vanished, replaced by floppy brown hair and blue eyes.

I straightened, my hand closing tight enough around my phone to elicit a small crack.

“Don’t hang up,” Bentley said. “I know I’m the last person you want to hear from right now, but we need to talk.”