King of Pride (Kings of Sin, #2)(87)

“One can only hope,” I said coolly, fighting the slow creep of anger beneath my skin. “And if I were you, I’d worry more about your own company. It won’t be around much longer.”

My lawyers were already tearing the National Star apart for libel and defamation, but that was only a distraction while we dug deeper into the parts that could topple the entire Black & Co. empire.

The threads were there. We just had to locate and unravel them.

Victor’s mouth twisted. “That silly defamation lawsuit? It’s nothing. Do you know how many lawsuits we face and win every year?”

“More than there are brain cells rattling around that overly gelled head of yours, I’m sure.”

I indulged in another sip of Macallan and took great pleasure in the scarlet flush adorning Victor’s cheeks.

“You want to know what your problem is?” He leaned in, his eyes glinting with malice.

“I’m sure you’ll enlighten me.”

“You think you’re so fucking smart. That you’re better than everyone because you went to fancy schools and grew up with a silver spoon shoved up your ass. You have no idea what it means to work for something the way Burton and I do, and you were so blinded by your superiority complex—your belief that no one could possibly touch you because you’re so above them—that you didn’t see what was right in front of you. I even slipped you a little hint at the Saxon Gallery.” Victor shook his head.

So he’s the one who left me that note. He did it to fuck with me, no doubt. I should’ve connected the dots earlier; besides Isabella, he’d been the only one close enough to reach my pocket.

But that wasn’t the part I was stuck on. What he said before that was.

“Your pride is your downfall, Young,” he said. “And I’m here to document it every step of the way.”

I let him ramble on. He was too bloated on overconfidence and cartoonish gloating to notice his slipup.

You have no idea what it means to work for something the way Burton and I do.

Russell was based in London, so I hadn’t seen him in person since the election. He’d sounded shocked and overwhelmed when I called him, but something had been off. He’d almost sounded too shocked, like someone trying to convince their friends that they hadn’t known about the surprise party beforehand. I didn’t give it much thought at the time because I’d wanted to get off the phone as quickly as possible, but in hindsight…

Russell Burton, Chief Operations Officer. Handles all internal affairs, oversees the company’s day-to-day administrative and operational functions…

Realization struck with sudden, blinding clarity.

I bit back a curse and stood, ignoring Victor’s blathering. He’d moved on from the vote results and was currently spouting nonsense about his house in the Hamptons.

Twenty minutes later, I locked the front door of my penthouse behind me and dialed Tobias’s number.

It was two a.m. in London, but he picked up as expected. The man never slept.

“What do you want?” Irritation ran hot and bitter beneath his voice. It was the voice of someone who’d been forced to give up something they wanted only to watch a lesser peer take it.

I knew the feeling well.

“About your withdrawal from the CEO vote,” I said. “We need to talk.”



CHAPTER 35

Isabella

On Friday morning, I arrived in California with one carry-on suitcase, a concrete block in my stomach, and no finished manuscript in hand.

I tried. I really did. But no matter how hard I pushed, I couldn’t figure out the last quarter of the book. My creativity had dried up completely, leaving a husk of discarded ideas and incomplete sentences in its wake.

Luckily, Friday was so hectic no one asked about the manuscript. My family celebrated Christmasbirthdaynewyearpalooza in chronological order, which meant I was thrown into Christmas festivities the second I landed. After I dropped my luggage off in my childhood bedroom and took a quick shower, I helped my mom and brothers make our traditional holiday feast—bibingka rice cakes, pancit bihon noodles, lechon manok spit-roasted chicken, buko pandan salad, lumpiang ubod spring rolls stuffed with shrimp, vegetables, coconut, and pork.

By help, I meant chop vegetables and wash dishes. Sadly, my talent in the kitchen rivaled only my ability to run a four-minute mile for nonexistence.

Food preparations bled into the actual meal, followed by a gift exchange in which we all had to guess the presents before we opened them. It was a whirlwind of laughter, alcohol, and merriment and the last night we spent together as a family before it all went to hell.

The next morning, we crowded in the living room for my mom’s birthday, tired but upbeat. For the most part anyway.

Nerves rattled in my veins as my mother made her way through her pile of gifts. Gabriel sat next to her, handing her a new item whenever she finished oohing and aahing over the previous one.

Romero, Miguel, Felix, and I were squeezed onto the couch opposite them—Felix doodling in his sketchpad, Romero fidgeting with his watch, and Miguel sprawled wide, looking like death warmed over. He’d drank the most last night.

My lola and lolo occupied the corner. Every few minutes, my lolo would nod off and my lola would smack his arm, jerking him awake.

“Oh, this is lovely.” My mother held the hand-painted crescent moon necklace from Felix up to the light. “Thank you.”