King of Greed (Kings of Sin, 3)

The elevator doors slid open on my floor.

I stepped out, my feet aching from my earlier walk to Midtown then downtown for dinner and drinks. I could’ve taken the subway or a car, but walking cleared my head. If I didn’t have time for yoga, which I’d continued after Buzios, I went outside and wandered the streets until I felt better about whatever was on my mind. These days, there was only one person who featured regularly during my wanderings.

I rounded the corner. Someone sat slumped outside my apartment, his back against the wall and his legs outstretched. A rumpled jacket lay on the floor next to him.

“Dom?”

“Hey.” He smiled up at me, his eyes glassy. “You’re back.”

“What are you doing?” I resumed my steps and stopped in front of him.

I’d moved out of Sloane’s apartment and into my own at the start of the year. Thank God for that or she would’ve raised hell about this.

“I missed you.” He didn’t get up. Pink glazed the high planes of his cheekbones, and he looked so sad and forlorn it wrenched at more than a few heartstrings.

“We saw each other just a few hours ago.”

“I know.”

My pulse slowed like it had been dropped in honey. Don’t fall for it, Ále.

But I couldn’t help it.

I fell again, just a little bit.

“Come on.” I reached down and pulled him up. “Let’s get you inside before someone sees you and calls the cops.” The nosy old lady in 6B

would have a conniption if she spotted a drunk stranger in “her” hallway.

Dominic stumbled into my apartment. My brows pulled together as I locked the door behind us. “Did you fall into a vat of whiskey?” He reeked of alcohol. The scent oozed out of his pores, overpowering the fresh flowers I kept by the entryway.

“I had drinks with Roman.” He pushed a hand through his already-disheveled hair. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“It’s nine o’clock,” I pointed out. “A little early for bed.” I steered him to the couch, afraid he would collapse if he didn’t sit soon. He swayed with each step.

I hadn’t seen Dominic this drunk since, well, ever. He was usually fastidious about monitoring his alcohol intake. He said he’d seen too many people slide into alcoholism and addiction growing up, and he hated the loss of control that came with imbibing too much.

He slumped against the cushions and looked up at me again.

His throat worked with a swallow. “How was your date?”

There’d been no date. Instead, I’d attended a jewelry-making class (I liked the one I took in Buzios so much I’d signed up for a similar workshop in the city) before parking myself at a bar in Soho, where I ordered one apple martini, read three chapters of a thriller Isabella recommended, and people watched. It wasn’t the most exciting night, but it was what I’d needed after leaving Dominic.

“It was fine.” Guilt pulled at me, fraying my thoughts. I hated lying, but I’d almost caved when he’d asked me to stay earlier that day. I never cuddled and I never slept over after we had sex, but being in that room and seeing the bed we’d shared, the engagement photo we’d taken…lying about a date was the only thing I could think of to remove myself in that moment.

“Good.” Dominic swallowed again. “I hope he didn’t take you out for tacos. You hate tacos.”

I didn’t hate them so much as I avoided them due to sheer trauma. I got food poisoning from a fish taco in college and hadn’t touched one since.

“He didn’t.” Why did the backs of my eyes ache so much? I must be hormonal if I was tearing up over freaking tacos.

Silence took us hostage. The air turned humid, thick with nostalgia, and the seconds stretched with enough tension to warp my thoughts and emotions into a jumbled mess.

Dominic’s gaze consumed mine. “Are you happy, Alessandra?”

A spark of clarity burned through his intoxication and into my soul.

I wish I had a concrete answer. In many ways, I was happy. I had a thriving business, wonderful friends, and a burgeoning social life. I’d discovered new hobbies and was living independently, for myself, for the first time in my life.

But there would always be an emptiness where we used to be.

An absent piece only he could provide.

I didn’t need him, but I missed him so desperately it felt like I did.

“Get some rest,” I said, sidestepping his question. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

Dominic didn’t argue. By the time I retrieved a blanket from the linen closet and returned to the living room, he’d already passed out.

A swath of silver illuminated his furrowed brow and mouth. Most people found peace in slumber, but not Dominic. Whatever plagued him during the day followed him into his dreams.

Later that night, I stared at the ceiling, my mind restless. Midnight had bled into the early hours of morning, and the air was redolent with the scent of flowers. A vase of golden roses sat next to the bed along with the note I’d found tucked in my bag that afternoon.

#18 out of a thousand.

Love, Dom

I closed my eyes against a familiar burn.

Dominic wasn’t the only one who couldn’t find peace tonight.