Page 9 of When Sinners Hate

“Abel, Alexia. How are the plans going?”

I break eye contact with Dante and look across as Mother sits down. She smiles at all of us, as if she’s happy about this, for the sake of our welfare. I suppose it is welfare related in some ways. Alexia will stay alive if she’s with me rather than being used as a threat by another cartel, and my family will take what’s Ortega’s, near tripling our reach, by the time I’m finished.

Dante suddenly gets up and walks away, shoving his chair back with enough malice that I know he’s got something to say. I smile at Wren as she goes to follow and put my hand on her shoulder to keep her down. “Stay. Finish this up. I’ll go speak to him.” My gaze finds both Mother and Alexia. “Play nice.”

It doesn’t take long to find him. He’s over by the orange trees, smoking and standing firm to try containing himself. "This is fucking bullshit,” he says, as I approach.

“It’s bullshit that stabilises us.”

He throws his smoke on the grass, crushing it down. “Why the fuck didn’t you speak to me about it?”

“By the time I was going to, Wren was here. Would you rather I'd forced you into it?” Those eyes of his harden. “And that’s exactly why I didn’t. Calm the hell down.”

“Yeah, well, it’s still bullshit. Shaw would have–”

“This is my problem to deal with. It’s done. Behave, Dante.”

“Fuck you.”

I chuckle and slap him on the back. “I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine. Besides, she’s an Ortega. We still have a score to settle.”

He frowns and flicks his stare back to the ladies, who seem to be continuing cordially. “What does that mean?”

“You got your revenge, Brother. I'm gonna find a way to deal with mine for a while."

A slow smile starts spreading on his face. It’s enough to show he just caught up with the program and stopped thinking with that heart of his. So I start walking us back to the table.

“You gonna play nice now?” He nods and lights another smoke. “Good.”

“So, Wren, now the greetings are out of the way, tell me how you got into planning weddings for a living,” Mother asks as we retake our seats. “Fairy-tale dreams, was it?” Dante chuckles and looks over at Alexia, shaking his head about something.

“No, not really,” Wren says. “Well, maybe a little. Creating something special from nothing is kinda magical, even if what I create isn’t always what I’d choose for myself.” She gives Dante a quick glance, and it makes me wonder if Wren is as innocent as Dante makes out. “Making someone's dream and special day come to life can be exciting and rewarding. Plus, I’m efficient, hardworking and well–organised, so event planning was a natural fit. I’m very good at what I do." She levels a hard glare at Alexia. It's good to see the fire still shining brightly. Doubt she'll last without it.

“How sweet. Sounds idyllic,” Alexia drawls, reaching for more Champagne. “That must be why you’re so charming.” If words could cut any sharper, I’m not sure how. Wren's fire seems to diminish, and she looks affronted instantly. Mother’s using her usual condescending smile to make sure she’s feeling the impact of two bitches in heat.

“I’m charming to all my clients at the first meeting, but that won’t continue unless you deserve it. As yet, I’m not sure you do,” Wren replies.

Dante keeps chuckling, and even I can’t stop my own smile as I remember her attitude from that night we had together. She might be small, but damn she’s got some front about her. “Anyway, honeymoon?” she continues. “I know some great venues in the Maldives. Or perhaps Europe? Italy is wonderful and–”

“We won’t need that,” I cut in.

“Abel, you must,” Mother announces. “Richard and I went to Italy. It was–”

“I said no.”

The table goes quiet, and I watch as Mariana comes across the lawn. She squeezes herself in–between mother and Wren, smiling about something.

“Well, this looks lovely. Where are you up to?” She leans in towards Wren, letting their shoulders meet, probably for support.

“We’re discussing the fact that, apparently, there will be no honeymoon,” Alexia says. “I don’t know why. My betrothed seems to think I don’t deserve one.”

She doesn’t.

I look at her, watching her challenging nature trying to flirt me into something. It won’t work. The only thing I want from her is obedience, preferably with her mouth closed unless it’s around my dick. “I won’t have the time. Maybe next year,” I concede.

She rolls her eyes at me and looks away, yet again trying to push my mood somewhere she hasn’t seen yet. “Maybe next year I’ll be allowed out of the house, too.”

And that’s just plain antagonistic.

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