Sinful Lies (Sinful #2)

Prologue

“The angel is nothing without the demon.”

― A.D. Aliwat

Angelo

Four inches.

Four inches to my computer screen, four inches to the picture frame of Georgino with my parents. Perfectly centered—always where I kept my backup burner phone.

That old black case? Worn and cracked, but it had been my lifeline over the years.

I bought it for one reason: to dig into Cyrus’s project—a multi-million-dollar scheme to wipe out a ghost town in Boston, a place left to rot since the auto industry fell apart and everyone bailed for bigger cities.

Jonathan Cyrus, a so-called friend of my old man, Carlos Lazzio, had some grand vision.

Bulldozers would come in, and he’d turn that dump into a shining paradise of luxury hotels, exotic zoos—think Babylon with all the bells and whistles, celebrating the seasons in style. Lake Kendrick would wrap around it, flashing lights, fine cigars, and money pouring in like it was a goddamn fountain.

That was his plan, anyway.

Cyrus snatched that project right from under my nose. My father thought I wasn’t tough enough to handle it, thought I couldn’t carry the weight.

So he gave this project to him.

I was just twenty-seven back then, and I had spent a decade proving myself in this ruthless game. Ten years of blood, sweat, and tears, and it still wasn’t fucking enough.

So, I wanted to take matters into my own hands before everything blew away.

That damn burner phone was the key to everything.

But when I reached for it tonight and found it missing from its usual spot, a cold knot twisted in my stomach.

I knew something was wrong. I could feel it in my bones, and I knew who was behind it: a tall, pale demon with long black hair, a pretty face and a wicked glint in her eye.

The very reason I found myself in this room to begin with.

The air in the interrogation room was stifling, thick with the kind of humidity that clings to your skin like a second layer.

I tugged at the cufflinks, the sharp metallic clink echoing in the silence, and shrugged off my blazer. It slid off my shoulders and draped itself over the wooden chair behind me, forgotten.

A bead of sweat meandered lazily down the curve of my neck, tracing heat over already simmering flesh.

My arms folded across my chest as I sat there, unwavering, my gaze fixed on the mirror in front of me.

I didn’t need to guess what was behind it—probably a handful of faceless, self-important bastards. Watching. Waiting. Hoping I’d crack or beg for mercy.

The thought almost made me laugh, but I kept the smirk buried deep.

The room was deceptively serene, considering the weight it carried.

This was a place where suffering lingered, soaked into the walls.

How many grown men had screamed for their mama here?

How many women had collapsed, beaten by exhaustion?

How many desperate fuckers had promised to sell out their loved ones for a taste of freedom?

My reflection stared back at me from the mirror—hair disheveled, shadows under my eyes, a restrained wrath simmering just beneath the surface.

I glanced down, twisting the face of my Rolex to clear a smudge.

2:35 a.m.

The door creaked open, pulling my attention.

Detective McLaren stepped in, a file under her arm and two cheap plastic cups of coffee in her hands. She set one down in front of me before sliding into the seat at the far end of the table.

The file landed with a dull thud.

“Murder, kidnapping, embezzlement…” Her voice was calm, measured as she flipped through the papers.

Finally, her gaze lifted, catching mine. Her eyes widened for just a fraction of a second as her focus lingered on my face, a slight blush creeping onto her cheeks before she snapped her attention back to the file.

Blonde, petite, and sporty.

The kind of woman I’d rather see tangled in my sheets than across an interrogation table.

She cleared her throat, taking a sip of coffee. “Is your lawyer on their way?”

I shook my head.

Her frown deepened. “Mr. Lazzio, these accusations are serious. You need legal representation.”

I shook my head again, slower this time, letting a smirk curl at the edge of my lips.

Her eyes flicked down, catching the movement, before darting back to the file.

She reached for a photo and slid it across the table.

“Do you recognize this woman?”

I didn’t bother looking. I already knew.

Pauline Dupont. French-American actress. Dead. Closed eyes and a ghost of a scream frozen on her lips.

Her voice faltered just slightly. “Of course you do.”

I let the silence stretch before asking, “What’s your name, Detective?”

Her posture stiffened. “Why?”

“I’d like to know the name of the beautiful woman accusing me of murder.”

Her arms crossed defensively, her lower lip trembling. “That’s irrelevant to the investigation, Mr. Lazzio.”

I let my tongue glide slowly across my teeth. “I’m sure it’s something lovely. Lucie? Gloria?”

“Naomi.”

I smiled faintly. “Pretty.”

Her hand moved almost unconsciously, tucking a stray strand of hair back into her tightly wound bun. Her voice dipped. “Thank you.”

The pulse at her neck betrayed her calm, quickening in time with the faintest flush creeping up her skin. Her eyes darted to my lips, just for a moment too long.

I glanced down again, adjusting my watch.

2:42.

“Pauline Dupont,” she began, her eyes steady on mine. “An actress working at The Sunflower on 42nd Street—your theater. Found dead in her apartment three months ago. A bullet between her eyes, a gun in her hand. Ruled a suicide. And you even gave a statement to the press about her mental health struggles.”

“Poor woman did struggle,” I said, the corner of my mouth twitching upward in a ghost of a smile.

“But your COO, Miss Jade Whitenhouse, seems to disagree. She claims you’re the one who pulled the trigger.”

At the mention of her name, something sharp and ugly tore through my chest.

My throat tightened, my fists clenched against the cool metal of the table.

Jade.

Her face flashed before my eyes—too perfect, too intoxicating, and yet somehow marked with the stain of betrayal.

Her sleek black hair that always fell just right, her honey-drenched voice that could cut glass, the scent of her skin mingling with mine, long nails dragging down my back, pretty mouth kissing mine.

“She said that?”

“She did.”

A scoff left my lips, humorless and cold.

My thumb brushed along my jaw as the silence stretched between us.

The fire in my chest flared, scorching its way through my lungs.

Betrayal—raw and jagged—settled in my veins, thick and suffocating.

The weight of her whispers still lingered, those soft words that had once felt like salvation now echoing like a curse.

I love you too, Angelo.

Nausea coiled in my stomach, climbing my throat like a slow burn. It tasted like bile.

“Do you believe in love, Naomi?”

“No,” she whispered, a hint of doubt in her voice, like she couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. “Do you ?”

“If love is obsession,” I murmured, my voice slipping through the air like smoke, dark and thick, “then I am already drowning in its flames, trapped in the deepest circle of hell.”

I stood, slowly pulling my blazer from the back of the chair, letting the fabric fall over my shoulders.

Her gaze never wavered; I knew she was watching me, taking in every detail as if she couldn’t tear herself away.

I slid my cufflinks on one by one.

I could almost feel the flicker of admiration in her gaze, the way her lips parted slightly, almost imperceptibly.

“I never would’ve believed a man like you could ever fall in love,” she said, her voice softer now, as if she’d let a piece of herself slip.

I gave her a dark smirk, the kind that didn’t reach my eyes.

“Me neither, Naomi. Not until I met the devil herself.” I leaned in, as my voice dropped lower, darker. “She stole my soul, and now I’m willingly bound to her mercy… for all eternity.”

Her head tilted slightly to the side, her cheeks now a deep crimson.

I turned, the door opening in front of me.

Without looking back, I stepped into the hallway and left.