Sinful Lies (Sinful #2)

Chapter 3

Chapter

Three

“The urge to destroy is also a creative urge.”

― Mikhail Bakunin

Jade

24 years old

Six years ago

“But you don’t know anyone in New York, Jadie! I can’t let you leave. For what? A fresh start? To escape the ghost of your sister? To run from me ?”

I didn’t answer.

I just kept packing, each item I folded neatly into my bag as if it was the last time I’d ever touch any of it. I knew it deep in my gut—once I walked out that door, I wasn’t coming back.

I moved into the bathroom, the cold tile floor beneath my feet as I grabbed my shampoo, my toothbrush, the little things I needed to survive on my own. I stuffed them into a plastic bag, careful not to let anything spill.

“Jadie, please,” my mama’s voice broke. I could hear the desperation as she sank onto the bed behind me. “You can’t leave me too.”

I stopped for a moment, the weight of her words hitting harder than I expected.

But I had to keep going. I had to finish this.

I zipped the bag closed and slowly turned to face her. She was sitting there, her face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking with sobs that sounded like they were tearing her apart.

I sat down beside her, pulling her into my arms without a second thought.

This was the reason I had to go.

I wasn’t just running from the past—I was hurting her. Every day, the more I stayed, the more I dragged her down with me. She didn’t deserve that. She deserved peace, not to be tied to the mess I had become.

I couldn’t keep dragging her into my darkness.

I sighed, leaning back. “Mama, I’ve been arrested three times in the past month. I can’t stay here. This town is tearing me apart, and everything tied to it is dragging me down with it. You know it better than I do.”

Just the night before, I’d been released from custody after a bar fight. I had been so far gone, I didn’t even remember what happened until the flashes came back—the tequila, the coke, throwing up all over some poor lady’s dress in the bathroom. The cops had shown up because she’d called them on me.

When they saw the state I was in—blown pupils, the five-gram bag in my jacket—they didn’t hesitate. But Officer Kennedy, my mama’s high school sweetheart—who for some reason still had a soft spot for her—let me go, just like that.

I couldn’t help but think of my papa. He must have been rolling in his grave, watching me from wherever he was. Disappointed. Ashamed.

And my mama, who was flirting with a man she hated just to get me out of trouble.

She sniffled, her hands trembling as she reached for mine again. “What about Dr. Morano? You told me she was nice. Maybe if you go back, spend some time there… she could help you again.”

My shoulders slumped as I looked around the room, my eyes wandering over the remnants of who I used to be. Posters of boy bands, vinyl records from high school, my old pom-poms, teddy bears, paintings from my art classes—all those pieces of a life that felt so far away now.

I shook my head and forced myself to stand, pulling on my jacket and grabbing my bags. “I need to go. I’m gonna miss my bus.”

She sobbed. “Jadie, my baby, why New York? Why not Boston? It’s just twenty minutes away. I could come by, spend time with you, and?—”

I couldn’t look at her anymore.

I turned away, my hands white-knuckling the bag handle. “I’ll text you once I’m there.”

Without waiting for a response, I left the room, walking through the living room where Aunt Kristine, my mama’s sister, sat on the couch. Her sad, knowing eyes followed me before she stood up and pulled me into a tight hug.

“Take care of yourself, birdy. Don’t trust anyone. New Yorkers are… something else.”

I nodded, swallowing hard, my throat tight with the weight of everything I couldn’t say. “I will.”

She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small envelope. Slowly, she opened one of my bags and slipped it inside.

“Some money for your first two months of rent. Leila’s waiting for you. I had to convince her to take you in. So don’t disappoint me. No drugs. Not in her house.”

I wanted to tell her that last night had been the last time. That I’d never touch any of it again. That I’d be better, that I’d change.

But the words stuck in my throat.

“I promise.”

She gently tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, her touch soft, but the sadness in her eyes was almost unbearable. “Try to find peace, birdy. Try to heal, okay? And don’t forget about us. Please, Jadie. Call us.”

I clung to Aunt Kristine for a moment longer, breathing in the last of her warmth.

I let go, but before I could leave, Mama grabbed my arm. Her grip was desperate and tight, holding me like she was afraid I’d slip away forever. Her tears soaked into my neck, her sobs muffled by my shirt.

Aunt Kristine gently pried her away. “Clara, let her go. She’s made up her mind.”

I couldn’t look back.

I knew if I did, I’d fall apart, and I needed to keep moving forward, no matter how heavy my heart felt. Without a word, I turned and walked out the door, closing it quietly behind me.

The streets of Bay Village stretched out before me, the familiar white brick houses lining the road, their gardens quiet now. The places I’d once played, laughing with friends, felt like they belonged to someone else—a version of me that was already fading away.

The memories of neighborhood barbecues, families gathered in front yards, felt distant, unreachable.

I stopped at the bus station, the same one I’d used to catch the bus to school.

The gray bus rolled up in front of me, the words “New York City” shining in bold letters on the front.

I breathed out, the tightness in my chest finally loosening as I handed over my ticket. I made my way down the aisle and shoved my bags into the overhead compartment before settling into a seat at the back.

As the bus pulled away from Bay Village, I exhaled, feeling the weight of the past slipping away with every mile. I didn’t know what really awaited me in New York, but for the first time in what felt like forever, it didn’t matter.

I was finally leaving.

“I have a job interview. Wish me luck!” I called out, making my way to the door.

Leila barely spared me a glance, her attention consumed by The Housewives of Atlanta .

She waved her hand lazily in my direction, a cigarette perched between her lips, her eyes glued to the chaos unfolding on screen. One of the housewives had just tossed her champagne glass at another, all over some petty accusation.

I shrugged into my coat, the cold air outside already biting at my skin as I let my hair cascade out from under the collar. The harsh New York winter gripped me the moment I stepped out, and no matter how many months I’d spent here, it still felt like a shock to the system.

Living in the Bronx wasn’t something I’d ever imagined for myself, but Leila had made it work. She’d won the lottery years ago and built herself a life from it. She’d bought this small house and put in the work to turn it into something that felt like home. But it was too big for just her now, so she rented it out.

First to her friends, then to people trying to make it here—like me.

I’d asked her once about how she’d met Aunt Kristine, and I could’ve sworn I saw a flicker of something cross her face. A hesitation. She claimed they’d been close in college, but something in her eyes didn’t match the story. Aunt Kristine had only lasted a month in college before she ditched it all to open a nail salon.

Maybe Leila wasn’t telling the whole truth. Maybe she didn’t want to.

She had told me the house had become too big for her alone, though I could tell it was really just the right size for two.

But I guess, deep down, she knew she needed the company.

I slid into the taxi heading for Manhattan and crossed my legs, the black tights clinging to my skin, my high-heeled boots digging into my toes.

I let my eyes wander over the cityscape. The cold air sliced through the towering skyscrapers while the neon lights of the city flickered by in a blur, painting the night in electric colors.

It had been six months.

Six months since I’d touched anything . No drugs. No alcohol.

Nothing to dull the pain or silence the voices in my head or the faces that haunted my dreams. I’d been facing my demons alone for all this time. But the only thing that kept me going was work—and revenge .

I spent my mornings serving breakfast at a diner, grinding away to keep my head above water. It was the kind of work that kept me distracted, kept me from completely losing myself.

But in the afternoons, I switched gears. I worked at a vintage boutique—one that Leila knew the owner of. The store was small, but it was my escape.

It gave me the time I needed, the time to sit quietly, take in the city, and plan my next move. Between folding clothes and ringing up customers, I would watch. I would think.

But at night? That’s when the real work started. That’s when I built my plan.

There were many sleepless nights, endlessly scrolling through Google, LinkedIn, even Facebook. I didn’t care how long it took, how much I had to dig—I wasn’t going to stop until I had what I needed.

And then, I found it.

A name.

The one person who, unknowingly, would be the key to my revenge.

The cab driver’s voice snapped me back. “There. Lazzio Exhibits Inc. That’ll be fifty bucks.”

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. This city was way too expensive.

I pulled out the cash and handed it over.

He snatched it quickly, offering me a half-hearted smile. “Good luck. The Lazzios are known to be evil.”

My gaze drifted to the towering glass building of the museum, gleaming under the night’s light snow, standing like a fortress in the heart of the city.

A slow smile crept across my face. “They haven’t met me yet.”

I was the real evil here.

The secretary’s frown deepened, accentuating the lines carved into her forehead.

“You need an appointment to meet Mr. Lazzio,” she said, her voice clipped, like I was wasting precious air just by standing there. “And it’s Christmas Eve. Shouldn’t you be with your family instead of showing up here unannounced?”

I tapped my heel against the marble floor, annoyed.

Grace—the name pinned neatly to her chest in gold—sat stiffly at her desk, her pen clicking against the wood in a maddening rhythm as her eyes bore into me.

Getting this far hadn’t been easy.

When I first approached the museum, a wall of muscle in a navy-blue coat and cap had blocked the doors. The security guard looked like he benched SUVs for fun, and he wasn’t budging.

“It’s after hours,” he said, his voice flat. “Museum’s closed. Come back another day.”

Desperation clawed at me.

Okay, Jade. You can do this!

I gave him my best wide-eyed look and launched into the performance of my life.

“But I have a job interview with the manager for the curator position! If I don’t get this job, I’ll be homeless! I’ll have to… resort to prostitution, leave the path of God—” My voice cracked, and I let a few fake tears spill. “And it’ll all be your fault! On Judgment Day, you’ll have to answer for this. My failures will be your sins. ”

He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

I wasn’t done. “It’s Christmas Eve! Don’t you believe in miracles? In second chances? Can’t you let me have this one tiny win?”

For a moment he had just stared, his face unreadable.

Then he’d sighed, stepping aside with a grudging shake of his head. “Fine. Go. But hurry up before I change my mind.”

I’d lit up like a Christmas tree, clapping my hands in exaggerated joy.

“You won’t, I promise!” I’d chirped, practically skipping past him.

Now, standing in front of Miss Judgmental ’s desk, I felt my patience wearing thin.

“Mr. Lazzio doesn’t meet with people without appointments,” she said, her voice colder than the December air outside. “You should’ve called ahead.”

I leaned in slightly, dropping my tone to something softer. “Grace, it’s Christmas Eve. I’m not asking for much, just a chance to talk to him. A few minutes?—”

“No,” she cut me off, her pen clicking again, louder this time. “This isn’t happening.”

My smile froze, and I let out a slow breath.

Fine. She wanted to play hardball? I could play too.

“Listen oldie,” I said, meeting her eyes, “Christmas is about compassion. About opening doors, not closing them. You might not believe in miracles, but I do. And if I have to sit here all night to make one happen, I fucking will.”

She stared at me, unblinking, as if trying to decide if I was bold, foolish, or both.

Then, with a long-suffering sigh, she picked up the phone.

“Wait here,” she said, her voice tight.

I smiled sweetly, settling into the chair across from her. “Thank you. I knew you’d see reason.”

She shot me a side-eye that could probably kill a man in two seconds, then dialed a number with all the enthusiasm of someone ordering coffee at a drive-thru.

When she got Mr. Lazzio on the line, her voice was stiff as she spoke into the phone, her tone clipped.

“Mr. Lazzio, sorry to disturb you, but there’s a twenty-three-year-old woman from Philadelphia here to see you. She’s really interested in the vacant curator position.”

Yeah. Philadelphia.

Never been there, probably never will.

No way I’d tell them where I’m really from—some secrets are better left buried.

No one can know my real motive.

She paused, listening to whatever he was saying, her whole face lit up with a devilish smile.

“Yes, sir, I understand.” She hung up and turned to face me. “He said no.”

I blinked, momentarily speechless. “No?”

This was a joke, right?

Christmas miracle? More like Christmas fucking nightmare.

Was the universe actually working against me?

She shrugged, arms crossed, clearly enjoying this way too much. “He said you’re too young, not enough experience, and that you’re not what he’s looking for.”

“How would he know if he’s never fucking met me?”

She didn’t even flinch at my crazy outburst, just stood up and gestured for me to follow. “Come on, Miss Whitenhouse, I’ll walk you out.”

I wanted to scream.

The nerve.

But instead, I clenched my jaw, stood up. Smoothing down my skirt as my coat fluttered open, I grabbed my bag and followed her. My heels clicked sharply on the floor, each step making me feel like I was walking to my doom.

When we reached the elevator, she pressed the button.

As the doors opened, she turned back to me with her insincere smile. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss?—”

“I’m so sorry for what I’m about to do.”

Her eyes narrowed in confusion.

I didn’t waste a second.

I shoved her into the elevator with a force I didn’t even know I had in me, hearing a startled gasp escape her lips as she stumbled back.

Without another thought, I spun on my heel and dashed toward Mr. Lazzio’s office like it was the last bus out of hell.

“Miss Whitenhouse!” she screamed behind me, her voice echoing down the hallway, but I didn’t have time for that.

Not now.

I had more important things to do, like taking what was mine .

With one last surge of adrenaline, I threw open the door to Lazzio’s office with enough force to make the walls shake. The door slammed against the wall.

My eyes scanned the expansive office, taking in its opulence.

Marble floors gleamed under soft lighting, and sleek, black, luxurious furniture filled the space. One side boasted a U-shaped couch around a low, modern coffee table, while the other featured an imposing desk with three computer screens glowing faintly.

The floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the breathtaking New York City skyline, a spectacle of lights and snow drifting lazily against the glass.

From the 33rd floor, the view was nothing short of stunning.

Finally, my gaze landed on the man behind the desk.

Angelo Lazzio.

CEO of Lazzio Entertainment Group and Lazzio Exhibits Inc.

The only son and heir of Carlos and Monica Lazzio, members of one of the three richest families in the West.

He rose from his chair with an effortless grace, his movements slow as he rounded the desk and leaned casually against it, arms crossed.

His dark eyes locked onto mine, his brow arched in mild curiosity, or perhaps disdain—it was hard to tell.

Angelo Lazzio was the epitome of the Italian archetype.

Tall, dark, and frankly, disgustingly handsome.

He was the kind of man you’d call unfairly good looking, the sort that makes you question if life handed out certain genes as a cruel joke.

If I weren’t still riding the high of adrenaline from shoving his old secretary into the elevator like the star of my own low-budget action movie, I might have felt a twinge of intimidation. Might have .

Instead, I drew in a steadying breath, squared my shoulders, and let the faintest smirk curve my lips.

“I’ll keep this quick, Lazzio,” I began, my voice calm but edged with determination. “I may be young, but don’t mistake that for na?veté. You have no idea how much value I can bring to this place—or how I can turn your museum into the premier art showcase in the world.”

His expression was unreadable.

Still, I pressed on, taking a step closer.

“I’ve done my research. Your museum opened a few months ago, and the critics were less than kind: too predictable, too cold, lacking passion . But passion? Passion is what I bring.” My voice softened. “I’ll make it unforgettable, Lazzio. I’ll make it glorious .”

Before he could respond, Grace burst into the room, red-faced and panting, clutching the doorframe.

“I’m… so sorry, sir,” Grace huffed, her glare practically drilling a hole through me. “I called security. She pushed me to get in here!”

Lazzio’s dark gaze slid from Grace to me, lingering as if I were an oddity worth examining. Then, just barely, the corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, more like the ghost of one.

“It’s fine, Grace. Leave us.”

Her jaw dropped, her eyes widening in shock. “But, sir?—”

He turned to her fully, and when his eyes met hers, the room seemed to shift. There was no raising of his voice, no visible threat, just a look. But it was enough to make Grace snap her mouth shut like a bear trap.

With a curt nod she backed out of the office, shooting me one last withering glance before the door clicked shut behind her.

His eyes locked back onto mine, cold and far too intense.

Honey and dark wood draped in silk sheets.

The thought slipped into my head, unwelcome and wholly inappropriate.

I couldn’t tell if it was more disturbing or intoxicating, but it hung there, a soft and sinful whisper.

As if he’d plucked the thought right out of my mind, his gaze shifted, starting at my feet.

Slowly— agonizingly so —it roamed upward, lingering on the curve of my legs, pausing at my waist before moving to my chest, brushing over the hollow of my throat, and finally landing back on my face.

A strange shiver rippled down my spine.

His hands gripped the edge of the desk behind him, knuckles flexing, the tendons in his arms tightening just enough to draw my attention.

“Come on, Miss Whitenhouse. Convince me.”

Oh, now he wanted to play?

Sure. Why not.

Convincing men like Angelo Lazzio was practically a sport, wasn’t it? Or maybe more of an art form. Either way, I was not about to crawl or beg.

If anything, he’d be the one crawling before this was over.

But the way he leaned back against the desk, all predatory patience and coiled power, made something inside me twist.

Rationality screamed for me to walk away, but that reckless little voice in my head—my ever-loyal partner in crime—whispered. Stay. Let him see what you’re made of.

This wasn’t just about pride or ambition.

No, this was about revenge.

A slow burn that had carried me through sleepless nights and hollow days, sharpening me into something relentless.

And now, standing before Angelo Lazzio, I could feel it thrumming under my skin, urging me forward.

“I’m not here to beg. I don’t beg. And I’m not here for charity, either. I’m here because I’m a taker. I take what I want, what I’ve earned, and what belongs to me.”

“And you think a place here is yours?”

I let out a breathless laugh. “I don’t think. I know . That museum you’ve poured millions into? It’s beautiful, but it’s soulless. It’s screaming for someone who can make it matter, someone who isn’t afraid to get their hands dirty. You need someone with guts. That’s me.”

He let out a scoff. “A lot of confidence for someone so young.”

I stepped closer, the scent of leather and something unmistakably masculine wafting through the air.

“I’m only six years your junior. But unlike you, I don’t have the luxury of wasting time. So ask yourself…” I paused, watching the flicker of something—curiosity?—dance in his eyes. “Will you be the man who lets me walk out, a missed opportunity? Or the one who sees what I can bring to your empire?”

My gaze didn’t waver, holding his with the quiet assurance of someone who knew exactly what she was worth—and how to take it.

He nodded slowly, his tongue dragging over his teeth. “See you next Monday, Miss Whitenhouse. Merry Christmas.”

My Christmas miracle.

A small smile curved my lips, fire igniting in my chest as I held his gaze for a beat too long.

With measured steps, I turned and strode out of the room, throwing a playful wink at his secretary on my way to the elevator.

The moment the doors slid shut, I exhaled sharply, my composure crumbling.

Then, unable to hold it back any longer, I let out a scream, the kind that only comes when you know everything’s falling into place.

My plan was working, exactly how I had imagined.

Every move, every word, hitting the mark.

And this was just the beginning.