Sinful Lies (Sinful #2)

Chapter 6

Chapter

Six

“I might be the villain of this story.”

― Rebecca Makkai

Jade

I wiggled my feet under the bench, hissing as a sharp jab reminded me that, yep, there was still glass stuck in my toe.

Across from me, some woman was giving me a death stare.

I ignored her, tilting my head back against the wall.

All I wanted was for this night to disappear into a black hole. Was that too much to ask?

The floor beneath me was a sticky crime scene of gum, spit, and God knows what else. Hugging my knees to my chest, I tried to fold into myself, close my eyes, and pretend none of this was happening.

“You a stripper?”

“No,” I muttered, not bothering to look up.

“Well, you look like one.”

“Thanks.” I cracked one eye open. “I’m not.”

Blessed silence finally descended, broken only by the faint clatter of keyboards and murmured conversations. My body relaxed for the first time all night, the tension in my shoulders slowly unwinding as my breathing evened out.

“Why are you here?”

Groaning, I opened my eyes and leveled her with a glare. “I killed someone. Now, unless you want to be next, shut up.”

She laughed—a loud, snorting, braces-flashing laugh like I’d just delivered the punchline of the year. Shaking her head, she leaned back and crossed her arms, entirely unfazed.

For the first time in what felt like hours—but was probably only thirty minutes—I actually took her in. Hair in a messy bun, a battered leather jacket, and this smug little grin like she’d seen it all and dared you to surprise her.

She looked about forty-five, though the dark spots scattered across her cheeks told me drugs might’ve aged her faster than life ever could.

“Relax. Just makin’ conversation,” she said, leaning back in her chair like we were in some shitty coffee shop instead of a holding cell. “What’d he do to deserve it? Cheat on you? Or was he just a bad tipper?”

“I’m not a stripper!”

She gestured lazily at me, head to toe. “C’mon, that outfit? It’s a reasonable assumption.”

I glanced down at my ruined Dolce & Gabbana dress, now smeared with champagne, glass dust, and probably Aussie’s ego.

“Why are you here?”

She shrugged, unbothered. “Drug dealing.”

Of course.

The dark spots on her cheeks, the too-sharp cheekbones, and the jittery energy practically screamed it. The telltale signs of crack addiction were all over her.

“Could’ve guessed.”

She barked out another laugh. “Alright, I like you. Name’s Cheryl. You?”

“Not in the mood for bonding, Cheryl.”

“Well, that’s a shame.” She stretched. “You’re not gettin’ out of here anytime soon, princess. Might as well chat.”

That word again— princess.

My jaw tightened.

I didn’t respond, letting the silence stretch between us as my eyes darted around the police station.

The place looked exactly how you’d imagine a police station at midnight—dingy walls, flickering fluorescent lights, and the smell of burnt coffee mixed with crimes.

After smashing Aussie’s head in, I’d done the obvious thing: I took off my heels and ran.

I didn’t even grab my bag, just bolted out of the club with adrenaline.

But apparently, you can’t outrun karma—or New York cops.

They picked me up a few blocks away, their sirens splitting the night.

I didn’t fight them. What would be the point?

Instead, I played the birthday card, throwing in a promise to cooperate if they skipped the handcuffs. They actually went for it—maybe out of pity, or maybe because they wanted to see how ridiculous I looked climbing into the back of their cruiser in a champagne-soaked dress.

Spoiler alert: it was ridiculous.

At the station, they asked if I wanted a lawyer.

I shook my head, but my eyes drifted to the phone.

I needed to call someone, even though the idea left a bitter taste in my mouth.

They waved the phone toward me and I dialed the only person who could untangle the mess I’d gotten myself into.

My stomach churned the entire time.

Now, hours later—or maybe just minutes that felt like hours—I waited.

Sighing, I let my feet swing idly beneath the bench once again.

The background noise of the station barely registered until it stopped. A whistle—or something like it—cut out mid-note, leaving an uncomfortable silence behind.

I tilted my head, curiosity getting the better of me.

Then, I heard my name.

The officer who said it—a small blonde with a high ponytail and green eyes—looked up. Her expression shifted when she saw him. She smiled, her fingers brushing the ends of her ponytail as she adjusted her posture.

Tall, broad shoulders, dark hair.

Honey and dark wood draped in silk sheets.

Angelo Lazzio.

He didn’t need to turn around. I’d have recognized his back anywhere.

My name fell from his lips and the blondie nodded, responding softly, her cheeks coloring as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

He didn’t even look at her.

Everyone else, though? They couldn’t stop looking. The entire room seemed to lean in his direction, like he was the answer to a question they hadn’t realized they’d asked. Admiration, lust, envy—you name it, it was written all over their faces.

Lazzio didn’t notice—or if he did, he didn’t care.

He turned around, and his eyes locked onto mine. Cold. Calculated. Not a flicker of warmth, which honestly felt about right.

His jaw ticked, and he started toward me, blondie by his side.

I stretched lazily. “Well, this should be fun.”

The cell door opened with a beep, the sound loud enough to make me wince. He stepped inside, his eyes dropping immediately to my feet. His lips tugged downward—barely a frown, just enough to indicate he’d noticed.

“Come on.”

I pushed off the bench, brushing off my dress that was now sticky.

As I passed Cheryl, she barely glanced at me. Her gaze was glued to Lazzio like he was the eighth wonder of the world.

“Goodbye, Cheryl,” I said, tossing her a little wave. “He’s gonna help you get out too, don’t worry.”

She didn’t even blink.

If I hadn’t been so annoyed, I might’ve found it funny.

Standing next to him, barefoot, I suddenly felt this weird nervous energy creeping up on me.

I quickly pushed past the officers—whose whispers followed me—eyes still locked on Lazzio, and made my way out.

I blew the smoke out, fingers tight on the cigarette, freezing my ass off while waiting for whatever Lazzio was doing inside.

A cop stood off to the side, puffing away by himself, looking like he was lost in a deep, soul-crushing moment. I had figured, why not? Might as well ask.

I had asked if I could bum a smoke, and he’d just shrugged, tossing me his pack without saying a word.

I’d lit up and stuck the cigarette between my lips, but he had kept his eyes trained on the cars rolling by, acting like I wasn’t even there. It was almost like I had intruded on some sacred self- reflection moment, so I took the hint and stepped back, leaving him alone.

Finally, Lazzio emerged from the station, and I could feel his eyes scanning the lot until they found me.

The second our gazes met, the air shifted—dark, stormy.

He stalked over, snatched the cigarette from my lips without a word, and crushed it underfoot.

He didn’t even glance back as he turned on his heel, heading toward a black SUV, its hazard lights flickering in the night.

He slid into the vehicle, slamming the door shut behind him.

I followed him, my bare feet tapping softly against the pavement until I leaned down and tapped on the passenger window with the tip of my nail.

He lowered it, and I flashed him a wicked smile.

“Thanks, but I’m gonna walk. See you tomorrow morning, boss.”

I didn’t even have time to take a step back.

“Get in the fucking car, Jade.”

My heart fluttered in my chest like a thousand butterflies.

It was the first time he’d ever said my name.

For a second, I debated.

Walk away. Get lost in the night, barefoot and free .

But instead, I reached for the handle and pulled the door open.

The moment I slid into the car, the scent of him hit me—rich, smoky, with a hint of something dangerous that made the air feel heavier. It wasn’t the luxury of the leather seats that made me uncomfortable, it was the proximity to him—the way the space seemed to shrink, suffocatingly close.

He turned the car on, the engine growling to life as he merged onto the road.

“Tell me what happened.”

I yawned. “No.”

“Who’s the man you knocked out?”

I chuckled darkly, eyes flicking to his profile. “My yoga instructor. Guess I have more strength than I thought.”

“What the fuck did he do?”

I let out a sigh and stared out the window, as if the world outside was more interesting than this conversation. “If I knew you’d interrogate me, I would’ve stayed behind, Lazzio.”

His grip tightened around the steering wheel. “What did he do?”

Fine.

Guess he wasn’t going to let it go.

I leaned back in the seat. “Hurt me—though, not exactly the kind of pain I’d call fun .”

His tongue ran over his lower lip. “Where are your shoes?”

“Left them in the club when I ran away.” I waved my hand dismissively. “Be a sweetheart and ask your buddy Vittori to send them back to me. They were my favorite Louboutins. Oh, and my bag too!”

“You aren’t getting shit back, Miss Whitenhouse. I had to grease the cops with 70K just to get you and your little friend Cheryl out and erase the charges your little yoga instructor tried to play.”

I almost told him Cheryl wasn’t my friend, that I’d never even met the poor woman before tonight, but held my tongue.

Drugs can strip you bare, leave you a shadow of what you used to be. She was a walking reminder of who I could’ve been if I hadn’t pulled myself together.

So yeah, if I could help her for a minute, I didn’t mind—even if it cost Lazzio a little cash. The man’s a freaking billionaire. I’m sure he’ll cry into his silk sheets later.

I tapped my nails against the armrest. “Well, guess you’re not that much of a sweetheart then, are you?”

He glared at me for a second.

I pouted. “Consider it my birthday present, Lazzio. No need to waste money on a card or spa vouchers this year. You’re welcome.”

His eyes flickered with something—dark amusement, maybe irritation?

Hard to tell.

“You’re twenty-five, and you still can’t get your shit together. Getting drunk, getting arrested… Do you ever stop and think? Or are you too busy being nothing but a fucking joke?”

I clenched my fists, fury burning in my veins.

Freaking Italian bastard!

“I hate you so fucking much,” I muttered under my breath. “After everything I’ve done for you and your little precious Lazzio Exhibits Inc.—how my work literally helped push your shit show to the top—you should be on your knees kissing my feet, not running your mouth like some judgmental jerk.”

I didn’t care anymore.

If he wanted to tear me down, I’d tear him apart right back.

He slammed the car to a stop, and I realized we were already at my apartment complex. My hands were shaking, but I yanked off my seatbelt quickly, the anger simmering so hot I honestly felt like I might lose it completely and really end up in jail—this time for murdering my boss.

He got out, slammed the door, and walked over to my side, pulling it open.

I ignored him, stepping out onto the pavement, my bare feet hitting the ground.

“You’re bleeding.”

“And you’re an asshole. Now move.”

He exhaled sharply, and before I could even process what was happening, he had me hoisted over his shoulder, his hands gripping the bare skin of my thighs.

I gasped. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Put me down!”

He didn’t answer, just kept walking, my legs dangling in the air as I wriggled in a mix of embarrassment and frustration.

“You can’t just— ugh, put me the hell down, Lazzio!” I shouted, kicking my legs like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

His tone was maddeningly calm. “You’re still bleeding. You’re not walking anywhere like that. I don’t need you taking a sick leave and messing up my schedule.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I almost got dizzy. “Oh, how selfless of you. Put me down before I puke all over your suit, Lazzio.”

“Do it, and I’ll make you lick it off.”

I froze for half a second. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re a fucking child.”

“You’re lucky I’m too dizzy to fight you properly,” I muttered, thumping a weak fist against his back.

He pushed open the door to my apartment complex and set me down roughly.

My feet hit the floor and I immediately winced, hissing through my teeth.

Mr. Jones, my building’s concierge—who was the picture of every English grandpa stereotype rolled into one—glared at us. He was always in that tweed cap, even indoors. It was like the thing was surgically attached to his head.

“Everything okay, Jade?”

“Just peachy, Mr. Jones. Could you grab me a first aid kit?”

He stood, setting his newspaper aside, and cast us one last wary glance before heading off.

Lazzio took a step toward me. “Let me carry you to your door.”

I held up a hand, stopping him in his tracks. “Oh, hell no. You’re not coming up.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but Mr. Jones returned with the first aid kit, handing it to me with a kind smile. “Anything else you need, Jade?”

“Just a new life,” I muttered.

Mr. Jones chuckled softly, blissfully unaware of the tension curling in the air.

Lazzio didn’t reply.

Instead he paused, his eyes falling to my feet—bare, bleeding, pathetic.

Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and, without another glance, turned on his heel and headed for the door. His hands flexed and curled at his sides, restless, like he was trying to shake off something that had burned him.

And that’s when it struck me—it was the first time he’d ever touched me.

Skin to skin.

He stopped at the threshold, one hand gripping the handle.

His voice was low, just above a whisper. “Happy birthday, Miss Whitenhouse.”

The door slammed shut behind him, and I finally let go of the breath I’d been holding all night. But then it hit me—how the hell did he know where I live?

My whole body ached from the tension, but at least it was over.

Or so I thought.

Morning came too soon, the light filtering through my curtains. I reached for my work phone, more out of habit than curiosity, only to freeze when the screen lit up.

A way-too-familiar face stared back at me from the headline: Australian Yoga Instructor Found Shot Dead in His Apartment.

I blinked at the screen, my stomach twisting.

Guess the guy was more problematic than I’d realized.

Tossing the phone aside, I flopped back onto the bed with a sigh.

No more yoga for me, then.