Sinful Lies (Sinful #2)

Chapter 9

Chapter

Nine

“It is better to be hated for what you are than to be loved for what you are not.”

― André Gide

Jade

29 years old

A year ago

“What do you want now, Satan? Haven’t you annoyed me enough for one day?”

I perched myself on Grace’s desk, crossing my legs as I picked up the picture frame she kept proudly displayed—her grinning husband and their army of children.

Honestly, I’d never seen any of them in real life.

The man never set foot in this office, and her kids were apparently too mythical to exist outside holiday cards. Sometimes I wondered if this picture wasn’t just some stock photo she’d picked up to fit the mold of a sweet old grandma still working because she couldn’t sit still. Blah blah, barf .

“What are you even doing here, oldie? It’s Christmas Eve, and it’s past three. Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, grilling your turkey or knitting socks for the grandkids you swear aren’t imaginary?”

She snatched the picture out of my hands before she carefully put it back on the desk, dusting it like I’d somehow smudged its sacred aura.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I have things to finish up before the holiday. Unlike some people, I don’t run around bothering coworkers like a stray cat.”

“ Meow ,” I said dryly, sliding off her desk. “Just saying, Grace—your turkey’s going to end up drier than you . And I’d hate for your perfect little family to choke on that.”

Her scowl deepened, the kind of look that could curdle eggnog.

I smirked, tossing her a casual wave as I strutted off.

But not before I heard her mutter under her breath, “At least I have a family.”

I froze for half a second.

At least I have a family.

Something in my chest tightened—hard, ugly, and rough, like barbed wire wrapping itself around my ribs.

I took a shaky breath, forcing myself not to go there.

Not to think about them .

About the kinds of memories that could sneak up on you when you least expected it, dragging you underwater and drowning you in a tide you couldn’t fight.

I swallowed hard, steadying myself, and made my way to Lazzio’s office.

Barging in without knocking was second nature by now—my default. Maybe because it felt easier to shatter his silence than to sit in my own.

He was at the window, phone pressed to his ear, speaking in that velvety Italian of his. Snow dusted the city skyline outside, and for a moment, I let myself drink in the sight of him: tall, broad shoulders, the darkest of hair, and utterly oblivious to my presence.

His suit caught my attention—light beige.

It was so … uncharacteristic.

Angelo Lazzio, the self-crowned king of brooding darkness, suddenly giving off espresso at a Tuscan villa vibes? Interesting .

I slammed the door shut behind me, loudly enough to make my point.

The point being: I’m here to annoy you, deal with it.

He didn’t even flinch. Didn’t bother turning around, either.

I leaned against the door. My eyes stayed on him, watching the way he carried himself like nothing could touch him.

For a moment, I hated him for it. Hated the calm he exuded, the way he seemed perfectly in control while I was… not.

I looked down at my hands clenched into fists at my sides. And I hated that too.

Freaking annoying Grace and her stupid remarks.

A dry laugh escaped me before I could stop it. Of course I’d lose it in his office.

The one place where weakness wasn’t just unwelcome—it was ammunition.

Feeling like a mess thanks to the holiday nostalgia clawing at my chest, I needed a way to release it all. And for some twisted reason, my pain always found a way to spill over onto someone else.

For the past five years, that someone had been my boss.

The man was too tall, too strong, too thick for his own good—he could take anything life threw at him.

And that made him the perfect target.

Call it toxic. I called it therapy for my nerves.

He was my punching bag, and I didn’t even feel guilty about it.

Why should I? It worked.

I walked over to his desk, letting my fingers trail over everything—his pens, the picture frames, and especially that ridiculous picture of his new dog, Georgino, from a few months ago. The little furball was clearly his latest obsession.

I picked up his Rolex, letting the weight of it sit in my hand for a moment before slipping it onto my wrist. The diamond gleamed so brightly I had to blink.

His wallet sat there, just waiting to be tampered with. I flicked it open, casually flipping through the multiple black cards, business cards, and some ID card he clearly took way too seriously.

But what really caught my eye were the three crisp hundred-dollar bills tucked inside.

Without thinking twice, I snatched them, sliding them into my bra.

A little extra padding never hurt anyone.

Just as I finished, I heard the shuffle of movement behind me.

He turned around, hung up the phone, and shoved it back into his pocket, his eyes narrowing with that familiar annoyance that always made me smile.

“Why, hello, boss. You look quite nice today. Off to snatch some poor woman’s soul off of the right path and lead her straight to hell?”

“Only Satan herself would know what that feels like.”

I chuckled. “Well, if that’s the case, maybe you’ll be joining me in hell after all. Wouldn’t want to let all that potential go to waste.”

He strode toward me, grabbing his wallet with an annoyed flick of his wrist, shoving it into the inner pocket of his blazer. “Hell would be a mercy for you, diavoletta . If I had my way, you’d be rotting somewhere far worse.”

I folded my arms, the Rolex sliding loosely down my wrist.

His eyes darted to it, then back to my face, and I caught the slight twitch in his jaw.

“Far worse than hell?” I mused, tilting my head as if considering it seriously. “Like, I don’t know, an eternity in your office—stuck with bad coffee and your dry, soul-crushing ego?”

He didn’t answer, just stepped closer. Close enough that the faint scent of his cologne—something expensive and maddeningly intoxicating—wrapped around me. His eyes, cold and dark, scanned me, cataloging every detail like he always did. When they landed on my chest, a flicker of understanding passed through them.

“Give it back.”

I blinked up at him. “Give what back? Oh, this lovely watch? Thought I’d borrow it—such a shame to let it sit there collecting dust when it could be, you know, appreciated .”

“The money, Jade.”

A slow, simmering heat unfurled beneath my skin.

It was the second time my name had slid from his lips—a dark caress, cold enough to steal the breath from my lungs.

“Ah, you mean the crisp Benjamins currently keeping me company?” I grinned, letting my hand trail to the neckline of my dress. “Sorry, boss. They’re mine now. Call it a convenience fee for putting up with you.”

His patience—what little of it he ever possessed—shattered in an instant.

He reached for me, his hand fisting the front of my dress, the fabric twisting tightly in his grip. The neckline slipped, inching dangerously lower.

One sharp tug, and the delicate lace of my bra would be exposed.

I tilted my head, pouting playfully. “You know, for a supposed billionaire, you’re awfully stingy.”

For some obvious reason, he didn’t find it funny.

A low growl rumbled from his chest. “Now.”

I tapped my chin. “Mmm, no. Don’t think I will. But thanks for asking so nicely.”

He stepped in, way too close—close enough that the heat of his body almost made me gasp.

His tongue flicked against his teeth in that way he did when he was pissed, but I couldn’t help but notice how that anger only made him… deliciously sharper. Dangerous .

“Miss Whitenhouse?—”

I let out a bored sigh. “If you’re dying for it back, you can fetch it yourself, Lazzio.”

His eyes darkened, and that smile—oh, it was anything but friendly.

Without warning, his free hand shot under my dress, fingers grazing my chest as he hunted for the bills. My breath caught, my pulse racing as his gaze stayed locked on my lips. His fingers brushed so close to my nipple I swear I felt the heat of it, teasing me just enough to drive me insane.

For a split second, I thought he might actually go further, and I almost wanted him to. But instead, he jerked his hand back like I was the one burning him, leaning back as if I was the last thing he wanted to touch.

But the look in his eyes?

It was raw, dark heat, and it made my skin ache.

“You’re playing with fire, sweetheart. And sooner or later, you’ll get burned.”

“Maybe I like the burn, Lazzio,” I whispered.

His eyes flashed, and without a word, he grabbed my wrist; he pulled me in so close I could practically feel his heartbeat. In one swift motion, he snatched the Rolex off my wrist, his fingers grazing over my skin, sending delicious shivers down my spine.

Butterflies erupted in my stomach, fluttering lower, like they were racing to get somewhere they shouldn’t be.

It was the second time in all the years we’d known each other that his hands had touched me.

Fuck. I didn’t even realize how much I missed being touched—his touch was like a wake-up call, and suddenly everything felt alive again.

The last time I felt this alive ?

Three months ago, when I was moving into a place just a stone’s throw from Central Park. My lease was up, and I had wanted something bigger—somewhere close enough to run every morning before work. A mover had been helping me with the boxes. He’d leaned in, whispered that I’d looked too good to be true, and, well… one thing had led to another.

Lazzio pulled away like he hadn’t just manhandled me, slipping his Rolex back on and walking to the coat rack.

He grabbed his jacket and slid it on, moving like I wasn’t even there.

“So, what are you doing for Christmas?”

“None of your business.”

I smirked, crossing my arms. “Let me guess. Another boring family dinner? I’m sure they all just love your charming personality.”

He didn’t respond, just grabbed his phone from the desk and made a beeline for the door, clearly trying to avoid me.

So, obviously , I followed him.

He opened the door with a soft click and stepped into the hallway.

Grace’s desk was empty—she must have gone home to her dry turkey and happy, smiling little elves.

Lazzio hit the elevator button with a flick of his finger.

“So, when do I get my Christmas present? Or should I just expect a pair of socks with your face on them, so I can literally step all over you?”

He tapped the button again like it might make me go away. If only.

“You know, Lazzio–”

“What are you doing for Christmas, Miss Whitenhouse? Let me guess—another lonely night locked in your cold, empty apartment, because no one can stand being around you. I’m sure even your family avoids you. Hell, they probably thought about putting a bullet in their heads just to escape another miserable night with you.”

His words hung in the air, too heavy, too mean, and I was frozen—caught somewhere between anger and something far more unsettling.

He turned and his hand—unexpectedly gentle—lifted my chin, forcing me to look up at him. The moment felt too intimate, too charged, and I couldn’t tear my gaze away, even if I wanted to.

“Enjoy your Christmas, sweetheart. I’m sure your misery will be the only thing that doesn’t ditch you this year.”

His thumb slowly traced the curve of my lower lip.

I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move.

My eyes fluttered closed for a second, but only for a moment—when I opened them again, his face was so close that his breath was warm against my cheek. His nose brushed lightly against mine.

For a beat, we stood there, suspended in time.

But just as quickly as it came, he pulled back.

He stepped into the elevator, his eyes locking with mine as the door slid shut with a soft click.

And for the first time, I felt it.

The silence. The absence of my usual snarky comebacks.

Angelo Lazzio had made me speechless.

I brought a hand to my lips, the echo of his touch still burning on my skin.

Jesus.

I should’ve been pissed.

I should’ve yelled something back, but my mouth? It wouldn’t cooperate.

I stood there like an idiot, hands trembling, because deep down, I knew he was right.

The door closed behind me before I gracefully slipped into his chair, the leather creaking under my weight as I leaned forward, fingers already dancing over his ridiculously expensive computer. The one he’d had to buy last year after the old one mysteriously ended up in pieces against the wall.

I was still absolutely furious. Still fuming.

I should’ve just followed him, dragged him into some dark corner, and chopped his head off as the best Christmas present I’d ever give myself.

But no. Instead, his words—those perfectly timed insults—had done exactly what they were supposed to.

They had dug in deep. Poked around in all the places I’d kept hidden.

Places I thought were safely locked away, but now? Not so much.

And honestly? It had worked.

It had refocused me.

Reminded me why I was here in the first place.

Because I needed something from his files. Something important. Something called The Cyrus Project.

So, the head-chopping would have to wait for now.

Over the years, I’d learned everything there was to know about New York’s elites.

Specifically the big three: the Gregs, the Lazzios, and the Harpers.

The untouchables. The ones who thought they could get away with anything.

I’d spent the last five years perfecting the art of surveillance.

Every public event, every secret meeting, every dinner I had managed to crash—hell, I’d even showed up at their weddings, funerals, and engagement and divorce parties. Sunday mornings at church, country clubs, galas, clubs—you name it, I had been there. And no one had noticed. No one ever did. But I saw it all.

I knew everything. Every little secret they thought they’d buried.

I had them all mapped out, connected by red strings on a board—affairs, betrayals, stolen inheritances, secret bankruptcies. Their addictions to drugs, gambling, and of course, power. The whispers of blackmail schemes, quiet bribes, and messy cover-ups painted their twisted world like a masterpiece of sin.

Their vices were my Bible.

I had it all under control.

And I’d played my role perfectly.

They never suspected a thing. They thought I was just a pretty young woman with too much confidence. So they’d talked to me. They had let their guard down. Shared their dirty secrets, their twisted little victories, all the gossip that could bring them down.

And I had soaked it all up.

Because in those moments, I’d held the power.

But there was still one thing missing.

One piece of the puzzle that would make everything fall into place.

And that piece? It had a name: The Cyrus Project.

A few months ago, I’d overheard Angelo Lazzio and his father at one of our exhibition nights. They were talking about Jonathan Cyrus, and how he was still seething over the fact that one of his precious projects had gotten ruined.

That conversation? It had sparked my curiosity.

With a sigh, I stared at the login screen. Time to crack the code.

First try: Angelo’s mama’s name. Nothing.

Second try: his birthday. Still nothing.

Third try: his favorite color. Black, of course. Denied.

I tried: Satan666. That was good for a laugh, but nope, still no access.

His last fling’s name? It was worth a shot, though I had to pause and think—was it Sarah or Sophie? I tried both. Nada.

Oh! Maybe his dog? But nope. Nothing.

I pouted, drumming my nails on the desk, before laughing at my own ridiculousness. “Why not?” I murmured, typing in my own name.

Click.

Access granted.

I blinked at the screen like it had personally insulted me.

What the actual hell?

Of all the possible passwords—my name? Why?

A bead of sweat slid down my back, making me shiver.

Guess my boss was more obsessed with me than he’d ever care to admit.

The thought should’ve derailed me—should’ve had my mind spinning off into questions I didn’t want answers to—but I shoved it aside.

Focus, Jade. You’re in. Now dig.

And oh, did I dig. For hours.

His emails, documents, the hard drive—nothing was safe. Most of it was the usual Lazzio garbage: power plays, backroom deals, and secrets so poorly hidden it was almost insulting.

But then I found it.

His secured second email address. The one he rarely touched. A treasure chest of potential dirt, locked tight. Naturally, I picked the lock.

And there it was.

One email.

Just one email, dated exactly eight years ago, from a blocked, untraceable address:

The explosives are on, sir

My heart sank, and for the first time tonight, I felt the air catch in my lungs.

Because now, I had confirmation of something I didn’t want to believe—something I’d thought was impossible.

Angelo Lazzio was the one who had murdered my sister.

And he was going to pay for it.