Sinful Lies (Sinful #2)

Chapter 10

Chapter

Ten

“I hate men who are afraid of women’s strength.”

― Ana?s Nin

Jade

30 years old

Present time

“I would kill for you, Jade. Just give me one fucking chance. Just one , and I swear I’ll turn your world so upside down you’d never want to let me go.”

I laughed, sipping my margarita, the salted rim a welcome distraction. “Manuel, for the last time—I’m not into you.”

“That’s because we haven’t fucked yet, guapa . Once we do, I promise you’ll change your mind.”

Manuel Ruiz was every indulgence I secretly admired in men: strong, capable with his hands, calloused palms from hard labor, masculine, tall, and that annoyingly sweet smile that could charm anyone… except me.

He had a mouth that spewed filth and eyes that undressed, yet beneath all the bravado, Manuel was a decent man. Gentle, even.

He never crossed a line, never touched me without consent, never hurled threats or wielded manipulation for my attention—a standard shockingly high in the grimy circles of New York’s elite.

But as much as I appreciated him, I didn’t want him.

At least not tonight.

I just wanted to dance and relax alone .

Turning him down again felt as exhausting as the last dozen times.

“I’m not giving up,” he called over his shoulder, his determination thick enough to draw a smirk.

I raised my glass and took another sip of my margarita, letting the sweet tang coat my tongue. My eyes scanned the club, darting past the strobing lights and murmuring patrons.

It was a regular Sunday night for me, a much-needed exhale after yet another wildly successful exhibition Friday night. The New York Times had declared it “the finest display of art and glory.” As much as the praise had inflated my ego, the constant buzzing of attention left a strain that only this club, The Diamond , could soothe.

Yeah, that club—the one where I sent some Aussie guy to the ER for trying to get handsy, then got a free ride in the back of a cop car. Good times.

Owned by none other than Leonardo Vittori, it wasn’t just a sanctuary; it was an empire. And tonight, like every Sunday for the past year, I found myself here, savoring the energy, the ambiance, and my carefully curated escape from the world.

That was my Sunday routine.

Wake up well past noon, order takeout—a chicken Caesar salad with a side of fries—then draw myself a long, steaming bath while cracking open a bottle of my favorite red wine to get my blood primed for the night ahead.

Getting ready was a ritual in itself. My wardrobe revolved around what one might call outrageous excuses for dresses, but for me, they were my uniform. Short, scandalously tight numbers—sometimes sparkly, sometimes black, sometimes a riot of color—with necklines daring enough to make anyone blush.

My hair would be my final message: sleek and straight if I was hunting for a fling, or swept into an updo or ponytail if I was simply out to dance and drink the night away.

Tonight, I chose fun over lust.

I had slipped into a pearl-embroidered Balmain dress, a masterpiece of shimmering elegance that clung to me like a second skin. My hair had gone up into a perfectly imperfect messy bun, and I’d painted my lips a deep, provocative red.

The message was clear: Not tonight, boys.

But clearly, I had underestimated just how stupid men could be.

I downed the rest of my margarita in one go.

Placing the empty glass on the bar, I winked at the bartender, signaling for another. He nodded, already pouring, and I leaned back on the stool, crossing my legs as I let my eyes drift over the crowd.

People swayed, stumbled, and collided in a chaotic dance of hormones and bad decisions. Some were making out like it was their last night on earth; others seemed a few seconds away from throwing punches.

Directly in front of me, a girl danced with a boy, his hands gripping her hips as her head tilted back onto his shoulder. They moved to the beat of a Spanish song I couldn’t name if my life depended on it. She ground against him with enough fervor to make the room sweat, and whatever he whispered in her ear had her blushing and giggling before she grabbed his hand and led him off into the crowd.

I sighed, turning back to my freshly served margarita.

The bartender had even added a little umbrella—cute, but utterly impractical. I flicked it aside, taking a long sip, relishing the tangy sweetness.

At least the drinks didn’t disappoint tonight.

My nail tapped against the bare skin of my thigh, keeping time with the rhythmic beat, my eyes lazily drifting across the room.

Then, a loud pop shattered the air.

The first scream was a spark, setting off an eruption of panic. People scrambled in every direction, chairs overturned, and drinks spilled as more shots followed, each one cutting through the music like a jagged knife.

I sighed again, gripping my margarita.

Navigating the stampede wasn’t easy, but I managed, dodging flailing arms and spilled liquor. My heels clacked sharply as I descended the stairs, weaving past the chaos just as armed men stormed up toward the mayhem above.

The basement was quieter, the muffled sound of screams and gunfire fading into the background as I made my way down a narrow hallway.

Reaching the last door, I pushed it open.

They didn’t even glance up from their card game.

I dropped onto the sofa, still holding my margarita. “I don’t know if this is one of your kinks, Vittori, but for the love of God, put better security in your fucking club. Your place always attracts weirdos far too comfortable with a gun. I came here to party, not to dodge bullets.”

Leonardo Vittori leaned back in his chair, his green eyes flicking to me with an expression that managed to be both bored and vaguely amused.

Head of the Sacra Corona, he’s nicknamed il senza cuore , the heartless one. He earned the title after killing his first victim with a dagger straight to the heart, twisting it until the organ fell from the body.

Cute, I guess.

We have a twisted little arrangement, and somehow he’d become a friend—if you could call it that.

I could waltz into his clubs, his restaurants, and his lounges without ever dropping a penny—as long as I listened to his never-ending soap opera of women falling into his bed and the filthy things he did to them.

A fair trade, if you ask me.

“Get your feet off my fucking table.”

I rolled my eyes, deliberately tapping the toe of my heel against the polished sparkly wood. “Relax, Vittori. It’s not like it’s made of gold.”

Marco, his youngest brother, sat slouched over his cards, looking like he could barely be bothered to play. Enzo, the middle one, leaned back with that half-smirk of his.

The empty seat in front of them was an unspoken invitation, but I couldn’t help but frown at it.

Something felt off tonight.

I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but my gut was telling me this wasn’t just another ordinary night with them.

I didn’t even have time to say anything before the door opened and his gaze settled on the back of my neck, the hairs on my arms rising in warning. I took a long sip of my margarita, the sweetness now replaced with a bitter edge—as if the universe had decided to fuck with me on a whole new level.

His voice drifted to my ears, dangerously close, as he muttered something to Vittori. I couldn’t make out the words. It wasn’t like I wanted to hear them anyway. I was too busy trying to ignore him, praying the damn couch would just swallow me whole and put me out of my misery.

But then came the next words, and they sliced through me like ice.

“Hello, Miss Whitenhouse.”

For fuck’s sake, does the universe have it out for me?

Why the hell do I have to hear that voice, see that face, even on my fucking day off ?

I leaned back further into the couch. My face buried in my drink, I let the strands of my hair fall forward, partially hiding my expression as I tried to avoid looking in his direction.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t, it’s just that I didn’t want to.

The room suddenly felt like it was closing in on me; I could practically taste the claustrophobia creeping up my spine.

I inhaled slowly, forced myself to stand, and finished my drink in one go, the bitterness matching the churn in my stomach.

Turning my head, I finally looked at him.

Tall. Dark. And disgustingly handsome.

Honey and dark wood draped in silk sheets.

Mister Angelo Lazzio, or as I like to call him, Mr. Stick-Up-My-Ass himself , strode silently through the room.

His broad shoulders were practically bursting through the fabric of his suit, and his wavy, disheveled hair—clearly messed up from running his hands through it one too many times—only made him look more ridiculously handsome.

Ugh, I wanted to vomit just looking at him.

He casually held a cold bottle of water, his eyes flicking over mine—filled with that familiar blend of annoyance and utter boredom—before he sank into the empty chair across from Vittori. His back was now to me.

Guess he was as thrilled to see me as I was to see him.

I got up, empty cup in hand, and sauntered over to the table and stopped at his side, my hip hovering inches from his forearm.

His cards were spread out neatly in his hands, and from the look on his face, I already knew—he was going to win. As usual.

I tiptoed and leaned toward Vittori, craning my neck to peek at his cards. He angled them just enough for me to see. Pitiful. Not a single high card in sight.

“Anyway, you men are boring. I’m going back to the party upstairs.”

Vittori scoffed, leaning back with his drink. “I had the club shut down for the night. Some guy just got himself killed.”

I blinked. “Wait—your men shot someone?”

He shrugged, tossing his cards down. “Nah. Turns out the idiot stole his friend’s wife or something, and the friend shot him. Antonio just texted me—dead on the spot.”

Marco took a slow sip of his whiskey. “What’s his name?”

Vittori picked up his phone, scrolling lazily. “Manuel Ruiz. Never heard of him.”

My heart sank for a split second before sarcasm took over.

“Oh no,” I said, my voice dripping with fake disappointment.

Well, I guess he wasn’t that much of a good guy after all.

Lazzio laid his cards down, his winning hand making the men around the table groan.

“Another one of your admirers, Miss Whitenhouse?”

Lazzio, of course , had been an unwilling spectator to my love life since the day I started working for him. Not that I wanted his input, but somehow, every time I was minding my own business—flirting, mingling, or prowling for a one-night stand to scratch an itch—Angelo Lazzio made it his personal mission to be there.

Always watching. Always judging.

Sometimes he’d give me that disappointed look, like I’d just rolled around in trash. Other times, he’d make some snide remark about my “standards.” And then there were the worst moments—those rare, infuriating times he’d actually step in .

“I have a reputation, Miss Whitenhouse,” he’d say, voice dripping with condescension. “I can’t have my COO ruining it by parading around with whatever gutter-born stray caught her attention. Keep it fucking discreet.”

Discreet.

As if he had any right to tell me what to do, let alone judge my taste.

God forbid Angelo Lazzio ever let me have fun without his shadow looming over it.

“Yes,” I said, crossing my arms with a smile. “He even said he’d kill for me. But I guess now he won’t be able to, will he?”

Lazzio’s expression didn’t change—as cool, detached, and infuriatingly calm as always. Without a word, he lifted his water bottle and drank, his Adam’s apple moving slowly, a drop of water dripping to the side of his neck. He didn’t stop until the bottle was empty, and when he finally lowered it, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Ah, my mistake. It’s just so hard to keep track with you.”

Vittori chuckled, his whiskey swirling lazily in the glass as he brought it to his lips. His eyes gleamed with amusement, darting between us like a spectator at his favorite sport. He was utterly entertained, clearly used to our fights—the verbal equivalent of cats clawing and dogs barking.

“Keep track of what, Lazzio?”

He leaned back in his chair. “Oh, you know,” he said, his tone smooth. “Your… admirers. Your suitors. The long parade of men who seem to lose their heads—sometimes literally —whenever they get involved with you. Quite the pattern, really.”

My lips parted in disbelief. “You have the audacity to sit there and?—”

He cut me off. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m merely observing. I don’t care what you do with your life, as long as it doesn’t spill into mine.”

I scoffed. “Says the man who can’t seem to stay out of my sex life.”

He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing in that predatory way that always made my stomach tighten. His jaw twitched—just for a fraction of a second.

“If I really wanted to get in the way, Miss Whitenhouse, you wouldn’t have to wonder. You’d know. Trust me.”

My throat went dry.

I threw my empty cup on the table. “Well, I guess we’ll never find out, will we, boss?”

I spun on my heel and stormed out, the loud click of my heels against the floor practically screaming my frustration. Their Italian nonsense was still echoing behind me, but I slammed that damn door shut with a force that could’ve shattered glass.

Great.

My night was officially ruined.

Talk about an overbearing, overstepping, pain-in-the-ass boss.