Sinful Lies (Sinful #2)

Chapter 13

Chapter

Thirteen

“Go to heaven for the climate and hell for the company.”

― Benjamin Franklin Wade

Angelo

“I need you to do something for me, mio figlio .”

The butler poured me another glass of chilled white wine as I savored the pasta alle vongole. The rich flavors of garlic and lemon burst on my tongue, mingling with the salty flavor of the clams.

The table stretched out like a display of forced camaraderie—all smiles and polite laughter, masking the simmering tension beneath. My parents sat to my right, with Uncle Lorenzo and his wife, Luciana, beside them.

Across from me, the Harper family sat in an uneasy line: Lucius Harper and his wife Francesca, and Scarlett, who swayed between half-drunken stupor and silent rebellion. Next to her was Kiara, their eldest—calm, detached, like she didn’t belong.

At the far end was Uncle Fernando, observing in quiet amusement.

I was placed at the head, my father’s symbolic gesture of passing the reins, though he rarely relinquished control.

I met his gaze, a flicker of curiosity in my frown.

He hardly asked for anything these days.

“What is it?”

He moved closer, scanning the room to make sure everyone was lost in their own conversations. “I need you to check the security systems at one of our Broadway theaters—The Sunflower on 42nd Street,” he murmured. “There’s an actress involved… you’ll see what I mean. I need you to erase the footage, but first, download it to a hard drive and bring it to me.” His lips curled into a dark grin. “It might come in handy later. The Gregs can’t be trusted.”

My mind clouded with confusion. “What do the Gregs have to do with your… actress?”

He shrugged, taking a slow sip of his wine. “James has been having an affair with her, keeping it under wraps. But last night… they had a fight. He went to her trailer to apologize, and they ended up fucking in the elevator. Your security called me to let me know.”

Interesting.

I arched a brow. “Want me to cover this up?”

“I don’t want you to cover it up,” he corrected, his voice low and measured. “I want you to fucking take control. The Gregs have been slipping, and I don’t trust them to keep things in line. This isn’t just about some actress—it’s about power. If we don’t handle this now, it could come back to bite us. Hard.”

The Gregs are meant to be our allies, but we don’t mistake that for loyalty.

When we meet, it’s never just a handshake—everyone’s armed. Knives, guns, whatever they can conceal.

We tolerate each other, pretend to play nice, but the truth hangs in the air: trust is a weakness none of us can afford. We’re all just waiting for the other to make a mistake, so we can strike first and claim what’s ours.

For James Greg—the king of the Greg empire, the man behind the largest oil company in America—to cross into my territory and mess with one of my employees?

That’s not just a threat. It’s a trap.

A trap to see how I’d respond.

Because messing with my employees?

Especially one with long black hair and a body that could make any man drop to his knees? That’s my fucking job. And I don’t like to share.

And I’m sure he had fucked his mistress in that elevator on purpose—just to send a message, to make sure I knew exactly what he was doing and gauge how far I’d go. Or maybe he was so blinded by his own dick he thought I wouldn’t notice, or worse—didn’t care.

But no matter the reason, he had crossed the line.

And my father wanted me to make it clear: this isn’t something we let slide.

I nodded slowly, my gaze drifting to Uncle Lorenzo, his cheeks flushed a deep red—rage mixed with too much wine. I could see the storm brewing, and it wouldn’t be long before he exploded and turned his anger onto his poor wife Luciana.

Before that could happen, I rose, glass in hand, and tapped it sharply with a knife to grab everyone’s attention.

“I have an announcement,” I said. “As you all know?—”

“Oh my god, are you getting married?” Aunt Francesca interrupted, clapping her hands excitedly.

A collective gasp swept across the table.

“No, I?—”

She cut me off again. “But my assistant told me she saw you three nights ago, with a woman with long blonde hair and a cap. Your chauffeur drove her off. I thought you were finally settling down, Angelo. You’re almost forty?—”

Before I could respond, my mother groaned loudly. “ Dio mio , Francesca! My son is only thirty-six, not forty. You’d do well to focus on your daughter, who’s barely sober when she performs and threw up on stage again last night. And stop calling my son a womanizer!”

Francesca’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Monica! How dare you! You know Scarlett is going through a lot lately. Fame isn’t easy, right, dolcezza ?” She nudged Scarlett, who was half-drunk, her head lolling over the table as a faint snore escaped her lips.

My mother laughed.

Francesca frowned. “Anyway?—”

Uncle Lorenzo shot up from his seat, the chair clattering to the floor. He swiveled, eyes darting left and right. “What did Father say about your bitching, Francesca?” His voice was thick with venom. “Lucius, you better teach your wife to keep her mouth?—”

Luciana clutched the end of his suit sleeve. “ Caro mio , please, calm down?—”

“Don’t talk to me, strega ! Never speak when I’m talking?—”

My father sighed heavily, giving a subtle signal to the butlers.

With practiced ease, the two men moved to restrain Lorenzo as he fought against them, dragging him out of the room.

Luciana pushed herself shakily to her feet, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

She shot a strained, apologetic glance at the table before mumbling an excuse. “I swear he’ll behave next Sunday,” she said quietly, her voice heavy with regret.

Without another word, she slipped out, her promise lingering in the air—a weak, futile attempt to clean up yet another mess my uncle had made.

“He needs to be locked in an asylum,” Francesca muttered, reaching for a piece of bread.

My mother scoffed. “As if you’re a model of sanity.”

My aunt’s jaw dropped. “Oh, prego ! Says the woman who dropped 100k on shoes yesterday because a headache apparently required Jimmy Choo therapy!”

The two sisters continued their bickering, and I sank back into my chair with a sigh, my own head throbbing.

As my grandfather had always said, Non esiste una famiglia italiana senza un po’ di dramma.

There’s no such thing as an Italian family without a bit of drama.

I got James Greg’s epic sextape dumped onto my drive the day after our family dinner, right after making sure my security crew erased every trace from the memory chips while keeping a neat copy on my end.

I couldn’t resist taking a peek, and sure enough, the old man still had some game.

Almost impressive for a sixty-seven-year-old.

Now I faced a bit of a dilemma—what to do about Pauline Dupont.

The French Broadway star was one of our top earners, drawing global audiences. She had even bagged her first Tony for Best Actress, making her a real asset. But I don’t tolerate my employees fucking disrespecting me and flirting with the enemy.

That shit just won’t fucking do.

But when it comes to one specific, devilish one? Your rules surprisingly bend, Lazzio.

I shut the voice in my head down, burying it deep where it couldn’t cause any more trouble.

I reached for my phone and hit the red button to connect with my assistant, Grace.

“Yes, sir?” she answered immediately.

“Grace, set up an appointment with Miss Dupont for Friday night after her show. Tell her it’s for a contract negotiation.”

“Got it, sir. And may I remind you that you’re meeting Leonardo Vittori at La Piadina for lunch in thirty minutes?”

Leonardo Vittori, head of the New York outfit, is a close friend, like the brother I never had. But I was a businessman, and he was a mafia don—truth be told, we shared the same line of work, though mine was a little more legal.

“ Sì. ”

“Perfect. I’ll have your chauffeur come now. Oh, and I almost forgot—Miss Whitenhouse took the day off. Family emergency.”

I frowned.

I thought she had no family.

When Jade Whitenhouse had shown up at my door almost six years ago, fresh out of college and desperate for a job, I hadn’t even bothered to meet her. I had Grace send her away. She was too young, too inexperienced. I didn’t need some twenty-three-year-old who’d probably spent her teens glued to Sex and the City , dreaming of the glamour of New York City and all that fake shit movies and shows peddle about working here.

I’d just opened the museum a year before, and I’d had a vision.

This place would be the new art attraction of New York, not just a museum. I’d wanted it to be a fucking lifetime sensory experience—sight, smell, touch, taste.

I had a fucking vision, and I wasn’t about to let anyone slow me down.

I wanted the best of the best, and no young girl was going to measure up to that.

Or so I’d thought.

Then, as I’d been getting ready to leave, she’d barged into my office. Her eyes were as dark as night, her face pale as snow, lips blood red. She had a frown on her face, but it wasn’t one of fear—the girl had attitude. I could tell right away she wasn’t the type to take no for an answer, and that intrigued me.

And damn, the girl was breathtaking.

The most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

My eyes were drawn to her, something unfamiliar and heavy settling in my chest, and when our gazes met, I almost found myself at a loss for words.

Even when I threatened her, she didn’t flinch.

Instead, she met my gaze with a cool, unwavering stare, as if she welcomed the challenge. That look—that fucking look—had told me all I needed to know: She wasn’t afraid of me. And that made her even more dangerously attractive.

She’d left without saying a word, the air thick with the lingering scent of musk and dark amber. Moments later, Grace had stormed into my office, her face pale, glasses askew, one hand pressed to her chest like she was about to collapse.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” she stammered, still breathless. “She pushed me! I?—”

A chuckle escaped my lips. “Prepare her contract, Grace. She starts Monday.”

I threw on my coat, grabbed my phone, and walked out of the office, heading toward the elevator.

“What? But sir, she’s… so disrespectful! No manners! She didn’t even say hello or introduce herself properly when she arrived. She just barged in and demanded to see you, as if she were the queen of the world, and she almost killed me! She?—”

The elevator doors slid open, and I stepped inside.

“Grace, go join your family. I’m sure your grandkids are dying to see you.”

Grace had been in her early fifties, having worked for my father since her twenties, and for me the past fifteen years. She’d known every Lazzio, known our stubbornness, our ruthlessness.

I trusted her with my life, and I always respected her judgment.

But this time, I hadn’t listened to her.

I had to trust my gut. And my gut told me that Jade Whitenhouse was going to make me billions.

The crease in her forehead deepened. “I don’t know, sir. I have a bad feeling about this one.”

“We’ll see. Merry Christmas, Grace.”

With that, the doors had closed, and Miss Jade Whitenhouse had stepped into Lazzio Exhibits Inc. Like a storm, she’d swept through everything, tearing down and rebuilding in her wake, a force that had both thrilled and tormented me all at once.

Over the years, she’d become a ruthless shark in our treacherous waters.

Anything she wanted, anything she needed —it was hers. Suppliers, art, contractors—she’d bent them to her will with nothing more than a smile, and it would all unfold before my eyes, like a twisted magic trick.

She wasn’t just part of the reason Lazzio Exhibits Inc. was as powerful and prestigious as it was. She was the reason. And she knew damn well the grip she had on me and my fucking empire.

As painful as it was for my ego, I had to give credit where it was due.

Jade Whitenhouse was one of a kind.

But over the years, she’d never spoken about herself, her family, or anything that wasn’t tied to work.

The only exception? Sex.

She’d made no effort to hide that she was a sexual being, and she didn’t give a single fuck about it. But aside from her sex jokes, innuendos, and business talk, she was an enigma—and I liked it that way.

It was exactly what had made her such an indispensable asset and kept my obsession in line.

The less I knew, the better I could control myself.

So, after more than six years of unwavering devotion to this place, for her to suddenly take a day off? And for a family emergency ? That was fucking odd.

“Did she tell you what kind of emergency that was?”

Grace scoffed, the frustration clear in her voice. “As if this devil would have the decency to explain. She just sent me an email this morning—‘Family emergency. Taking the day off.’ No explanation. Nothing. I can’t stand her?—”

“ Grazie , Grace.”

For years, the two of them had been locked in a silent war, waging petty, calculated attacks with all the subtlety of an open battlefield.

One would spill coffee on the other’s desk; the other would toss her lunch in the trash. They’d sabotage each other’s phones, swipe sunglasses—anything they could to get under each other’s skin.

I’d stopped keeping track of their little skirmishes long ago.

They were like cats and dogs—fiercely loathing each other, but smart enough to disguise it with fake pleasantries and snarky jabs, always one step ahead in their passive-aggressive games.

And I was smart enough to never get in between.

“James Greg? Can’t believe his dick can still get hard,” Vittori laughed.

I grimaced, raising my glass to my lips. “Don’t even fucking remind me. That image is scarred into my brain for life.”

“And with a twenty-five year old?” He shook his head, a dark smirk twisting his lips. “You assholes aren’t paying the poor girl enough—she’s stuck fucking a prehistoric corpse now, because of you.”

We were seated in the dimly lit corner of La Piadina , Vittori’s pride and joy.

The place had that authentic, rustic Italian charm—the kind that made you feel like you were a guest in some old Roman villa rather than a trendy Manhattan restaurant.

But behind the thick walls of Tuscany wine and fresh pasta, he cleaned his money, laundered through every dish served.

The lasagna arrived, served in the same traditional ceramic dishes that seemed as old as the restaurant itself. The layers of pasta, thick with ricotta and rich Bolognese, steam rising from the edges, made my stomach growl in anticipation.

I cut into it, the cheese pulling apart in perfect strands as I brought the first bite to my mouth.

“Nah. She’s not fucking him for money. It’s something else.”

Vittori raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “What else?”

I shrugged. “Maybe she actually fell for him.”

He stared at me like I’d just insulted his mother. “ Che cazzo? Is she out of her mind?”

“Don’t know. Don’t give a fuck. I just wanted to find out what they’re hiding.”

His eyes shifted, narrowing as they locked on the window where a cop car rolled by. His gaze lingered there for a beat longer than necessary.

“Think Greg is looking for dirt on you?”

“Why would he?”

He scoffed, setting his fork down with a sharp clink. “I don’t know, maybe because you fucked his sister and his daughter? You think he’s just gonna let that slide?”

I let out a dry chuckle, leaning back in my chair. “That was years ago. Hell, he probably doesn’t give a fuck about his sister.”

Vittori smirked, taking a long sip of wine. “True. But the daughter? You’re still playing with fire, stronzo .”

I raised an eyebrow. “I’ve always enjoyed a good burn.”

Maybe I like the burn, Lazzio.

I cleared my throat, hoping it would clear my head as well, shaking off the pretty devil that seemed to possess my mind constantly.

“Speaking of fire, I’ve got my own shit going on. This cop, Detective Alvarez—guy’s a pain in the ass. Came sniffing around a while back, asking about some of my more questionable shipments. Drugs, you know, the usual. But now he’s not just asking for favors—the bastard wants to blackmail me.”

I raised an eyebrow, my fork halfway to my mouth. “What does he want?”

“A cut, and he’ll let me move my shit without his guys breathing down my neck. Bastard’s trying to play with me.”

A cold smile crept across my face. New York was a tight circle. Everyone knew who to avoid, and this detective clearly hadn’t done his fucking homework.

If he thought he could squeeze Vittori, he was in for a rude awakening.

Leonardo wasn’t just impatient—he was ruthless.

He’d settle a problem with a bullet, a blade, or his bare hands, if it came to that. And from the look in his eyes, he was ready for it.

“Anyway,” he said, lighting a cigarette, his eyes narrowing as a cop car slowed to a crawl on the other side of the street. “Cyrus called me last night.”

Fucking annoying-ass Cyrus.

I took a slow sip of wine. “And?”

He exhaled smoke slowly, a dark grin curling at the corners of his mouth. “Wanted to check if?—”

Before he could finish, the restaurant door slammed open, and a wave of feds stormed in, guns raised, shouting orders. Women screamed, men shouted.

Vittori just leaned back in his chair, smirking like he’d almost expected the whole thing, his eyes dark and gleaming with a sick kind of thrill.

I sighed, glancing at my Rolex. Shit.

I was going to be late for my meeting.