Sinful Lies (Sinful #2)

Chapter 14

Chapter

Fourteen

“Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.”

― Benjamin Franklin

Jade

“I need you to sign these,” I announced, barging into Lazzio’s office without bothering to glance up.

I dropped the new contract with the Louvre onto his desk—a hard-won deal allowing us to rent up to 25 of their pieces each month.

I was particularly excited about this one. Once the museum’s construction was finally complete, I wanted to showcase Les Ombres de Francesca da Rimini et de Paolo Malatesta . Nothing screams passionate, destructive love like those two tragic fools.

They were the ultimate story of lust overruling reason, of two people so consumed by their desire that it led them straight to Hell. Classic.

“ Perfetto. Ci sarò tra due settimane. Manda i miei saluti ad Antonio. ”

I fixed my gaze on Lazzio as his smooth Italian accent filled the room.

He stood by the window, casting a long shadow over the chaos of New York City—cars, helicopters, and a million flashing lights below.

Today, he wore his usual tailored Armani suit, a sleek, dark gray two-piece with the vest draped over the back of his chair.

I cleared my throat impatiently, tapping my heel against the marble floor to get his attention.

He turned slowly, a frown deepening between his brows, with that infuriating smirk tugging at his lips—the one I’d fantasized about slapping off more times than I cared to admit.

His gaze slid down my body, taking in the sparkly, violet two-piece blouse and short skirt, paired with my knee-high Hermes heeled boots. The skirt was so short it left little to the imagination, and I knew the thought crossed his mind too, because I saw a flicker of irritation flash in his eyes before they met mine.

He ended his call and placed his phone on the desk.

“If I didn’t know you, Miss Whitenhouse,” he sneered, sarcasm dripping from every word, “I’d think you were fucking raised in a barn. Knock before you stomp in like you own the place.”

I rolled my eyes and grabbed one of his precious framed photos off the desk—his parents looking stiff as ever, and his dog, Georgino, the mutt he spends an excessive amount of time with, in my opinion.

I set it back down with a smirk.

“Funny, I almost do own the place, remember? Got thirty percent, so it’s practically mine.”

He scoffed, dropping into his chair. “I’ve got the remaining seventy, Miss Whitenhouse. So, I fucking win. Now, what the hell do you want?”

Oh, but not for long, Lazzio.

“I need you to sign these,” I said, pointing to the contract. “So I can send them off before I go home.”

He flicked through the papers quickly, then scrawled his signature right next to mine, shoving them back at me.

My gaze dropped to his hand, which was covered in freshly bruised knuckles.

I raised an eyebrow. “Burned yourself with your toaster again?”

His expression darkened.

“What?”

“Get out, Miss Whitenhouse.”

I laughed, strutting around his desk and perching myself on the edge, thighs brushing against his hand as I crossed my legs. “You’ve been awfully moody today, Lazzio.”

He leaned back, arms crossed, eyes lingering on my bare legs for a moment longer than necessary. “Got raided by the feds yesterday.”

“Yeah, heard about that.” I took his hand, eyeing the fresh bruises. “Did you take a swing at Vittori?”

He yanked his hand back, standing up abruptly. “ Sì . Don’t you have better things to do than get on my nerves?”

I sighed, swinging my legs playfully in the air. “Sadly, no. Grace left early today, so I needed a new target to torment.”

“Ah, I’m the lucky one, huh?”

I pouted. “Kinda. You should feel honored.”

In the six years I'd been working for Angelo, nothing got me off more than pissing him off. Watching his eyes darken, his shoulders go rigid, that little flush of rage creeping up his neck—it was almost as good as an orgasm.

Seeing that look on his face, knowing I’d wrecked his mood?

It was the kind of twisted satisfaction that made my day worth living.

“Where were you yesterday, Miss Whitenhouse?”

Shit.

I thought it would’ve slipped right past him.

My fingers dug into the edge of his desk. “Family emergency.”

“Thought you had no family, diavoletta .”

“I don’t.”

“Then explain.”

“No.”

“ Now .”

“A friend of mine gave birth. Back home in Philly. I promised I’d be there.”

A total lie.

His gaze sharpened. “Boy or girl?”

“A boy.”

Another lie.

“Name?”

I swallowed hard. “…Ronald.”

The second it had left my mouth, I regretted it.

Who the hell names their kid Ronald? What was I thinking?

He didn’t respond immediately, his eyes scanning me like I was a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.

Feeling a mix of irritation and satisfaction, I stood up quickly, adjusting my skirt and grabbing the contract.

As I turned toward the door, I could feel his eyes on the back of my legs.

Angelo Lazzio had a thing for legs. After all these years, it was as clear as day. I’d caught him staring more than once—whether in private or in public, the man’s eyes always seemed to find his target.

The type: blond, short, athletic. Strong legs.

I couldn’t resist poking the bear.

Stopping at the door, I turned around and leaned against it. “No date tonight?”

He got up and grabbed his vest, putting it on. “No, Miss Whitenhouse. No date tonight.”

“Guess the married women of Manhattan can have one night of peace, for once.”

His jaw twitched. “I guess so.”

I’d been sitting on a secret for three years now.

One of Lazzio’s little secrets.

One stormy night—one of those nights that felt like the universe is in a bad mood—I had been working late on a project with a small art dealer in Spain.

He had this rare painting of Louis XIV, and I’d been pushing hard to convince him to lend it to us for an exhibition we were planning.

The exhibit had been called Kings and Queens of Remorse , showcasing monarchs who’d lived these glamorous, luxurious lives, but were absolute monsters to their people.

Louis XIV was a prime example: yes, he’d built Versailles and lived in a gilded palace, but at the same time, he had been ruthless, ruling with an iron fist while starving his people. It was a perfect fit.

And I wasn’t just talking about Louis XIV.

There was Catherine the Great, who hadn’t just ruled Russia—she’d apparently ruled a hell of a lot of men, too. No judgment, but she hadn’t exactly been known for keeping things tame in the bedroom. A real queen, right?

Then there’s Henry VIII, who couldn’t make up his mind about wives—he’d married six, killed two, and still hadn’t gotten the son he’d wanted.

And let’s not forget Queen Mary I of England, Bloody Mary, who had executed hundreds of Protestants in her quest to restore Catholicism to England.

If you wanted to make an impression in history, you had to be both glamorous and awful.

Anyway, after hours—literally hours—of negotiating, the man had finally caved.

He’d signed the contract and sent it over to me right away.

Grinning to myself, eager to rub my skills in Lazzio’s face, I’d taken the elevator up to his office, barging in unannounced like I always did.

What I had walked in on, though, had been enough to traumatize me for life.

Lazzio was sitting behind his desk, his suit still perfectly in place—at least the parts that mattered. The rest of him was buried deep inside a woman, her body pressed against his as she rode him, hands gripping the desk for support. Her head was thrown back, her back arched, and his hands were tight on her hips, guiding her in a rhythm that looked as though it was designed to destroy her.

The whole scene was just… crazy .

For a second, I just stood there, frozen in disbelief.

Finally sensing my presence, Lazzio looked up.

His face contorted in horror as he shot up from his chair, quickly trying to adjust himself. The woman, still in a daze, finally saw me and let out a blood-curdling scream before scrambling to hide under his desk.

I gasped once my eyes recognized her.

Of course!

Long blonde hair, timid blue eyes, and that thin, slightly crooked nose—how could I have forgotten?

“Jade, I promise this is not what it looks like,” she muttered, her voice weak and trembling.

I raised an eyebrow, crossing my arms. “Really? Because from where I’m standing, it looks exactly like what it is, Mrs. Lazzio.”

Angelo. Was. Having. Sex. With. Luciana. Lazzio.

His uncle’s wife. In his office.

I wasn’t able to believe it.

Lazzio’s face twisted into a scowl. “Miss Whitenhouse, get out!”

“Get out?” I echoed, mockingly. “Oh, no, I think I’ll stay. This is way more entertaining than anything I had planned for the night.”

It truly had been.

I almost wanted to get on my knees and thank God above for making me witness this. Finally, I had discovered one of Lazzio’s little secrets, and breached that thick, impenetrable facade of his.

A tiny baby step closer to my goal.

And it felt fucking good.

The anger was still written across his face, but there was something darker, more dangerous brewing behind his eyes.

“You better get the fuck out of my office, now ,” he’d growled.

My brows shot up.

I had never seen him this angry. I guess I really struck a nerve this time.

I snorted and turned on my heel, striding out of his office.

As I made my way to mine, the image of his frantic scramble still burned in my mind.

For some reason, I had a feeling it was just the beginning.

And boy, had I been right.

For the next few years, I’d kept a close eye on Angelo Lazzio’s little secret.

He had a kink, but not just any run-of-the-mill kink like roleplay or BDSM.

No, Angelo Lazzio had a thing for married women.

Specifically, women married to men he couldn’t stand.

That was his thing.

If he hated someone, I could assure you, he’d be fucking their wife that same night—and the guy would never have a clue.

But fucking Luciana? Even he must have known that was off-limits.

The Lazzio legacy was all about loyalty, family, and keeping the bloodlines untarnished.

This? This had been a betrayal of the highest order.

His uncle would never stand for it—not when it meant his own nephew had dishonored the family’s sacred rule.

Lazzio had just handed his uncle a weapon, a reason for vengeance.

If the old man wanted it, he could demand his nephew’s head on a platter.

I knew Angelo knew that too.

It’s why, as I was about to leave that night, he had slipped into my office without making a sound. He’d pressed his body against the door, his eyes locking with mine.

“Want me to buy you off, or can you keep your mouth shut?”

I smiled darkly, savoring every second of it. “Nah. I don’t need you to bribe me,” I’d said, grabbing my coat and slinging it over my shoulders, my Chanel Boy bag hanging off my arm.

“Good,” he’d muttered, turning toward the door.

But I wasn’t done. Oh no, not yet.

“Oh, but there’s still something I want from you, Lazzio.”

He froze, his hand tightening on the door handle, his knuckles turning white.

“I want fifty percent of Lazzio Exhibits Inc.”

“What?” he barked, spinning around to face me.

“You heard me.”

“You want to own fifty percent of my fucking company?”

I leaned against the desk, casually tossing my bag onto the chair.

“Yeah, that’s right,” I said with a smile. “Fifty percent of Lazzio Exhibits Inc.”

His hands balled into fists as he took a step toward me. “You’re out of your fucking mind if you think I’m giving you half of anything.”

I tilted my head. “Maybe,” I said softly, leaning in just a little. “But I’m pretty sure you’d rather give me fifty percent than have your dear old uncle Lorenzo find out his lovely wife is getting fucked by his nephew on a random Tuesday night, while she probably told him she was heading out for Bible study.”

He moved fast, reaching for the gun under his vest.

In an instant, he had me pinned hard against the wall, the cold barrel pressing deep into my throat. My nails dug into the skin of his wrist.

“I’m done with you, Miss Whitenhouse.”

My hand slid up to his face, fingers tracing his jaw, nails leaving a slow, burning trail. “Likewise, Lazzio.”

A deep, guttural sound rose from his chest.

“Get your shit and get out. You’re fired.”

My smile only grew wider, darker.

I wrapped my fingers tighter around his gun, lifting it to my lips. My tongue slipped out, dragging along the cold barrel in a sensual tease.

I dragged my lips over it—slow and filthy, sucking once, twice, three times—each pull exaggerated. A low, shameless moan slipped from my throat.

My eyes stayed glued to his, daring him to look away, and when I finally let it slip from my mouth with a loud, wet pop, I couldn’t help but let a wicked laugh escape.

“Oh, Lazzio,” I breathed, lowering the gun, letting the tip glide down my throat, tracing my skin until it nestled between my breasts. “You know you could never fire me.”

His grip tightened on the gun.

“You think this is a joke?”

“Isn’t it?” I chuckled darkly, my fingers sliding around the back of his neck, pulling him even closer until my lips brushed against his skin. “I’ve got too much dirt on you,” I whispered, before my tongue slowly dragged along his neck. “I could ruin you… so, no, you won’t fire me, baby.”

He stayed silent, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might crack.

I pushed him off, grabbed my bag, and walked toward the door, but before I could escape, his hand slammed it shut, trapping me inside.

Damn, he was a one-man broadcast of mixed signals—louder than static, and twice as useless.

His body was pressed against mine, his scent—dark wood mixed with honey whiskey—saturated the space between us.

Honey and dark wood draped in silk sheets.

“Ten percent,” he muttered, his voice low and rough.

I turned slowly, pressing myself against the door as his other hand landed on the wood, caging me in.

His face was just inches from mine, his breath warm on my skin.

“Forty,” I said, voice steady, my pulse quickening despite myself.

His jaw clenched. “Twenty.”

I shook my head, my eyes wandering over his features—sharp jawline, dark eyes flashing with irritation, and full lips. “Thirty. Last offer.”

He leaned in even closer, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as his voice dropped to a whisper. “Done. And if I find out you told even one soul, I will kill you with my bare hands, Miss Whitenhouse.”

“I promise, Lazzio. I’ll never tell your secrets,” I’d lied.

That night, I had become COO and co-owner of Lazzio Exhibits Inc., and with that had come the freedom to expand my talents across the company.

More than that, it had given me the perfect opportunity to get on every single nerve of Angelo Lazzio—and it was fucking bliss.

“What about you, Miss Whitenhouse? No date tonight? Or should I say, no fucking with a mover, plumber, or—what was the last one again? Oh yeah, an electrician?”

As much as I knew Lazzio was familiar with his own history, I supposed it was only natural he’d know mine too.

After all, he’d occasionally crossed paths with the different men I’d lost myself in for a night—or sometimes more—just to erase the tension that working for him left in my system.

Even if he tried to shame my taste, it would never occur to him to mingle with the lower class.

No, Mr. Lazzio was far too uptight for that.

I smirked, checking my nails. “What can I say? I’ve always had a thing for men who know how to use their hands… and their mouth.” I let my gaze flick up, watching the flicker of annoyance cross his face. “Especially their mouths. Kissing, making out… and going down. Ugh, I love it all. Especially when they go down on me. Only real men do that. The rest? They’re just… boys.”

The scowl etched across his face was almost artful—pure rage, with just a dash of offended pride. Angelo Lazzio, king of “no missionary” and “too good to go down,” looked like he was seriously considering throwing me out of the nearest window.

As if the very air he was breathing had been poisoned by my presence, he scoffed sharply before storming out of his office.

He didn’t even look back, his footsteps echoing down the hall as he made his way to the elevator.

Before the door closed, he shot me a final glare.

“You know,” he called out, “It’s pathetic how desperate you are for validation from men who can barely afford to wipe your shoes. Guess some people are so used to settling for the scraps, they don’t even realize they’re eating off the floor.”

Freaking bastard.

I saw red.

That fucking smug look on his face was too much to take.

Without thinking, I took off my heel and hurled it toward him, watching it sail through the air with all the force I could muster.

But before it could reach him, the elevator doors slid shut with that cold, final sound, and all I heard was his laugh. That insufferable, arrogant laugh that echoed through the hallway as the elevator descended, taking him from my sight.

I stood there, fuming, my heart pounding in my chest.

Oh, Angelo Lazzio, I can’t wait to stand in your ruins and watch you burn.

Kicking the door shut behind me, I made a beeline for the kitchen, the weight of three grocery bags pulling at my arms. I dropped them onto the counter with a sigh.

After shoving everything haphazardly into the fridge, I slipped out of my coat and kicked off my shoes, leaving a messy trail of clothes as I made my way to the bathroom.

I cranked the shower to the hottest setting, steam filling the space almost instantly.

Stripping off the rest of my clothes, I stepped into the scalding stream, letting the water beat down on me like a storm.

It seared against my skin, but the heat couldn’t wash away the words echoing in my mind— settling for scraps, eating off the floor.

Ugh, I should've killed him on the spot.

My hands pressed against the cold tiles, my head hanging low as the water soaked my hair, turning it into a dark curtain that veiled my face.

I stayed under the spray until it ran icy, my skin prickling with the cold.

Wrapping a black towel around my body and another around my hair, I padded out into the dimly lit apartment.

Lighting the candles scattered around the room, I poured myself a glass of red wine, letting its warmth bloom inside me as I finally sank into my velvet sofa.

Angelo Lazzio—the devil’s thorn buried under my skin.

I took a long sip of wine, savoring its dark, bitter bite before getting up and heading to my office.

My thumb pressed against the cold fingerprint scanner until the door clicked open.

I slipped inside, letting it shut slowly behind me, sealing me into the dimly lit space.

The room remained in darkness for a beat longer before I flicked on the light, harsh brightness revealing the meticulously organized chaos—the blueprint of my revenge.

No one had ever stepped foot in this room but me.

And for good reason.

Because if they did, I’d either end up in a cell or worse—bound and gagged in some dark basement.

This room was my lair, my sanctuary, crammed with secrets and lies, every piece of it a sharpened knife aimed straight at Angelo Lazzio’s throat.

I navigated through the sea of scattered documents and photos on the floor, careful not to disturb the mess I had so deliberately set up.

I sank into my crimson velvet loveseat, grabbing the small remote I always kept there.

With one press, the hidden TV slid out from its panel in the wall. I switched to the last channel—the live feed from Lazzio’s security cameras at his Broadway theater, The Sunflower.

I’d overheard him on a call earlier, mentioning he needed to speak with one of the actresses, so I knew exactly which camera to pull up.

I scanned through the different camera angles, eyes narrowing as I searched the building.

Finally, I found him—smoking in the back alley, his silhouette framed by the cold, winter air. The smoke from his cigarette mingled with the white puffs of his breath, dissipating into the darkness. He leaned against the brick wall, only half of his face visible; the other half was cloaked in shadow.

One thing I’d learned about Angelo Lazzio—he was a paragon of health.

He worked out every day, ate like a monk, barely touched alcohol, and never smoked… unless he was absolutely stressed.

Tonight, something had clearly gotten under his skin.

I sipped my wine, savoring the taste as I watched him from my private little theater of his life.

What could possibly be eating at him?

Just then, a figure emerged from the darkness—a woman.

Tall, red-haired, dressed in what looked like a 17th-century costume, her face painted white with bloodred lips. An actress.

She was frantic, her shoulders shaking, hands flailing as she spoke, her words lost to the silence of the feed.

Lazzio stood there like a stone, towering over her. His expression was unreadable, jaw clenched so tight I could almost hear his teeth grind through the screen.

I zoomed in, trying to get a better look at her face.

Pauline Dupont. His prized actress.

Was she another one of his mistresses?

I frowned.

No, she didn’t fit his usual pattern. She looked too… unhinged, too desperate.

I took another sip of my wine, my eyes fixed on Lazzio, as if I could pierce through his skull and read his thoughts.

What the hell was going on in that alley, Lazzio?

Before I could blink, the scene on the screen took a turn so shocking, my fingers slipped, and my wine glass shattered against the floor, red liquid splashing like blood on the velvet.

The actress, her face twisted in terror, screamed something at him.

In response, Lazzio grabbed her chin, his thumb stroking her jaw in a mockery of tenderness. He leaned in, whispering words that made her eyes bulge with fear.

Then, without warning, he pulled a gun from his coat and shot her point-blank between the eyes. Her body crumpled to the ground, blood splattering across his face like a twisted artist’s canvas.

A silent scream wrenched out of me, my hand clasped over my mouth, too terrified to even breathe, as if he could somehow sense my presence through the screen.

He calmly wiped a speck of blood from his cheek, then turned—just slightly—toward the camera.

His eyes locked onto the lens, as if he knew someone was watching.

And then—static.

The screen crackled, then turned black.

Someone had just cut the feed.

I stared at the blank monitor, heart pounding, unable to move.

I had just witnessed a murder .

I sat there, paralyzed by the dark satisfaction that gnawed at my insides. Angelo Lazzio had just handed me the final weapon I needed.

The perfect moment of weakness. The final piece to destroy him.

And yet, something in me felt cold—emptier than before.

Was I really ready to pull this trigger?

I stood up, my legs shaky, my thoughts fragmented.

I glanced at the shattered wine glass on the floor, the fragments sharp and glistening, like memories I’d long since buried.

The only thing left now was the choice I had to make.

And, God help me, I would make it.

The game had changed.

And I had just turned the final page.