Chapter 18
Chapter
Eighteen
“A thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it.”
― Oscar Wilde
Angelo
“To what do I owe this visit, Greg?” I asked, gesturing toward the cream, L-shaped couch in the corner of my office, my voice dripping with annoyance I didn’t bother to hide.
He followed my lead without a second thought, settling into the seat across from me.
I sank back into the couch, the tension between us thick enough to choke on. The kind of silence that would make anyone squirm—except James Greg. He looked right at home in it, like he thrived on the discomfort.
Just then, Grace entered, balancing coffees, tea, and a tray of pastries with the deliberate clink of porcelain slicing through the oppressive air. Her eyes flicked to mine for a moment, the anger there clear as day.
She was pissed, and for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why.
Without a word, she left as quickly as she’d come.
James leaned forward, reaching for his cup.
“For my condolences, of course,” he said. He took a slow sip of coffee, his eyes narrowing with faux sympathy. “I heard about your little actress, Pauline Dupont. Tragic, really. Suicide, right?” He shook his head, his lips curling just slightly. “Such a sad story.”
I barely registered his words.
The memory of Jade pressed up against me just minutes ago, her body barely a breath away, her tits brushing my chest, her nails digging into my skin—it kept me fucking speechless.
Her dark eyes? Fuck .
They were a drug, pulling me in until the world blurred, and all that remained was her. Her body. Her voice. Every fucking inch of her.
This woman—she had gotten under my skin in ways I should’ve never allowed.
But damn, I hadn’t been able to shake it for the past six fucking years.
“I reckon I should be the one to offer my condolences,” I said, grabbing a cup and taking a long, slow sip. “You two were lovers, after all.”
His smirk didn’t falter, but there was a brief flicker in his eyes.
Wrath.
He set his cup down, eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned back in his chair.
“I only fucked the poor woman once. Wouldn’t exactly call her that.”
“Well, you won’t be calling her anything anymore. She’s gone. Gone for good.”
The amusement in his eyes flickered out like a candle in the wind.
I’d clearly hit a nerve.
“Yeah,” he said, rising to his feet. “Never thought a bright little thing like her would take the easy way out. Suicide’s a hell of a thing.”
“Guess it’s a quick fix for a permanent mess.”
His eyes hardened, the cocky mask slipping for a second, replaced by something darker. “Yeah. I suppose so, Lazzio.”
He turned and walked to the door. As his hand hovered over the handle, he paused, glancing back at me with that smug grin that made me want to punch his ugly face.
“See you on Friday, right?”
Friday. Thanksgiving in Aspen, same predictable shit every year—Lazzios, Harpers, Gregs having a weekend getaway all together.
But I could feel it, deep in my gut.
This year wasn’t going to be like the others.
James Greg wasn’t here for small talk. He was playing something far uglier.
“See you on Friday, Greg.”
Grace slipped into the room after three soft knocks, and I waved her in, my phone still pressed to my ear.
“ è venuto nel mio ufficio con le condoglianze per Pauline. Non ci credo nemmeno per un secondo—sta tramando qualcosa, ” I muttered, keeping my tone low, even though Grace wouldn’t catch a word of Italian if her life depended on it.
After all these years, her fluency stopped at buongiorno , ciao , and grazie .
Vittori’s laugh rumbled through the line. “Gotta hand it to him—the old bastard’s still got balls.”
Still seated on the couch, I watched as she hurriedly cleaned the coffee table, her movements frantic. Her brow furrowed so deeply it was practically carved into her face, and she was moving so fast she nearly dropped one of the cups.
What the hell’s wrong with her today?
“ Devo andare ,” I muttered, before hanging up.
She didn’t meet my eyes as she crouched to grab a spoon that had slipped from her tray.
“Grace—”
“Please, be careful, sir.”
I raised a brow. “Careful?”
She didn’t know a thing about the shit James Greg had stirred up, or the black cloud hanging over Pauline’s death.
She couldn’t.
But this wasn’t about Greg walking out of my office.
No, there was something else buried in her tone—something far more personal.
Suddenly, she shook her head, like she was trying to clear something from her mind. She walked toward the door, her steps quick, as if fleeing the words she’d just spoken.
“Grace.”
She stopped, her hands tightening on the tray.
After a long pause, she finally turned around.
“You’re probably going to think I’m crazy, but…” Grace paused, inhaling deeply as if the words weighed on her. “Please, be careful with Miss Whitenhouse. I’ve had a bad feeling about her for years. There’s something… off about her. Too… evil.”
I didn’t answer right away, just furrowed my brow.
For years, I’d brushed off the tension between them as a personality clash—Grace’s quiet, measured demeanor fighting against Jade’s bold, relentless attitude.
But now?
Now, Grace sounded genuinely scared.
I brushed it off with a laugh. “Grace, you’ve been holding a grudge for six years. Let it go. She’s fucking crazy, I’ll give you that. But you can’t deny she gets the job done.”
Crazy’s an understatement.
I winced, my fingers brushing over the fresh cuts on my jaw from her nails.
“It’s more than that! After six years, we still don’t know anything about her. She never talks about her family, her friends, or…” She shook her head as if struggling to fit the pieces of a puzzle. “Her hobbies. She’s far too… mysterious. I feel like she’s hiding something. Something dangerous, sir.”
I lifted a shoulder. “Frankly, I like the way she is. She does her job. Works hard. Goes home. What’s the big deal?” I got up and grabbed the tray from her hands and dropped it on my desk. “Any boss would kill to have someone like that.”
I knew I’d kill to keep her by my side, whether I wanted to admit it or not.
“So, you don’t believe me? I’m almost sixty, sir. Time teaches you to trust your instincts. And that girl”—she pointed at the door—“She’s got the devil’s mark on her.”
With a bitter glance, she stormed out, slamming the door behind her.
Merda.