Chapter 19
Chapter
Nineteen
“Being a woman is a terribly difficult trade since it consists principally of dealings with men.”
― Joseph Conrad
Jade
“I’m so excited! It’s been years since I’ve been to Aspen! I can’t believe you actually tried to ditch me for this trip. You’re such an asshole, Lazzio.”
The jet gleamed in front of me—navy blue and crisp white, as if it had just rolled out of a billionaire’s dream. Angelo Lazzio’s dream, to be exact.
The crew stood in perfect formation—stewardesses in deep navy uniforms, their tight buns and forced smiles completing the look. The men were just as pristine in tailored jackets and white shirts.
Lazzio, as usual, ignored me.
He walked right past, his long stride eating up the stairs like he owned the thing—which, of course, he did. A nod to the crew here, a grunt there, and he disappeared inside without a word.
I handed my bag off to a waiting stewardess and climbed the stairs, taking the pilot’s offered hand.
“I can’t wait to go skiing, eat some fondue,” I said, shrugging off my fur coat and tossing it onto the seat. “Hit the sauna?—”
“Sit down, Miss Whitenhouse.”
The command hit me, a twist of nerves and something far darker simmering under my skin.
Ah, he was pissed. And damn, I loved every second of it.
He’d called last night, trying—yet again—to convince me not to come.
Something about James Greg being dangerous.
Please.
As if I didn’t know the kind of company I kept. Angelo Lazzio lecturing me about danger was like a wolf warning a sheep about the dark.
The man was a freaking murderer, after all.
But to be completely honest, I had almost bailed.
A weekend alone sounded amazing—hot bubble baths, red wine, maybe even a club or two to find someone… fun. It had been far too long since I’d had sex, and lately, even the slightest flirtation felt like foreplay. Like the pilot standing a few feet away— blue eyes, broad shoulders.
But then I’d remembered one very important thing: Lazzio didn’t want me here.
Which meant, obviously, I had to come.
I dropped into the plush leather seat across from him, and his eyes locked on me, unflinching. His fingers brushed along the faint scratches on his jaw—scratches I’d left there.
I bit back a smirk.
Guess I’d underestimated how sharp my nails were.
Today, for some reason, he looked like sin wrapped in designer fabric—the kind of polished Armani perfection that made women forget their own names. Those glasses—the ones he only wore when he had a headache—made him look like he belonged on the cover of a magazine. Except no model looked like they could crush you in a bear hug—or worse—without breaking a sweat.
My gaze lingered on his arms, the fabric stretching just a little too tight over his muscles. For a second, I wondered what it’d feel like to have one wrapped around my neck?—
Jesus Christ, Jade.
Pull yourself together.
The man had killed my sister.
That was Angelo Lazzio—my nemesis, my tormentor, the one who had wrecked my life.
I slouched further into the seat, forcing myself to look away.
Only a few months of celibacy, and I was already losing my damn mind.
“Let me be clear, diavoletta, ” he said, leaning in just enough to invade my space, his eyes flicking briefly to my lips. “This flight is five fucking hours, and I don’t want to hear another word out of your mouth. Capiche ?”
Okay, Mister Dictator.
“Guess that means I shouldn’t ask if you want to join the mile high club, huh?”
His expression didn’t even twitch. Not even a flicker of amusement.
Instead, he shot me a dark look before grabbing his phone and burying himself in it like I didn’t exist.
Well, wasn’t he just a ray of sunshine?
I leaned back in my seat and crossed my legs, the leather creaking faintly beneath me.
He wanted silence? Fine. I could give him silence.
But I wasn’t about to sit here bored out of my mind, either.
My eyes wandered over him again, tracing the strong lines of his jaw, the way his dark hair curled just slightly at the ends, and those damn glasses perched on his nose.
God, he looked insufferably good, which only made me want to annoy him more.
“Lazzio.”
He didn’t look up, but I saw the faint twitch in his jaw.
“Is that a yes or no on the mile high club? Just so we’re clear.”
The phone lowered slowly, and those cold, dark eyes met mine with a promise.
Not the kind that came with roses and chocolate—the kind that came with blood and bruises.
“Miss Whitenhouse.” His voice was quiet, too quiet. “If you don’t shut up, I will throw you off this plane. At thirty thousand feet.”
Yep. Silence it was.
I plastered on my best fake smile and stood, making sure to drag it out just enough to irritate him.
I sauntered to the bedroom at the back of the jet, my heels clicking against the polished floor, the sound echoing in the quiet cabin.
The door shut behind me with a soft click, and I flung myself onto the oversized bed, releasing a sigh that was half frustration, half surrender.
After everything—and having to deal with him—I figured I’d earned a nap.
And if I just happened to dream about a certain someone with dark eyes and a sexy Italian accent being thrown off the plane without a parachute, well, that would be a little secret between me and my devilish subconscious.
Aspen in November? It felt like stepping into a snow globe made of fairy lights and overpriced hot cocoa.
The snow, the twinkling lights, the trees—I half expected some poor town guy to show up and sweep me off my feet. He’d beg me to leave the city and marry him, promising a cozy life in a cottage surrounded by animals. Every Christmas, we’d kiss under the mistletoe where we’d first met, with our twenty-something kids trailing behind us.
Honestly, I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or swoon at the thought.
After sleeping through the whole flight—apparently, dealing with Lazzio’s constant bad mood had drained me—I woke to the stewardess gently shaking my shoulder.
“We’re about to land,” she said softly.
I dragged myself to the restroom for a quick refresh: a touch of makeup, a swipe of gloss, and I was ready. Back at my seat, I buckled in, ignoring the weight of Lazzio’s gaze drilling into the side of my face.
The jet landed smoothly, and as we stepped off, workers were already loading our luggage into a sleek black Range Rover.
Lazzio opened the rear door, giving me a look that screamed, hurry up.
I slid inside without a word, and he followed, immediately absorbed in his phone.
“Hello, sir. I hope you had a pleasant flight,” the driver greeted warmly. He was middle-aged, bald, and had the kind of smile that could disarm even the most jaded traveler.
“Good to see you, Thomas,” Lazzio muttered without looking up.
I rolled my eyes. Asshole.
“Hi, Thomas,” I said, leaning forward with a smile and offering my hand. “I’m Jade, Mr. Lazzio’s COO. Thanks for picking us up.”
His handshake was firm, and he returned my smile with genuine warmth.
Unlike some people, I wasn’t about to let my bad mood spill over onto everyone else.
As Thomas steered us through Aspen’s snow-blanketed streets, the city glowed with lights. Couples strolled hand in hand, their laughter muffled by the snow. Kids dashed around, building lopsided snowmen.
It was all disgustingly wholesome.
“Enjoy the view,” Lazzio muttered. “We won’t have time for it later.”
“God forbid you let me have a second of enjoyment,” I shot back, folding my arms as I turned to the window. “Wouldn’t want to disrupt your schedule of doom .”
Thomas chuckled softly from the driver’s seat, his eyes briefly meeting mine in the rearview mirror. “Aspen really does shine during the snowy months. Have you been here before, Miss Jade?”
Yeah, when I was eleven, with my mom and my sister.
Best Christmas ever.
“Years ago. I almost forgot how magical it looks under all this snow.”
And it really was beautiful.
For a split second, I wished time would freeze—just long enough to soak in the snow, the lights, the postcard-perfect town—before reality came crashing back, dragging me into my usual mess.
“There’s something my father always used to say,” Thomas remarked. “In Aspen, love either wraps you in warmth or leaves you frozen, wishing it had never touched you at all.”
There it was—the classic talk about love, redemption, and tragedy.
It was almost… adorable.
“Well,” I shrugged, pulling my fur coat tighter around me. “I’m expecting neither of those. Just some skiing and a whole lot of ridiculously fattening, oily food to stuff my face for the next three days.”
I hadn’t had fondue in a while, so I was practically buzzing with excitement.
My mouth was watering just thinking about it.
Lazzio shot me a look.
He put his phone back in his pocket and leaned back in his seat.
“I doubt love could ever find its way into your cold heart, Miss Whitenhouse,” he whispered.
The words dripped from his lips, sweet but deadly .
I smiled.
He wasn’t wrong.
“That’s what makes us equals, Lazzio. Only a heart as frozen as mine could recognize how hollow yours really is.”
“Your family and the other guests are waiting, Mr. Lazzio,” a butler greeted us, opening the mansion door.
With a practiced smile, he took our coats and handed us champagne.
I sipped mine, the bubbles tickling my throat, while Lazzio gave a brief nod, checking to see if I was following before striding through the grand entrance. Above, a massive chandelier hung like a jewel, casting a soft glow.
The hallways were lined with thick carpets and taxidermied animals—deer, bears, boars. Guess James Greg had a thing for hunting.
After what had felt like an eternity of over-the-top decor, two butlers opened the door to a dining room that could swallow a small village.
A long table, draped in a white cloth worth more than my rent, was adorned with an overabundance of flowers and wood decor. The spread was a feast—shrimp salad, caviar with crème fra?che, turkey with stuffing, baked and mashed potatoes, pumpkin soup, lobster mac it was a spectacle.
Looking at all of it, I’d almost believed I’d died and gone to heaven.
Then I remembered— hell , I’d probably never make it that far.
“Angelo, you’re here, finally!” Monica Lazzio exclaimed. His mama practically bounced in her seat, waving him over like a dog begging for attention.
The room fell silent, all eyes on us.
“Angelo, Jade,” James Greg nodded, lifting his glass in a lazy toast. “Welcome. Please, take a seat and enjoy the food after your long flight.”
Lazzio’s hatred for him made perfect sense now. Greg was dripping with fake kindness, passive-aggressive enough to make even me uncomfortable.
I followed Lazzio and slid into the empty chair beside him.
Scarlett Harper, Lazzio’s cousin and international pop star, sat next to me. The woman behind Hate the Way I Live —one of my favorite songs ever.
Her eyes were empty, her fiery red hair as untouchable as ever.
I barely glanced at her, feeling the chill rolling off her, thick enough to freeze the air around us. Not that I blamed her. Fame’s a bitch, especially when you’re stuck in a room full of people who call you family, yet stab you in the back the second you turn.
But I wasn’t here for her.
I was here because, like some other people in this room, I wanted to see Angelo Lazzio fall. And if there was anything to learn from watching a man burn, I was ready to take notes.
I took another sip of champagne, watching as his mother’s gaze sharpened on Spencer Greg, one of James’ daughters.
“What about your husband, Spencer?” Monica asked, feigning interest, though there was a sharp edge to her tone—like she was probing for something to use.
“Don’t know,” Spencer replied, her voice cool. “Probably off avoiding this dinner.”
“This dinner, or just… you?” her twin sister, Sarah, asked with a smirk.
Laughter rippled around the table.
I leaned back in my chair, my gaze flicking between the twins.
They didn’t look like twins—not even close. One had sleek blonde hair, the other fiery copper. Their features were similar, but hardly identical.
Memories flashed in my mind—the names of Lazzio’s lovers.
Right , he’d slept with both of them.
I downed my champagne in one go.
The taste hit me strangely, leaving a bitter aftertaste.
Lazzio caught my eye. His expression was unreadable, detached, but I saw that flicker of amusement before he turned back to the conversation. Asshole .
The dinner dragged on, full of dark glances and even darker remarks.
To my surprise, I was the only one actually eating—everyone else was too busy drinking and pretending to be civil.
After dessert, the men retreated to the library for cigars, while the women slithered off to the sitting room to gossip.
Exhausted despite the plane nap, I excused myself with a fake smile, said goodnight to the ladies, and started hunting for a butler to escort me to my room.
It took nearly ten minutes to find one—standing frozen like a statue in this absurd mansion.
The man straightened. “Miss Whitenhouse, may I help?”
“Yes, I need to get to my room,” I said. “The night’s not getting any younger, trust me.”
He gestured for me to follow.
After what felt like forever walking down a hallway of 17th-century portraits—kings, queens, and a lot of frilly collars—we stopped in front of an elevator.
He pressed the button, and the doors opened.
“You’ll be staying in the La Belle Nuit suite. Your bags are already in your room.” He hit the number fifteen on the panel and handed me a card. “Only people with this card can access the suite. Don’t lose it.”
I grabbed the card, fighting an eye roll, and stepped inside.
“Good night, Miss Whitenhouse.”
The doors closed before I could respond.
The elevator ride was short, but it gave me enough time to brace for the over-the-top extravagance waiting for me.
When the doors opened, I walked straight into a room that screamed royalty —the Marie Antoinette kind.
Everything was excessive. The chandelier above looked like a Versailles knockoff, dripping with crystals that caught the light. The walls were pastel pinks and creams, with delicate gold moldings and floral designs.
It was a Parisian fairy tale… minus the rats.
Across the room, the little salon sofa looked like it belonged in a museum—faded velvet, untouched, meant for some frail aristocrat who wouldn’t dare sit on it.
But my eyes went straight to the real showstopper: the bed.
The baldaquin king-sized bed was a monster of dark wood and golden drapes. Four towering posts held thick, golden curtains, making the bed look like the perfect place to pretend I was royalty—or someone’s expensive secret.
I sighed, tossing the card on the marble table before heading for the bathroom, stripping off my clothes and throwing them around the room.
In nothing but my underwear, I pushed open the bathroom door, desperate for a long, hot shower to erase the grime of the flight.
But nothing could have prepared me for what I walked into.
I screamed, the sound ripping through my chest, sharp enough to make my own heart skip a beat.
There he was.
Angelo Lazzio.
Naked.
Completely, shamelessly, devastatingly naked.
In the shower.
Rubbing his chiseled body with soap, the bubbles slipping over his skin.
His eyes shot wide the second my scream hit him, his hands fumbling desperately to cover up what was definitely not meant for anyone else to see.
Oh. My. God.
He was packing … way more than I’d ever expected.
“Get out, Miss Whitenhouse!”
I froze, my brain scrambling to catch up with what had just happened.
But how the hell was I supposed to think straight after that?
I stood there, my eyes locked on him and his… big situation. My brain was barely processing anything, but my eyes? They were glued.
I couldn’t look away.
No wonder all the married women in New York practically begged to sleep with him.
Hell, even I— almost —wanted a taste.
“NOW!”
That snapped me out of my trance.
I looked down and realized I was standing there in nothing but my underwear. My face went up in flames as I scrambled to get out, slamming the door with a little too much force, my heart pounding like I was sprinting for my life.
What the hell is wrong with you, Jade?
I couldn’t even make it through one night without embarrassing myself.
I yanked on my jumpsuit, practically ripping it as I stormed out to the balcony.
Throwing open the windows, I let the cold winter air slap me in the face.
It didn’t calm me, but at least it distracted me from the image of his naked body scorching my mind.