Chapter 20
Chapter
Twenty
“I want bad girls to win.”
― Mark Strand
Jade
“What the fuck are you doing in my room, diavoletta ?”
There were two ways to handle this.
I could demand answers, throw a fit, and pin this disaster on James Greg—the meddling, unbearable bastard behind it all.
Or, and this was far more entertaining, I could make Angelo Lazzio wish he’d stayed naked in that shower.
My revenge would be a slow burn.
I’d make him fall for me, and consume him with obsession until he couldn’t tell where desire ended and madness began.
Then, once I had him exactly where I wanted, I’d tear his world apart—just like he’d done to my sister, but with more exquisite cruelty.
My eyes drifted over him—barefoot, gray pajama pants hanging low on his hips, a white T-shirt clinging to his chest. His damp hair framed his face, water droplets tracing the sharp angles of his jaw and neck.
He looked like sin carved from marble—Abercrombie gone rogue.
“Well,” I drawled, letting my gaze linger, “you turned down my mile high club offer, so I figured La Belle Nuit might catch your attention. Most men don’t say no to a wild night with me, Lazzio. So, what is it? Playing hard to get?”
“Why would I play hard to get when you’re already so difficult to want, Miss Whitenhouse?”
What a liar.
I pouted, pointing to the obvious bulge in his pants. “You might want to tell him that, because he looks very interested right now.”
He glanced down, swore, then glared at me. “Jade, I’m seconds away from throwing you out the fucking window. Out. Now.”
I tilted my head. “You seem stressed. Maybe you should’ve stayed in the shower longer. Let the bubbles work their magic.”
“Get. Out.”
That rough, commanding voice—the way he had bitten out my name—sent heat curling between my legs. Almost made me want to drop to my knees and…
Focus, Jade.
I sighed dramatically, sprawling on the bed like a cat claiming the best spot in the sun.
“You’re the one in my room, Angelo,” I said, dragging his name out just to irritate him. “So why don’t you leave? I’m sure there’s no shortage of women desperate for a taste of Mr. Stick-Up-My-Ass. Though, let’s be real, you’ve probably worked through half of them already?—”
“Jade!” he barked, his voice a mix of rage and… guarded desire.
A delightful cocktail of both.
For a moment, I swore I saw a vein twitch in his temple.
God, he was so easy to rile up—it was almost unfair.
“Relax, Lazzio. The butler probably gave you the wrong room.” I shrugged, sinking deeper into the bed. “You could call him and throw a fit, or, you know, just stay and enjoy the view. I am pretty irresistible, after all. I’ll try not to break you… too badly.”
His scowl deepened, and I had to bite back a laugh.
This was just too easy.
He grabbed the phone, dialing who-knows-who, while I stretched like a lazy cat, enjoying the show. I grabbed my bag, made my way to the bathroom, and locked the door behind me.
As I peeled off my clothes, I couldn’t stop the image of Lazzio’s body—those muscles, that thickness —creeping into my mind.
Dammit, Jade!
I tried to focus on the water, but all I could think about was him.
I was in big trouble.
Three days of this? Oh, hell.
When I stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around me, hair braided, I was relieved to find the room blissfully empty.
Thank God. No sign of my boss with the permanent stick up his ass.
Smiling to myself, I let the towel drop without a care in the world, pulling out my black velvet nightdress—the one that barely grazed my thighs.
I slipped it on and collapsed onto the bed, letting the tension of the night finally slip away.
I slept like the dead until the sunlight barged in through the curtains I’d completely forgotten to close.
Groaning, I dragged myself out of bed, still half asleep, and stumbled across the suite. I made my way past the sofas to pull the curtains shut and?—
What the actual hell?
There was Lazzio, passed out on the world’s tiniest sofa, his ridiculously long legs dangling off the edge like a broken mannequin. His mouth was slightly open, and even unconscious, his face had that trademark scowl.
Who frowns in their sleep?
Wait.
Creepy, overbearing asshole!
Without a second thought, I marched over and pinched his arm hard, nails digging in with zero mercy.
“Ouch!” He shot upright, wincing, rubbing at the spot where I’d just assaulted him. His eyes snapped open, the shadows under them showing how little sleep he’d had. “Are you fucking insane?”
“Insane? Insane is you sleeping in my room like some creepy-ass stalker!”
His hair was a tangled mess, and for some irritating reason, he still looked disgustingly good, even like that.
He groaned. “ Dio mio . There were no fucking extra rooms. The west wing’s under construction. So I ended up here. On this”—he made a disgusted gesture toward the tiny, pathetic excuse for a sofa—“ furniture they somehow managed to shove into this place. Trust me, Miss Whitenhouse, this was the last place I wanted to crash.”
I jabbed a finger at him. “First choice or not, how about a little heads-up? You know, knock-knock, ‘Hey, I’m crashing here for the night, hope you don’t mind my snoring?’”
His jaw locked as he stood, towering over me, like he was trying to intimidate me.
Honestly, it only worked because he was ridiculously tall.
“I don’t fucking snore.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure. Keep telling yourself that, big guy.”
Before he could come back with something even more infuriating, the phone on the nightstand rang. I took that as my cue to escape to the bathroom, leaving him to stew in his own frustration.
I needed to get ready for the day—and away from all that testosterone and that morning wood situation his gray pants were doing absolutely nothing to hide.
If anything, they had made it deliciously worse.
In typical Greg fashion, the breakfast buffet was a feast of indulgence—French pastries, Italian coffees, and American classics. My bottomless morning appetite was thrilled.
I worked the room, playing the effortlessly chic guest while feigning interest in the dull conversations around me. Everyone was dressed like they were heading to a gala at nine a.m.
I fit in perfectly, of course, in my plaid vintage Chanel skirt, Le Temps des Cerises jumpsuit, sheer tights, and Prada boots. My hair cascaded in sleek waves, makeup glowy, matching the fake festivity.
To my relief, Angelo Lazzio was nowhere to be seen.
“ Dio mio , Jade, you look ravishing,” Monica Lazzio said, kissing my cheeks before pointing to the seat next to her. “I can’t believe someone like you is wasting her time with my son. You should be on runways, in commercials—you’re every man and woman’s fantasy, dolcezza .”
I smiled.
Monica was surprisingly kind—a rare thing in this world. Despite her occasional superiority, she’d always been gracious to me.
“Flattered, Monica, but I think my talents lie elsewhere.”
Like tormenting your son for fun.
She laughed warmly. “Always modest. You must come shopping with me this afternoon. I’ll find you something spectacular.”
Before I could respond, she added, “Then we’ll hit the spa. I can’t imagine a better afternoon. We could use some pampering, don’t you think?”
Perfect.
Every piece of the puzzle was falling into place. I had everything I needed to make my revenge sting—everything that would tear him down, piece by piece.
The proof? Hidden away, locked tight in my little cage of secrets. Every bill, every contract, every security camera video. I had it all—his empire, the very foundation of his existence, ready to crumble into dust.
But that was just the icing on the cake.
No, I needed more.
Something deeper .
I needed to sink my claws into something so personal it would destroy him from the inside out. Something that would leave him a hollow shell of the man he thought he was.
And who better to spill that truth than his mother? The woman who couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it. She was like a child with a candy bar—always ready to drop whatever juicy tidbit she thought was harmless.
His empire might crumble, but his soul?
That would shatter into a thousand pieces, and I’d be the one to grind them into dust.
No redemption. No fucking escape.
“I would love to, Monica.”