Sinful Lies (Sinful #2)

Chapter 27

Chapter

Twenty-Seven

“Success is getting what you want, happiness is wanting what you get”

― W.P. Kinsella

Jade

“Congratulations, Jade, you’ve truly outdone yourself,” Francesca Harper said, leaning in to kiss my cheeks as I handed her a glass of champagne.

I took a sip of my own, letting the bubbles fizz on my tongue as she continued.

“This exhibition?” She paused, her gaze sweeping the room as she savored her drink. “Simply exquisite. Who would’ve thought war could inspire such breathtaking beauty?”

The room buzzed with murmured compliments and the clinking of glasses, the kind of noise people made when they cared more about being noticed than noticing anything else.

“I wasn’t sure what to expect,” Francesca continued, her tone dripping with the kind of sugar that rotted teeth, gesturing to the towering centerpiece with her champagne flute. “But this? It’s… ambitious. Raw, even.”

Ares, God of War, stood eight feet tall, carved with sinful precision. His body was a masterpiece of muscle and dominance, the kind that made you question your morals. His massive sword gleamed as if it had tasted blood, while his shield bore the scars of battles fought long before anyone in this room had been born. The fury in his face could bring armies to their knees—or, more likely, leave someone breathless for entirely different reasons.

I took another sip of champagne, letting my gaze wander over him with a smirk.

“It’s meant to be, Francesca. War isn’t polished, or pretty. It’s raw. Unforgiving.”

Her eyes didn’t leave the sculpture, though a faint smile played at her lips. “Quite the statement,” she said, tilting her head. “Ares himself would be impressed.”

Over the years, Francesca Harper—Scarlett’s mother—had become a fascinating specimen for me to quietly analyze. The woman was every bit a Lazzio: strong-minded, exuding the kind of Italian timeless class and beauty that could make even the boldest stare.

But it wasn’t just her elegance—it was that Lazzio fire in her eyes.

The unspoken warning that if you crossed her, she’d ruin you in ways you wouldn’t even comprehend until it was too late.

Like any proper Italian mama, she didn’t need to yell to make her point—she was the storm, calm and deadly. That’s why she had my respect.

In a world where women of her status wasted their days gossiping, shopping, and draping themselves over men for attention, Francesca Harper stood out like a hawk circling above the chaos.

After telling her to enjoy the evening, I left her side and moved through the museum, winding my way through each floor.

I greeted attendees, exchanged meaningless pleasantries, and made sure every piece of the night had fallen into place as planned. But the further I went, the harder it became to ignore the weight pressing against my chest, that familiar gnawing feeling creeping up my throat.

This would probably be one of the last exhibitions I’d direct here. Next week, hell would ignite, and when the smoke cleared, my time in New York would be done. It would be time to go back to my old life.

I caught myself wondering about the old house—what it looked like now, who the poor souls living in it were. Maybe I’d drop by, knock on their door, see if?—

“No gun tonight?”

I turned around.

Leonardo Vittori, dressed head to toe in black, his eyes glittering with amusement.

Of course, it had to be him. As if Lazzio wasn’t enough of a headache, his best friend had to be just as insufferable.

I’d spent years unraveling their unlikely alliance—a mafia boss of the Sacra Corona, and a nepotism-bred heir to an entertainment empire.

Turns out, the two weren’t so different. Both thrived on stealing, manipulating, and ruling like the world owed them everything.

Match made in hell, really.

I let my gaze rake over him. Six foot four, buzz cut, green eyes sharper than broken glass. His cheekbones could cut stone, and under his left eye, those two infamous tear tattoos marked him as a family traitor—a man who’d killed his own blood.

“Why, Vittori? Hoping I’ll aim for you next?”

“Oh, Jade,” he drawled, his Italian accent wrapping around the word like silk dipped in venom, “if I were Lazzio, I’d have shot you the second you barged in to disrupt my meeting. Right here”—he tapped his temple with two fingers—“between your pretty little eyes.”

“If you were Lazzio,” I chuckled, leaning closer, “you wouldn’t need to hide behind empty threats. You’d have the balls to do it instead of flapping your mouth.”

His smirk deepened, lazy and taunting. “You’re lucky I like my women with a bit of bite. Makes taming them so much more… satisfying.”

I rolled my eyes, stepping back.

“Taming, huh?” I snorted. “Get out of my way. Some of us actually have work to do.”

As I moved past him, my eyes flicked over the crowd.

People were tipsy, mingling, laughing, their voices blending into a soft hum beneath the awestruck gazes that lingered on the art. It all felt distant, a background murmur to the heat building in the air.

Vittori’s scoff pulled me back. “I see it now.”

I glanced back, brow raised. “See what?”

His eyes landed behind me before closing the space between us, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face. “Why Lazzio’s obsessed with you.”

Even before I turned, I could feel Angelo’s eyes on me, burning my skin.

A spark of an idea flickered, dangerous and wicked.

I stepped closer to Vittori, flattening my hands against his chest, tilting my head just so, letting my eyes soften. “Really? Why is that?”

His smirk didn’t falter—if anything, it deepened.

He knew exactly what game I was playing, and the bastard was enjoying it, probably feeling Angelo’s murderous stare drilling into his face as much as I could sense it.

His hand cupped my face, thumb grazing my cheek.

He leaned down, his breath brushing my ear as he spoke. “Cause you’re the kind of devil that makes men beg for pain.”

A quiet laugh slipped past my lips as I let my hands fall and stepped back.

“Then I guess you’d better hope he likes to suffer.”

Vittori’s laughter echoed through the room, but it was abruptly interrupted by a shrill scream—“Fire!”

The entire room froze, people scrambling for the exits, their heels clattering against the marble floors in a mad rush. Glasses fell, drinks spilled, and for a moment, panic reigned.

And then, through the chaos, Angelo appeared like a storm. His eyes found me immediately, and the fury in them was almost palpable.

Without a second thought, he aimed a fire extinguisher at me and blasted it, coating my dress in a white, misty fog that left a chill in the air.

My hands instinctively flew up, trying to shield my face from the blast of spray that had soaked my dress.

The room went deadly silent.

Angelo’s gaze, now fully possessive, held mine for a moment too long before his eyes threw daggers at Vittori.

I blinked through the smoke, pushing the mist away, still processing what had just happened.

My heart sank as I realized what had just triggered him.

Jealousy.

But it wasn’t just jealousy—it was something darker, something possessive.

Vittori let out a low chuckle, his eyes flicking between me and Lazzio.

“What the fuck, Lazzio?” I snapped, brushing the mist off my arms.

“I apologize, Miss Whitenhouse, but I thought I saw a flame on your dress. Seems like it’s just the one burning between your legs.”

Bastard.

He was pissed that I’d dared to flirt with Vittori in front of him.

My eyes scanned the room.

The crowd had vanished—probably too embarrassed for me—or maybe they were just eager to spread the drama, running downstairs to share the spectacle with everyone else.

Either way, they had enough juicy material for their gossip.

I could practically hear the whispers now: Did you see how Angelo Lazzio fired that fire extinguisher at his employee?

Ugh, I couldn’t believe he had just ruined my favorite Givenchy dress.

The one that had taken me weeks to get my hands on.

But, of course, Angelo Lazzio couldn’t let me have a goddamn thing.

Fine.

If he wanted to play this game, I’d play too.

I reached for the zipper and slid it down. The dress, so perfectly tailored, dropped off my body and pooled around my feet in a whisper of silk.

I kept my eyes on him, savoring the way his gaze darkened—his expression shifting into something I recognized all too well.

Wrath.

I shrugged. “Don’t worry, Lazzio. I hated this dress anyway.”

Now, I stood in nothing but a tight black bra that clung to my breasts like a second skin, and a thong that didn’t leave much to the imagination.

Vittori whistled low.

Lazzio, on the other hand, didn’t bother with subtlety.

A curse escaped from his lips, a string of words I couldn’t quite make out.

He quickly shrugged off his blazer and threw it over my shoulders.

The fabric was heavy, but oddly intimate against my skin.

I raised my hand, flashing a playful wave over my shoulder. “ Ciao , Vittori.”

But the moment was short-lived. Angelo’s hand shot out, swatting mine down with a snap.

He strode toward the elevator, dragging me along by my wrist. I stumbled, trying to catch up, my heels clicking furiously against the floor.

His grip was tight, but his focus?

It was all on the elevator button, which he tapped over and over with an almost obsessive energy.

“Let me go, Lazzio, I’ve got other guests to entertain.”

The elevator doors slid open, and without a word, he shoved me inside. He tapped the button for the parking floor, the doors closing with a soft whoosh.

He stood there, his back to me, but something in the air shifted.

He was frozen, his breath coming fast, and the energy around him turned so dark that, for a split second, I actually felt a jolt of fear.

Something told me I may have crossed the line with this one, but… oh well.

“Lazzio—”

“You let him touch you, Miss Whitenhouse,” he cut me off, his voice dipped in a dry, humorless chuckle. It sounded more like disbelief wrapped in rage. “You let him put his fucking hands on you.”

I rolled my eyes, crossing my arms. “Yeah, well, you blasted me with a fire extinguisher and ruined my entire night. So, if we’re keeping score, I’d say we’re even.”

He turned around slowly.

His jaw tightened. He took a slow step closer, closing the already narrow space between us.

“Even?” he repeated. “You think this is about keeping score?”

I lifted my chin. “Well, what else could it be? You ruined my dress, my night—hell, my life — and now my patience. What’s next, my sanity?”

He laughed, but it was hollow, a sound that made my stomach twist.

He took another step forward, and I found myself backing up until the wall kissed my spine.

“You’re the one screwing with my fucking sanity, Miss Whitenhouse.”

I pressed back against the wall, as if it could swallow me whole, but there was no escaping him. His hand shot up, planting beside my head, his body caging mine, suffocatingly close.

“You’ve ruined my reputation in front of my men with your fucking arrogance,” he bit out. “You’ve dragged ghosts out of my past I swore I’d buried for good.” He pressed his body against mine, his breath brushing my cheek. “You make me feel things I’ve spent my entire life killing. Things I don’t want to feel. Things I can’t afford to feel, Jade.” His voice wavered, and for a split second, I saw the cracks beneath the anger. “You’ve lit every corner of my mind on fire, and now, all I can fucking think about is you .”

The breath I was holding left my lungs.

“Are you happy now? Happy to have ripped my life apart, piece by fucking piece? Happy to know I can’t stop thinking about you, even when I hate every damn second of it?”

His chest heaved.

Yes, Angelo .

That’s what I was supposed to do.

Break you, dismantle you, make you hate me, make you suffer for ruining my life.

That was the plan.

But something deeper twisted inside me, something bitter and shameful.

Guilt.

I swallowed hard, my throat thick with words I couldn’t say.

He dropped his face into the crook of my neck, exhaling like he was fighting to hold himself together.

“Do you even realize what you’re doing to me?” he muttered, voice all raw and rough, like he couldn’t believe the words were coming out of his mouth.

His hands slipped from the wall, wrapping around my waist and pulling me closer, like he was trying to make sure I wouldn’t slip away.

There was something else in how he held me, something deeper, like if he let go, he might actually break.

“I fucking hate you, Jade. But Dio mio , I can’t stay away.”

Neither can I, Angelo.