Sinful Lies (Sinful #2)

Chapter 30

Chapter

Thirty

“Men should think twice before making widowhood women’s only path to power.”

― Gloria Steinem

Angelo

“Greg’s back in Aspen. Hiding in his mansion. I checked his phone bill—he’s called the same number twelve times this week.”

I nodded, barely hearing him over the steady tap of my pen against my chin.

Tonight was Christmas Eve.

My parents’ mansion in the Hamptons was prepped for the family dinner—a house I’d forced them to buy, not out of love or tradition, but to carve out my own space to face the demons that had refused to die.

A battleground disguised as a home.

The city didn’t control me anymore. Nothing did.

I was supposed to catch the helicopter in an hour, but the day had been a grind—putting the finishing touches on Scarlett’s Times Square show for tomorrow, ensuring everything was flawless.

Hell, I had even wasted time playing Santa for my family.

“ Mio figlio–”

“I know where the bastard is,” I snapped, not bothering to look at him. “I just don’t have time to drag his miserable ass out of hiding today. Let him sit in his gilded cage and have one last Christmas with his family. Let him pretend he’s safe for one more fucking night.”

My father stayed silent, smart enough not to push further.

I should’ve dealt with Greg weeks ago—I knew that.

The bastard had fucking shot me, for fuck’s sake.

But even he had barely registered in my mind these days, shoved aside by someone far more dangerous.

A pretty demon with long black hair, and eyes so haunting they should’ve come with a goddamn warning label. Every time I looked into them, it felt like they burned deeper, pulled harder—like they were made to drag me into hell and make me savor every second of the fall.

Last night, I’d fought like hell not to fuck her.

Every second had been a war because, for once, it wasn’t just about wanting her body—though God knows I did. I had needed her to see that opening up, baring something raw and buried deep inside, wasn’t just a ploy to get her into my bed.

I didn’t want her vulnerable for my gain.

I wanted her to need me—really need me.

This wasn’t a fucking game for me.

I wanted the damned woman in ways I couldn’t even put into words.

I wanted her so badly it ached, like an itch I couldn’t reach no matter how hard I tried.

My father let out a heavy sigh, the kind meant to convey some profound disappointment I couldn’t fucking care less about.

“I’ll see you tonight.”

He turned and left, shutting the door behind him.

Good.

Now I knew exactly what I needed to do.

But first, I reached for the phone on my desk, and pressed the red button.

“Yes, sir?” Grace answered promptly.

“Miss Whitenhouse left for the day,” I began, leaning back in my chair. “Send her a voice message. Let her know a chauffeur will be waiting for her downstairs in thirty minutes. Tell her it’s a last-minute emergency.”

Grace didn’t respond right away.

The silence was long enough for me to picture her on the other side of the door, her lips pressed in that disapproving line she thought I didn’t notice.

“Of course, sir. I’ll handle it and head home. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Grace.”

I leaned back in my chair, fingers steepled under my chin as my smirk widened.

The little devil has no idea what was coming her way.

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Dragging me out on Christmas Eve? I tolerate your psychotic tendencies all year, Lazzio. The least you could do is let me drink hot cocoa and bask in the Christmas spirit for one freaking night, like a normal human being.”

Ah, there she was—back to her usual pain-in-the-ass self.

I suppose pretending she hadn’t been naked in my bed, pressing her body against mine, was just part of her twisted little holiday denial.

Fine. Let her act innocent.

We both knew the truth—her body had spoken a whole different language when my hands had been on her.

I extended a hand to help her out of the car, but she swatted it away like I’d offered her a dead rat.

She stormed off toward the elevator, her heels stabbing into the floor.

I lingered for a moment, saluting the chauffeur and slipping him a generous tip for putting up with her attitude.

“Merry Christmas,” I muttered, smirking before catching up.

Stepping into the elevator beside her, I watched her finger hover over the button for her office floor. Before she could press it, I leaned in, brushing past her hand to tap the one marked “Rooftop.”

Her brows knit together. “Where are we going?”

“Making sure this isn’t the most boring Christmas of your life,” I said, leaning casually against the wall.

A flicker of curiosity in her eyes betrayed her.

When the elevator doors opened, the rooftop greeted us with freezing wind and the roar of a waiting helicopter. She pulled her fur coat tighter, and for once, she let me guide her into the seat without throwing a tantrum.

I climbed in after her, slipping the ear protectors over her head, securing her seatbelt with care before fastening my own.

Then, with a tug, I slammed the door shut, sealing us inside.

The ride to the Hamptons was quiet.

She stared out at the glittering New York skyline, her profile lit by the city’s glow. Every bump of turbulence made her hand shoot out to grab mine, her fingers clinging for a heartbeat before she snatched them back.

After forty minutes, we landed on my parents’ estate.

I stepped out, unbuckling my seatbelt before opening her door and offering my hand.

Naturally, she ignored it.

Instead, she sat there, arms crossed, her cheeks blazing red.

“To your parents’ house, Lazzio? Are you insane? If I walk in there, they’re going to think we’re together!”

“Maybe they should.”

Her eyes went wide, disbelief etched into every line of her face. “Excuse me, what the hell does that mean?”

“We’ll talk about it inside. Later.”

She wagged her finger in my face. “Oh no, Lazzio. There’s no ‘this,’ no ‘us,’ no whatever twisted fantasy you’re cooking up?—”

I leaned in, cutting her off mid-rant. “Get out of the fucking helicopter, Miss Whitenhouse. Or I’ll bend you over right here, right now, in front of everyone, and make sure they all know exactly who you belong to.”

She gasped. “Ugh, you’re so inappropriate.”

“I prefer efficient. Now, out.”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “I have nothing to wear, Lazzio.”

“Four dresses are waiting for you upstairs, along with everything else you’ll need for the next two days. It’s all taken care of.”

With a groan, she unbuckled her seatbelt, shoved past me, and stormed toward the house without another word.

Let the Christmas spirit begin.