Sinful Lies (Sinful #2)

Chapter 38

Chapter

Thirty-Eight

“The one kiss that was stolen, was given in a lie.”

― Anthony Liccione

Jade

I woke up in Angelo’s bed, the sound of water running from the shower filling the silence. The curtains still couldn’t do their stupid job, letting the sun creep in and caress my skin.

I groaned, squinting at the clock on his nightstand. Noon. Great .

Dragging myself upright, I leaned against the headboard, wincing as my body protested. Angelo had wrung every last drop of energy out of me last night, like he was trying to leave an imprint of himself under my skin.

And judging by how I felt now? Mission accomplished.

Another groan slipped from my lips as I buried my face in the pillow, letting out a scream into it.

I’d crossed the line. Again. And again. And again.

Each time, I had sworn it was the last. That I’d slam the brakes, stop letting him twist me up inside. But every time, it had been the same. One touch, one look, and I’d caved like a fool.

It was maddening, infuriating, and worst of all… addicting .

Because I want to give you everything, Jade—everything you need, everything you crave—even if it means being at your mercy.

Honestly, who could resist that?

The first time I’d woken up here, weeks ago—after that godforsaken boar had ripped through the woods—I’d bolted. I hadn’t even looked back. I hadn’t been able to stand the suffocating weight of this space, how it had made me feel things I didn’t want to feel: self-loathing, a flicker of gratitude I hadn’t deserved, and something darker, stickier.

The second time had been no different.

But this time?

This time, I wasn’t running.

My legs screamed as I stood, the soreness between them raw. I limped to his dresser and yanked it open. Everything was lined up, ironed, and folded, like he was auditioning for a cleaning infomercial. Of course. Neat freak.

I grabbed a long-sleeved shirt and tugged it over my head. It hung loose, the fabric heavy with his scent, wrapping me up in him even when I didn’t want it to.

I waited until the sound of the shower filled the house before slipping out of his room. The door clicked shut behind me as I padded down the hallway, my bare feet brushing the icy tiles.

My destination was clear: the last door on the right.

The knob turned without resistance, and I slipped inside, my heart pounding like it might betray me. His office was… unexpected. A world away from the sterile perfection of the museum. This was a shrine to chaos: dark wood shelves crammed with miniature sculptures of Greek gods and goddesses, a massive portrait of Cleopatra and Caesar glaring down from one wall, and above the desk, a Rembrandt— Retour du Fils Prodigue .

I was here to find what I needed—to finish this.

No more crossing lines.

No more games.

No more sex, even if I wanted— desperately wanted—to.

Just the end I’d been chasing.

I let my eyes sweep around the room, taking in his library. The bookshelves were lined with thick, leather-bound volumes, each spine perfectly aligned. I dragged my fingers along the edge of the shelves, pretending I wasn’t imagining what kind of secrets might be hidden behind the neatly stacked rows.

But my focus didn’t last.

My gaze slid across the room and landed on his desk—bingo.

There it was. The black burner phone. Its screen was ever so slightly cracked.

Four inches to the left sat his laptop, sleek and closed. Four inches to the right, a picture frame stood with a photo of Georgino and his parents, smiling.

I hovered by the desk, fingers grazing the phone like it might bite me back. My stomach churned, not with guilt—that would’ve been too easy—but with this gnawing, sickening fear of being caught.

My fingers closed around the phone. The old, cracked case practically mocked me, the jagged edge biting into my palm like it had teeth. Perfect. Because God knows I deserved the sting.

Time to move.

If I stood there any longer, I’d start thinking— really thinking—and that was never a good idea.

I slipped out of the room, carefully and silently closing the door behind me. Walking on the tips of my toes, I made my way down the hall, the soft patter of my steps swallowed by the lingering quiet. The sound of the shower had long since faded, leaving only the hum of my own nerves for company.

Pausing just before the living room, I leaned into the shadows, scanning the open space for any sign of movement. Empty. Good.

With quick, measured strides, I reached the kitchen counter where I’d left my bag the night before. My hands worked fast, opening the zipper and slipping the phone inside before tugging it closed again.

Mission accomplished.

Or so I thought.

Two strong arms wrapped around my waist out of nowhere, locking me in place.

I screamed, my hand flying to my heart as it thundered against my ribs.

Angelo’s laugh rumbled against my back, deep and infuriatingly amused, before he dipped his head into the curve of my neck.

“There you are.”

I exhaled shakily. “You scared the hell out of me! I thought you were some crazy stalker about to kidnap me.”

His teeth grazed the sensitive skin of my neck. “Don’t tempt me,” he murmured, his hands sliding down to rest firmly on my hips. “I’ve been told I’d make a very convincing kidnapper.”

“Really? Because I’m not impressed. No van? No chloroform? Your execution needs work.”

He chuckled, pulling me even closer. “Who needs a van when I can carry you over my shoulder? You’d be halfway to Stockholm Syndrome before I even reached the front door.”

“Bold of you to assume I’d make it easy.”

“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t enjoy the fight, amore .”

Infuriating.

Absolutely infuriating.

And yet, my body was ready to hand over all my common sense and let him win.

I moaned as his lips kissed the sensitive spot behind my ear.

“See?” He whispered. “You’re already warming up to the idea.”

I huffed out a laugh, my pulse still unsteady.

Grabbing my bag, I dropped it onto the kitchen stool and turned to face him, already preparing some sharp remarks—only to lose my train of thought entirely.

He stood there, shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung black pants that clung to his hips in a way that should’ve been illegal.

He was barefoot, with water droplets clinging to his still-damp hair, falling in lazy trails down his temples and cheeks. The soft curls were messier than usual, as though he’d barely run a hand through them after his shower.

And that V. The sharp cut of muscle disappearing beneath his waistband. The faint trail of dark hair leading my gaze exactly where it shouldn’t go.

Life’s unfair. Completely, brutally unfair.

I pressed my palms against his chest. Rising onto my toes, I captured his lips, kissing him with a desperation I couldn’t seem to suppress.

This man. This annoying, beautiful, addictive man.

He was going to be the end of me.

The universe must really get a kick out of watching me suffer.

His hand slid to the back of my neck.

His tongue brushed mine and the stupid butterflies I swore I didn’t have for him?

Yeah, they were staging a coup. Between my legs.

“ Buongiorno , amore ,” he murmured against my lips.

“Hi,” I whispered back, my voice embarrassingly soft.

I pulled away before I could embarrass myself further, turning to the sink like I had a purpose. Opening one cabinet, then another, pretending to look for a glass when really, I was just stalling.

When I finally found one, I filled it, stared at it for a second, and then left it untouched on the counter.

His gaze scorched my back.

“How’d you sleep?”

“Good,” I said, turning to face him, crossing my arms like I was trying to protect what little dignity I had left. “And you?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just took a slow, measured step toward me.

Then another.

By the time he stopped, he was close. So close.

His hands gripped the edge of the sink on either side of me, caging me in.

I tilted my head up, my heart hammering against my ribs. His nose brushed mine before his lips found me again—this time softer, slower, leaving me aching for more.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said, too quickly, and way too unconvincingly.

“Jade,” he said, his lips ghosting over the shell of my ear now. “I’ve known you for six years. Do you really think I can’t tell when something’s off?”

I exhaled shakily. “I’m just stressed about tonight. It’s the first time we’re hosting a ball, and?—”

“Stop lying,” he interrupted, as he kissed me again, harder this time, his teeth catching my bottom lip and tugging just enough to make me gasp. “What’s wrong? Tell me.”

And God help me, because I wanted to.

But how do you tell the man you’d been sleeping with—your walking disaster of an obsession—that tonight you were going to destroy him? That you’d spent six years weaving a web of lies so intricate even you couldn’t remember where the truth began and the deception ended?

You don’t.

Because there’s no way to casually slip into conversation that you’d been lying for six years, pretending to be nothing more than his loyal, slightly-too-mouthy employee, when in reality, you’d been plotting to ruin everything he had ever cared about. And maybe it wouldn’t be so bad—if it weren’t for the fact that you’d also somehow managed to fall in love with him along the way.

Ironic, really.

Instead, you’d stand there, half-naked in his kitchen, wondering why you ever thought it was a good idea to fall for the man who had killed your sister.

And the worst part? I couldn’t even blame him for being so… him .

“Jade—”

“I’m just… processing, you know? You’re still my boss, Lazzio. And, well, I never expected to be the girl fucking with her boss. Repeatedly . What’s next? People whispering that I blow you in the elevator and let you bend me over your desk for raises?”

He laughed, the kind of laugh that made my chest clench with equal parts fury and betrayal.

Because, of course, only Angelo Lazzio could find my existential crisis hilarious.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he said, kissing the tip of my nose.

“You’re insufferable,” I muttered, smacking his chest—not that it fazed him in the slightest.

He caught my hand effortlessly, brushing a kiss across my knuckles. “Don’t worry, Miss Whitenhouse. That’s the beauty of being the CEO—if anyone so much as whispers, I’ll make sure it’s their last word.”

And just like that, I hated him even more.

Not for his arrogance, or his power.

But because, in that moment, I almost wanted to believe him.

Almost wanted to trust that he could protect me.

From whom, though?

From himself? From me?

No.

Not even he could save us from what I was about to do.

“How do I know you’re not lying, Miss Whitenhouse? You lied on national TV, claiming you were best friends with Miss Dupont and swearing her death was a tragic suicide. And now, out of nowhere, you’re telling me Angelo Lazzio murdered her? Forgive me if I’m having a hard time keeping up with your fairy tales.”

Alexandra Jasper wasn’t just a journalist—she was a predator. The kind who didn’t chase stories; she built careers off the wreckage of others’ lives. And as the reigning queen of Fox News’ prime-time slot, she had the claws to back it up.

She leaned back in her chair, her legs crossed, her perfectly manicured nails tapping against the table between us, a deliberate tick designed to unnerve her prey.

She called herself an investigative journalist.

I called her a vulture.

She circled the dead and dying, ready to pick their bones clean and call it “reporting.”

And if she smelled your weakness? God help you.

She’d rip through you before you even realized you were bleeding.

Her eyes glinted with curiosity, like she could already taste the Pulitzer—or the severance package big enough to buy a private island—if she broke this story.

Exposing Angelo Lazzio—the king of New York’s high society and CEO of the biggest entertainment empire in the West—as a murderer?

That would make her untouchable.

And she knew it. That’s why she was testing me.

I’d come here to betray Angelo.

To carve out a piece of his soul and hand it to this woman on a tarnished silver platter.

And the worst part? I wasn’t even sure why anymore.

Revenge? Justice? Or was it just that I hated myself enough to destroy the only person who had ever made me feel seen?

No.

I was avenging her.

“Let me guess—you’re here because you’re scared. Scared he’s going to find out about your little mess, huh? Your skeletons? Or maybe…” She leaned in closer. “You’re just a bitter ex, trying to burn him down because he fucked you, used you, and then tossed you out like the disposable little thing you are. You thought you were different. Thought he’d choose you over his other toys. But you were just another warm body to fuck and forget. And now you’re what? Trying to get revenge? Or just whining because he moved on and left you scrambling for scraps?”

Stupid bitch.

God, I wanted to hit her.

Or maybe myself for coming here in the first place.

“Keep it up, Jasper, and I might just have to remind you where the line is. You’re lucky I’m in a good mood, but push me just a little more, and I might show you just how much I enjoy shutting people like you down. I’ll just take my story elsewhere.”

I stood, watching her squirm for a second before I made my move to leave.

As expected, she panicked.

“Okay, wait, Miss Whitenhouse, please sit down. I apologize for being… disrespectful.”

I didn’t even glance back at her, but I knew I had her exactly where I wanted her.

I turned back to her slowly. “Are you sure about that? ‘Cause, I’m perfectly fine taking my story to David McLoad over at CNN. Oh, and just so you know, I’m aware you two are fucking. Makes things a bit more… fun, don’t you think?”

Her eyes went wide for a split second, her smug facade cracking. She was trying to figure out how the hell I knew, but honestly, I wasn’t here to explain myself.

I, too, had my ways of digging up dirt, even if it wasn’t my full-time gig.

I sat back down slowly, crossing my legs, my nails digging into my palms to keep myself from shaking.

“So tell me, Miss Whitenhouse, how do you know that Angelo Lazzio murdered Paulina Dupont?

I swallowed.

There it was.

My truth, unraveling, ready to tear through everything I’d built up to this point.

It was time.

“I know he did because I have proof,” I said, voice smooth, like I wasn’t about to rip my own world to shreds.

I reached into my bag, pulling out the hardware CD—the one with the footage from the surveillance cameras in the alley behind his theater, The Sunflower.

Her eyebrows shot up. “You have it on tape?”

I slid the CD onto the table.

Then, I reached into my bag again, pulling out Angelo’s backup phone and dropping it next to the CD.

I knew he used that backup phone for his shady dealings—something the FBI could easily use to trace every little detail.

I didn’t hand everything over to Alexandra Jasper without purpose. She was the best at what she did, and I also knew her deep ties to the FBI. Her twin sister, Alia Jasper, ran the local division. So, the second I walked out of that office, I knew Alexandra would be on the phone to her sister, giving her all the details.

“I also have proof that Angelo killed two other people.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Who?”

I took a breath, letting the weight of it settle in my chest, feeling the burn of it.

There was no going back.

“Nine years ago, Angelo Lazzio murdered my sister, Stella, and her boyfriend, Thomas… and I watched it all happen.”