Sinful Lies (Sinful #2)

Chapter 43

Chapter

Forty-Three

“Thoughts and prayers won’t stop a speeding bullet.”

― DaShanne Stokes

Angelo

The cold of the interrogation room did nothing to still the brutal pounding in my veins, each pulse threatening to tear me apart. My breaths ripped shallow and uneven, my vision clouded with raw betrayal.

Oh, Lazzio. I’ve got too much dirt on you. I could ruin you.

Jade Whitenhouse.

The woman I was obsessed with. Crazy in love with. Head over fucking heels for. The one who haunted my every waking thought.

She hadn’t just ruined me—she’d ripped me apart from the inside out.

She’d forged her own black blade and drove it straight into my chest. Buried it so deep that the last ember of life in my heart, the one I’d fought to keep alive for thirty-six fucking years, had snuffed out.

Six years.

Six goddamn years.

The devil herself had been plotting my destruction for over half a decade, carving out my downfall piece by meticulous piece. Every fragment of my life—good, bad, dangerous—turned into a weapon. She had collected it all, crafted it into documents sharp enough to cut me down.

She’d unearthed everything: how my mother had nearly lost me before I was even born, the fevers that almost killed me as a child, the kidnapping when I was nine. Every triumph and humiliation. My master’s degrees—international business at Columbia, data security engineering at Cornell. Every deal I’d struck, every contract I’d signed for Lazzio Entertainment Group and Lazzio Exhibits Inc. Every woman who’d ever warmed my bed, single or married. Every soul I’d sent to the grave without remorse. Hell, even my fucking allergies were in that folder.

She’d handed them everything . Every. Last. Detail. About me, my family, my empire.

She had made it her life’s mission to tear me apart, to burn everything I was to the ground, and watch it all turn to ashes.

And she succeeded.

Just not in the way she thought.

Jade Whitenhouse made me fall for her, so fucking deep, I was already lost—just to watch me crawl to her, and destroy me.

The words I said to her a few weeks ago keep playing in my head, taunting me.

I’m starting to think you might kill me, Jade. And you know what? I’d let you.

But if I had only known back then how fucking wrong I was—how the very flames of her love, which I thought would heal me, would end up burning down the last shreds of my soul.

I scoffed to myself.

Her love.

Was she even fucking capable of it?

Was it all fake? Just some goddamn act?

I swear to fucking God, I’d seen it in her eyes—the love, the admiration, the fucking longing.

Had I mistaken it because I wanted it so damn badly to be true? Because I’d been desperate for her to love me just as much as I’d fucking loved her for the last six years?

You can’t love me, Angelo. Not after what I’ve done.

If I wasn’t sitting in this fucking interrogation room with these bastards watching my every move, waiting for me to snap, I’d destroy every goddamn piece of furniture in here, furious at myself.

I told her there was nothing she could ever do that would make me stop loving her.

But this?

Betraying me, lying to me, stealing from me…

“I love you too, Angelo,” she had said . “So much. Too much, and I shouldn’t. But for some reason, my heart betrayed me and chose you.”

When Vittori called me tonight, telling me that Alia Jasper, head of the New York City FBI field office—the woman he’d befriended and occasionally had in his bed—informed him that her own sister, Alexandra Jasper, Fox News’ top journalist, had compiled a sixty-two-page folder detailing my life, and accusing me of murder, embezzlement, kidnapping, threats, and more.

I was not only fucking shaken, but utterly destroyed.

Then I turned around to see her— mia diavoletta —gun pointed high at me, ready to shoot.

She claimed I killed her sister.

Stella. The same name she had cried in her sleep many times.

But the Cyrus Project was the reason her sister died, not fucking me .

If she had just fucking come to me and been honest, I would have helped her get the revenge she so desperately needed—because I knew exactly who was behind it all.

La freccia della tua vendetta ha colpito il cuore sbagliato, amore.

A heavy breath clogged my lungs as I checked the time again.

2:35 a.m.

When I entered the feds’ car, Vittori texted me that his Alia would get me out at 2:45 a.m. That I had to stay at least twenty minutes to pretend, for the employees there, that I was a nobody—without money to buy this fucking country and every bastard that came my way.

The doors opened, and a pretty agent—Detective Naomi McLauren—sat down, her cheeks pink, eyes wide as she scanned my face and lips. She explained why I had been arrested, but in the process, was unable to hide how attracted she was to me.

I barely listened to her, my mind still on Jade, waiting for her to explain the fucking sinful lies that had slipped from those pretty lips.

When my Rolex hit 2:45 a.m., I put my blazer back on and left.

Despite every fucking betrayal, my soul was still fucking empty, craving its soulmate—even though she was the reason I was in this mess in the first place.

Jade Whitenhouse.

My employee. Mia Diavoletta. My light.

How could this woman be my redemption and my ruin in the same breath?

“Well, shit. All this just to save your ass from the feds on the day of your goddamn New Year’s party.”

I slammed the passenger door, rubbing my eyes as if I could scrub away the exhaustion, the nerves, and the simmering anger.

Vittori’s hand gripped the wheel as he steered the car out of the parking lot.

“Yeah, grazie . Who knew you fucking their head agent would actually pay off one day, huh?”

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he slowed for a red light, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and offering me one. I took it, and he lit both mine and his, drawing in the smoke with a satisfied inhale.

The chill air bit at my skin as he rolled the window down.

“Beautiful Alia Jasper.” A lazy grin spread on his face. “I’ve always known how to pick my women, Lazzio. You, on the other hand…” He gave a low scoff, shaking his head like I was the dumbest bastard he’d ever met. “Still haven’t figured it out, apparently.”

My glare could’ve burned through stone.

“Can’t believe your little diavoletta almost ruined you entirely—just to bring your empire down. And for what?”

“She thinks I killed her sister.”

A beat of silence.

His brow barely lifted. “Well… did you?”

I exhaled sharply. “No. I didn’t even know she had a fucking sister—let alone that she died in a damn explosion!”

Doubt and fucking shock now swam faster in my mind.

I still couldn’t fucking believe it.

Six years.

Six fucking years I’d been obsessed with a woman who’d turned out to have a hidden agenda sharp enough to gut me. Six years of wanting her, needing her like an addiction I didn’t want to kick—only to find out she was plotting my downfall from the start.

All because of something that wasn’t even fucking true.

But now, I couldn’t even separate the truth from her lies anymore.

Every touch, every batting eyelash, every moan, every goddamn caress—how much of it had been real?

What had been part of her little performance?

She’d told me she fucking loved me.

The words I’d dreamed of hearing for years, spilling out of her mouth like salvation. And now? I didn’t even know if that was a lie too.

Fuck.

I’d told her about my past—the things I’d buried so deep.

I’d handed her my scars, my truths, my fucking trust.

And what had she done? She’d wrapped it up in a pretty little bow, just to hand it over and ruin me.

“What are you gonna do now?”

He pulled the car into the parking lot of my condo, throwing it into park.

I sat back, closed my eyes for a moment, and let out a slow breath.

“Now?” My voice was cold, clipped. I turned to him, a shadow of a grin curling at the edge of my lips. “Now, I need your help with something.”

Because one way or another, this wasn’t fucking over.