Sinful Lies (Sinful #2)

Chapter 46

Chapter

Forty-Six

“I'm oxygen and he’s dying to breathe.”

― Tahereh Mafi

Jade

Angelo parked the car with a soft stop, and I exhaled the breath I’d been holding since we’d left New York that morning—first the helicopter ride to Boston, then the car ride to Bay Village.

Not a single word had left my lips since last night. Not one.

Every time he asked me something or spoke to me, I simply nodded, lost in my own thoughts, trying to brace myself for this uninvited, unwelcome journey ahead.

Part of me wanted to scream when he said he needed to see the place that had made me—the place that had broken me, shattered me. The place where my pain had been born, the place where I’d lost everything that mattered.

I wanted to slap him. Tell him to go to hell for making such a demand.

But that was when I knew I couldn’t keep running anymore.

Nine years. I’d spent nine years hiding from the truth, from my own reflection. Avoiding everything that might break me further. But there was no running anymore. Not now.

So, I told him I’d do it, then stood, left the room, and went to sleep in the guest bedroom, thinking maybe he wanted some space too.

But in the dead of night, his body pressed against mine, his arm around my waist, his head buried in the curve of my neck.

Relief washed over me, unexpected and bittersweet. I closed my eyes, letting sleep take over. Even the haunting image of Greg’s dead eyes glaring at me faded, pushed aside by the heat of his skin against mine.

He turned off the engine.

That was it. I had to get out and?—

A wave of heat hit me, making the world tilt.

Black dots swarmed my vision, and my throat tightened.

Not now, not here, please.

“Breathe, Jade.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to steady myself. My hands curled into fists, and I forced a slow breath, fighting the panic that had a grip on my chest.

“Good girl,” he murmured. His fingers wrapped around mine, pressing my hand to his lips. “I’m here, amore .”

I nodded, feeling the warmth of his touch seep through the fog in my mind.

I exhaled, the pressure in my chest finally loosening.

It took a moment, but eventually, I could breathe without feeling like I was drowning. My heart steadied, the panic fading into something heavier.

Angelo got out and circled the car to open my door. He unfastened my seatbelt, zipped my coat, and carefully eased my hair free from the collar.

Then he cupped my face, his thumb lazily caressing my cheek.

“You okay?” he asked, his gaze steady on mine.

I nodded.

Stepping out of the car, I led him toward the forest path. Mud and snow clung to my boots as we trudged forward. The trees thinned out, revealing a barren stretch of land littered with signs screaming “Do Not Trespass” and “Private Property.” Cheap red ribbons fluttered in the wind, barely hanging onto the posts meant to warn people away.

We climbed over them anyway.

The ground turned slick with snow and sludge as we moved closer.

Finally, we stopped in front of a faded red sign, its peeling letters spelling out one word: Mines.

I froze. My hands trembled.

The place was quiet, lifeless, but the memories weren’t. They clawed their way to the surface—images, sounds, everything I’d spent years trying to forget. My breath caught, sharp and shallow, as if the air itself had turned against me.

“This is it?”

I blinked, his voice cutting through the fog in my head. “What?”

He shrugged, his expression unreadable. “You said it was the nicest place around here. Doesn’t seem worth it to me.”

For a second, I wanted to slap him, the heat rising to my face.

Was he seriously making light of this?

But then it hit me—he wasn’t mocking me.

He was pulling me back.

As if sensing my realization, the corner of his mouth lifted in the faintest hint of a smile. His gaze drifted ahead.

“You’re an ass.”

“Maybe. But you’re not passing out on me here, Jade. Not today.”

I rolled my eyes, but the edges of my mouth betrayed me. “You’re lucky I didn’t bring a shovel.”

His laugh was quiet, the kind that snuck under your skin and settled there.

My gaze wandered ahead, scanning the expanse of nothingness that was everything .

I inhaled deeply, my chest tight as if it was trying to keep me together while my mind unraveled.

“What do you want to say to Stella?”

I crossed my arms against myself, not for warmth, but to stop the tremble that threatened to give me away.

What would I say?

I’d been talking to her in my head for years. Whispering to her in the dark when the world felt too loud. Telling her about my failures, my victories, the milestones she hadn’t been there for. Hoping—God, always hoping—that somehow, somewhere, she had been listening.

I swallowed, my throat dry, my voice barely audible. “I’d tell her I miss her more than anything I’ve ever lost. More than flowers miss the sun when it disappears, leaving them to wilt in the dark. And when she crosses my mind—which is every day—it’s the only time I feel whole, like she’s still here. I’d tell her that I’m so scared of losing her again. Not just her, but the memory of her. The way she looked, the way she laughed… the way her voice sounded when she teased me, or how she’d cross her arms and pout when she was mad. Every little detail. Every stupid, perfect thing.”

The words choked me, but I couldn’t stop them.

“I’d tell her that each day I feel her slipping further away from my mind. And it kills me. But not my heart. Never my heart. She’s there, always, locked inside, and I hope to God she knows that. I hope wherever she is, she feels how much I love her. Because it’s the only thing I’ve got left to give her.”

By the time I finished, my chest was heaving, and the tears were running freely.

For once, I didn’t wipe them away. I let them fall, heavy and hot, as if they could reach her.

Angelo’s fingers brushed against mine.

I turned to look at him, but his eyes were already on me, warmer than I’d ever seen. “What would you say to your mother?”

I let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “Too much. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“Try,” he said, his voice rough around the edges. “For me.”

For him.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I’d tell her I’m sorry.”

“For what?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“For not being with her when she needed me the most,” I choked out. “When my sister died, I—I didn’t stay. I should’ve held her. I should’ve cried with her. But instead, I ran. I left her alone with all that pain, because I couldn’t handle it myself.”

The words hit the air like stones, heavy and jagged, and I pursed my lips, trying to keep the sobs from breaking loose.

But they did anyway.

“And I didn’t stop running,” I continued, my voice shaking. “I spiraled—into drugs, alcohol, sex, anything to numb it. I got arrested. I became this person she wouldn’t even recognize. This person she wouldn’t want to recognize. I made myself unworthy of her love because I thought… I thought if I didn’t deserve it, maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much when I lost it.”

I blinked hard, the tears blurring everything in front of me.

“She begged me not to go down that path, Angelo. Begged me not to destroy myself for revenge. She told me she didn’t want that for me, that it wouldn’t bring my sister back.” My voice cracked again. “And what did I do? I ignored her. I spent years consumed by it—by hate, by this gnawing, endless need to get even. I wasn’t there for her the way I should’ve been. I was too busy plotting, too busy running from everything she asked me to face.”

I looked away, fixing my gaze on the snow-covered ground as though it could somehow ground me.

“And then when she got sick…” I could barely push the words out now. “I tried. God, I tried. I visited. I held her hand. I told myself I was there for her. But I wasn’t. Not really. I was so scared of losing her too, so scared of what it would do to me, that I couldn’t—I couldn’t let myself get close. Not the way I should have.”

I clenched my fists until my nails dug into my palms.

“I thought if I just kept my distance, if I braced myself, maybe it wouldn’t destroy me when it happened. But it did anyway. And I can’t—” My knees buckled, and before I could hit the ground, Angelo was there. His arms steadied me, his hold strong, like he’d been waiting for me to fall all along.

“I didn’t get to tell her,” I sobbed, my voice muffled against his chest. “I didn’t get to tell her how much I loved her. How much I still love her. I didn’t get to tell her I was sorry for every single way I failed her. That I’d carry her with me for the rest of my life, even if it killed me.”

Angelo’s hand cradled the back of my head, the other wrapping around me like he thought he could hold all the broken pieces of me together.

“You think she didn’t know?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. My fists clenched weakly at his dress shirt, the fight gone out of me. “I don’t know if she did, Angelo.”

“She knew,” he said, his voice rough, but certain. “You think love like that just disappears? She knew, Jade. And she still does.”

I let the words settle, let the weight of them press against the ache in my chest.

And for the first time in months, I let myself cry for her—not just for the loss, but for the love too. The kind that never really fades, no matter how far you run.

Angelo swept me up, cradling me against him as my nails dug into his skin, desperate for something to hold on to. I buried my face in his neck, tears soaking his shirt, shaking with everything I couldn’t say.

His grip was unbreakable, his body strong as he carried me back to the car.

I tossed the damp towel into the basket, steam curling in lazy tendrils from the bathroom. I was wearing one of Angelo’s T-shirts—something I’d found in the bag he’d packed for me. It was soft, loose, brushing just above my knees.

The door creaked open, and fog spilled into the room as I made my way to the bed, my legs heavy, my mind even heavier.

After my breakdown, Angelo had held me in the car, letting me fall apart in his arms until exhaustion had taken over. I didn’t remember much—just the warmth of him and the steady rhythm of his breathing. I must’ve passed out, because the next thing I knew, he was carrying me into the hotel lobby.

He didn’t say much—just that I should shower and relax. Then he left, promising he’d be back.

Too numb, and too drained to question him, I did as he said.

I slipped under the covers, pulling them tight around me, like they could shield me from the world. The room was heavy with quiet, the kind that crept into your chest and refused to leave. Shadows bled across the walls, stretching and twisting with the dim light outside.

It wasn’t late, barely past five, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to stop feeling.

And yet, I couldn’t deny it—I felt lighter. Raw, wrecked, but lighter.

Angelo had done it.

He’d broken me apart, dragged out all the things I’d buried so deep they’d started to rot, and had forced me to say them out loud. It had hurt like hell, but the pain wasn’t as unbearable now. It was something else, something almost… freeing.

I stared at the ceiling.

The ache was still there, but it wasn’t crushing me the way it used to. For years, I’d carried it alone, letting it fester and eat away at me. But today, Angelo had taken some of that weight. He hadn’t fixed me—he couldn’t—but he’d made it bearable.

The silence wasn’t so sharp anymore. It didn’t cut as deep.

I’d let it out, all of it, and the world hadn’t ended.

Angelo hadn’t looked at me like I was broken beyond repair.

If anything, he’d looked at me like I was worth holding on to, even when I couldn’t hold on to myself.

My fingers traced the edge of the blanket.

He had stripped me bare—not just physically, but in ways I hadn’t thought anyone ever could. And somehow, instead of feeling exposed, I felt… safer.

Speak of the devil.

The door clicked open, and Angelo walked in, two bags in hand, his eyes finding me instantly. Always.

He moved toward the living room area, setting the bags down on the counter before shrugging off his coat and heading straight for the bed. He sat down at the edge, close enough that I could see his cheeks were slightly red due to the cold.

“I brought food—chicken noodle soup and tea,” he said, his voice low, his eyes tracing my face.

I shifted against the headboard, my fingers picking at the blanket. “Thank you.”

“Feeling better?” he asked, leaning forward slightly.

I nodded, even as my hands fidgeted. “A little.”

“I bought you something else.”

My head tilted slightly, curiosity edging out exhaustion. “What is it?”

He stood, moving to where his coat hung on the chair. His hand dipped into the pocket, and when he turned back, a small box rested in his palm.

Without a word, he came back to the bed and placed it in my hands, his fingers brushing mine.

“Open it.”

I glanced down at it, my fingers brushing over the edges, but instead of lifting the lid, I set it aside on the bed. My hand reached for his without thinking, my fingers curling around his.

“Have you forgiven me, Angelo?” I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.

His brows pulled together, the faintest shadow of something crossing his face—hurt, maybe. Or anger. It was hard to tell with him, the way he hid his emotions behind a mask so effortlessly.

“For what?”

“For lying. For stealing. For trying to destroy everything you’ve ever worked for. For ruining everything. For not—” I shook my head, unable to finish.

He shifted closer, his free hand reaching up to tilt my chin so I couldn’t look away.

His gaze pierced through me, darker than the night.

“Wasn’t this trip supposed to be the price for my forgiveness?”

My lips parted, but no sound came out.

“You brought me here . This—” He waved his hand, a subtle motion, but it said more than any words could. “This was all I needed, Jade. It’s enough.”

“So, is that it?” I whispered, almost too afraid to ask. “Am I really forgiven?”

His gaze softened. “ Sì, amore mio. ”

A lump rose in my throat.

“I don’t deserve it,” I whispered.

“Maybe not. But you don’t get to decide what I forgive.” His hand dropped from my chin. “Open it,” he said again, softer this time.

I let out a shaky breath, my fingers trembling as I reached for the velvet box.

I opened it slowly, and the sight inside stole the air from my lungs. A tiny, delicate gold butterfly, identical to the ones that hung around my neck, gleamed softly in the light.

“You said the two around your neck symbolized your papa and sister,” Angelo’s voice was low, like he was threading his words carefully. “One was missing for your mama. Now the three of them will be together, watching over you.”

I looked at the butterfly in my hand, feeling something break open inside me.

“How did you …?”

“It wasn’t hard to find,” he murmured, his gaze warm, watching me like he always did—always seeing more than I wanted to show.

I closed my eyes, swallowing hard, trying to keep myself together, but it was impossible. The butterfly wasn’t just a gift. It was everything. A piece of the puzzle I didn’t know I was still trying to solve.

A way to keep them close. A way to remember them all.

“ Thank you,” I whispered, barely able to get the words out.

Angelo didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

His hands gently slid behind my neck, unclasping my necklace. The delicate motion felt impossibly intimate, his fingers warm against my skin. He added the gold butterfly charm before securing the necklace back around my neck.

His hand grazed my skin, sending a little shiver straight through me before he cupped my face and yanked me closer, his mouth slamming against mine. It was hot, fierce—like he was marking me. Telling me, in no uncertain terms, that I was his and he was mine.

“I love you, Jade,” he muttered, his voice rough. “But from now on? No more fucking lies.”

I pulled away just enough to meet his gaze. “I promise.”

He leaned in, his lips brushing mine. “You better mean it.”

“I do,” I said, a little too breathlessly for my liking, but damn, he had that effect on me.

His lips crashed back to mine, deeper this time.

I cupped his head, my fingers threading through his hair, pulling him even closer. The pressure of his mouth against mine was almost punishing, but in the best way—like he was erasing all the mess, all the bullshit, with every swipe of his tongue.

He groaned into me, his hand sliding down my back, pulling me flush against him.

When he finally pulled back slightly, his breath ragged, his hands still gripping me like he was afraid I’d slip away, I could see it in his eyes—the raw hunger, the need.

And it made me feel alive.

Angelo Lazzio needed me—just as much as I needed him.

“Make love to me, Angelo,” I whispered against his lips.

He didn’t waste a second.

His lips crashed back into mine, pulling me to him like I was the air he needed to breathe. Every inch of his touch was a claim, a demand, and I let him take what he wanted—again and again—until there was nothing left but the two of us tangled in each other, our skin on fire.

I forgot everything else.

All that existed was him.

All that mattered now was him.