Page 1 of Sinful Lies

Prologue

“The angel is nothing without the demon.”

?A.D. Aliwat

Angelo

Four inches.

Four inches to my computer screen, four inches to the picture frame of Georgino with my parents. Perfectly centered—always where I kept my backup burner phone.

That old black case? Worn and cracked, but it had been my lifeline over the years.

I bought it for one reason: to dig into Cyrus’s project—a multi-million-dollar scheme to wipe out a ghost town in Boston, a place left to rot since the auto industry fell apart and everyone bailed for bigger cities.

Jonathan Cyrus, a so-called friend of my old man, Carlos Lazzio, had some grand vision.

Bulldozers would come in, and he’d turn that dump into a shining paradise of luxury hotels, exotic zoos—think Babylonwith all the bells and whistles, celebrating the seasons in style. Lake Kendrick would wrap around it, flashing lights, fine cigars, and money pouring in like it was a goddamn fountain.

That was his plan, anyway.

Cyrus snatched that project right from under my nose. My father thought I wasn’t tough enough to handle it, thought I couldn’t carry the weight.

So he gave this project to him.

I was just twenty-seven back then, and I had spent a decade proving myself in this ruthless game. Ten years of blood, sweat, and tears, and it still wasn’t fucking enough.

So, I wanted to take matters into my own hands before everything blew away.

That damn burner phone was the key to everything.

But when I reached for it tonight and found it missing from its usual spot, a cold knot twisted in my stomach.

I knew something was wrong. I could feel it in my bones, and I knew who was behind it: a tall, pale demon with long black hair, a pretty face and a wicked glint in her eye.

The very reason I found myself in this room to begin with.

The air in the interrogation room was stifling, thick with the kind of humidity that clings to your skin like a second layer.

I tugged at the cufflinks, the sharp metallic clink echoing in the silence, and shrugged off my blazer. It slid off my shoulders and draped itself over the wooden chair behind me, forgotten.

A bead of sweat meandered lazily down the curve of my neck, tracing heat over already simmering flesh.

My arms folded across my chest as I sat there, unwavering, my gaze fixed on the mirror in front of me.

I didn’t need to guess what was behind it—probably a handful of faceless, self-important bastards. Watching. Waiting. Hoping I’d crack or beg for mercy.

The thought almost made me laugh, but I kept the smirk buried deep.

The room was deceptively serene, considering the weight it carried.

This was a place where suffering lingered, soaked into the walls.

How many grown men had screamed for their mama here?

How many women had collapsed, beaten by exhaustion?

How many desperate fuckers had promised to sell out their loved ones for a taste of freedom?

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