Page 112 of Sinful Lies

I reached for her hips, but she stepped out of my grasp, her body moving with purpose.

She walked slowly toward the door, hips swaying. Stopping at the door, she glanced back at me with a smug grin.

“Grazie per l'orgasmo,Angelo,” she chuckled softly. “Ma non, ho vinto io.”

She didn’t wait for a response.

With a wicked laugh, she was gone.

Che cazzo.

Chapter

Twenty-Seven

“Success is getting what you want, happiness is wanting what you get”

?W.P. Kinsella

Jade

“Congratulations, Jade, you’ve truly outdone yourself,” Francesca Harper said, leaning in to kiss my cheeks as I handed her a glass of champagne.

I took a sip of my own, letting the bubbles fizz on my tongue as she continued.

“This exhibition?” She paused, her gaze sweeping the room as she savored her drink. “Simply exquisite. Who would’ve thought war could inspire such breathtaking beauty?”

The room buzzed with murmured compliments and the clinking of glasses, the kind of noise people made when they cared more about being noticed than noticing anything else.

“I wasn’t sure what to expect,” Francesca continued, her tone dripping with the kind of sugar that rotted teeth, gesturing to thetowering centerpiece with her champagne flute. “But this? It’s… ambitious. Raw, even.”

Ares, God of War, stood eight feet tall, carved with sinful precision. His body was a masterpiece of muscle and dominance, the kind that made you question your morals. His massive sword gleamed as if it had tasted blood, while his shield bore the scars of battles fought long before anyone in this room had been born. The fury in his face could bring armies to their knees—or, more likely, leave someone breathless forentirelydifferent reasons.

I took another sip of champagne, letting my gaze wander over him with a smirk.

“It’s meant to be, Francesca. War isn’t polished, or pretty. It’s raw. Unforgiving.”

Her eyes didn’t leave the sculpture, though a faint smile played at her lips. “Quite the statement,” she said, tilting her head. “Ares himself would be impressed.”

Over the years, Francesca Harper—Scarlett’s mother—had become a fascinating specimen for me to quietly analyze. The woman was every bit a Lazzio: strong-minded, exuding the kind of Italian timeless class and beauty that could make even the boldest stare.

But it wasn’t just her elegance—it was that Lazzio fire in her eyes.

The unspoken warning that if you crossed her, she’d ruin you in ways you wouldn’t even comprehend until it was too late.

Like any proper Italian mama, she didn’t need to yell to make her point—she was the storm, calm and deadly. That’s why she had my respect.

In a world where women of her status wasted their days gossiping, shopping, and draping themselves over men for attention, Francesca Harper stood out like a hawk circling above the chaos.

After telling her to enjoy the evening, I left her side and moved through the museum, winding my way through each floor.

I greeted attendees, exchanged meaningless pleasantries, and made sure every piece of the night had fallen into place as planned. But the further I went, the harder it became to ignore the weight pressing against my chest, that familiar gnawing feeling creeping up my throat.

This would probably be one of the last exhibitions I’d direct here. Next week, hell would ignite, and when the smoke cleared, my time in New York would be done. It would be time to go back to my old life.

I caught myself wondering about the old house—what it looked like now, who the poor souls living in it were. Maybe I’d drop by, knock on their door, see if?—

“No gun tonight?”

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