Page 116 of Sinful Lies

That was the plan.

But something deeper twisted inside me, something bitter and shameful.

Guilt.

I swallowed hard, my throat thick with words I couldn’t say.

He dropped his face into the crook of my neck, exhaling like he was fighting to hold himself together.

“Do you even realize what you’re doing to me?” he muttered, voice all raw and rough, like he couldn’t believe the words were coming out of his mouth.

His hands slipped from the wall, wrapping around my waist and pulling me closer, like he was trying to make sure I wouldn’t slip away.

There was something else in how he held me, something deeper, like if he let go, he might actually break.

“I fucking hate you, Jade. ButDio mio, I can’t stay away.”

Neither can I, Angelo.

Chapter

Twenty-Eight

“Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.”

?Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Angelo

“You could’ve just dropped me off, you know. I think we’ve chewed each other out enough for one day—I don’t need you gnawing on my nerves any further.”

I tossed my keys onto the counter, kicked off my shoes, and went straight for the wine cellar. This girl was going to be the death of me—if I didn’t kill her first.

She followed, of course, like a storm cloud that had decided to park itself in my living room. By the time I turned around with the bottle and two glasses, she’d already made herself at home.

High heels discarded, legs tucked beneath her, she lounged on my cream couch like it was custom-built for her. Her eyes scanned the room, lingering on the dark, earthy walls, thePersian rug, and the piano in the corner—untouched since my grandfather’s hands had last graced its keys.

I poured the wine and handed her a glass. She downed it in two unceremonious gulps, and placed the empty glass on the table.

I sat down beside her, nursing my own drink.

My head hit the back of the couch as I sighed.

“I woke up chained in a basement. On a chair. A masked man sitting across from me, waiting for me to wake up.”

Her posture shifted immediately. Legs pulled in, hands fidgeting.

“I’m a man of my word. I owe you the story. Every miserable, blood-stained piece of it.”

She didn’t move, didn’t speak, but her breath caught—just enough for me to notice. She pulled her legs tighter, curling into the corner of the couch; she braced herself, but still, her eyes didn’t leave me.

I drained the rest of my glass, slamming it down.

My jaw clenched, and for a second, I debated stopping—locking it all back where it belonged.

“He didn’t speak at first. Just stared, like I was some animal he’d caught, and was deciding how to carve me up.” My voice dipped low, jagged, as I stared at the wall. “He finally stood. Took his sweet fucking time walking around me, like a vulture.”

She hugged her knees tighter.

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