Page 128 of Sinful Lies

I swept my long black hair into a sleek updo, a few loose tendrils framing my face. For makeup, I went with a soft smoky eye—light, airy, but edged with just enough menace to whisper danger. Nude lips, polished to a degree that practically oozed condescension, completed the look.

The result?

A walking masterpiece. The kind that turned heads and stopped hearts.

Yes, I was ready.

Ready to make Angelo Lazzio choke on his arrogance and regret every single second of forcing me into this night.

“Jade,Dio mio, every time I see you, you somehow look better than the last,” Monica Lazzio drawled as she leaned against the bar, her Roberto Cavalli suit tailored within an inch of perfection.

A dry martini dangled from her fingers like it was part of her outfit.

“Well, what can I say, Monica? I guess it’s a gift,” I winked, reaching for the champagne flute waiting for me.

Next to her, Francesca Harper gave me a once-over, her red Chanel dress hugging her curves like it had been made for no one else. She didn’t need to say anything; the little tilt of her head and the ghost of a smile were enough to declare she approved—begrudgingly, of course.

Lazzio stood by the massive window, framed perfectly by the darkness of the beach outside. He looked ridiculously good, asusual—black shirt, black suit, and a red handkerchief casually tucked into his blazer.

And then it hit me—we matched. Without even trying.

His eyes slid over me, like he was savoring every inch of me in that dress. The way his eyes darkened, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to devour me or just keep me in his head for later, made something in my chest tighten.

Stronzo.

“I must say, I’m delighted Angelo brought you tonight. It’s the first time he’severbrought a woman to a real family dinner—let alone Christmas.” Monica swirled her martini, before she took a slow sip. “I think my son is falling for you, Jade.”

Before I could muster up a response that was equal parts polite and insulting, a butler appeared out of nowhere.

“Dinner is served in the dining room,” he announced.

I didn’t need a second invitation.

With a tight smile at Monica, I followed the butler, Lazzio falling into step beside me. His hand grazed the small of my back—just a whisper of contact, but enough to light my nerves on fire.

I ignored him, and instead let my eyes sweep the house, because, God help me,thisdeserved attention.

If the Gregs’ house in Aspen had been majestic, the Lazzios’ estate in the Hamptons was straight-up divine intervention.

Every corner of the place sparkled like it had been prepped for a Vogue Christmas special.

Christmas trees? Everywhere.

Not just random ones thrown together either—each was its own little masterpiece, dripping in gold ornaments, and dusted with fake snow perfectly.

Then there was the dining room.

Oh, the dining room.

It was a fever dream of decadence.

A marble table so long it could probably double as a runway stretched down the center, laden with enough food to feed a small country. Roasted meats gleamed under the soft glow of a massive gold crystal chandelier, its cascading crystals dripping with opulence.

Crystal bowls held colorful side dishes arranged so artistically it almost felt rude to touch them.

I guess that was the highlight of the night—definitely better than the dinner I wassupposedto have alone in my apartment.

You know, the usual: a sad chicken sandwich and some chips.

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