Page 147 of Sinful Lies

So fucking sweet. So fucking mine.

Tomorrow, I’d see her again. New Year’s prep.

She’d be there, acting all annoying and sassy. And I couldn’t fucking wait.

So, for now, I focused on Greg—figuring out how to finally get rid of him.

I flew to Aspen, and found him exactly where my father had said: in his favorite casino, smoking cigars and playing poker.

“How’s your leg?” He gestured lazily to the chair across from him. “Sit, Lazzio. We have much to discuss.”

“Yeah, like the fucking ten million you stole from me—which, by the way, is pathetic for a supposed billionaire.”

He leaned back in his chair, puffing out his cigar.

“Stole? No, Lazzio. I took back what was mine. A little overdue repayment, if you ask me.”

I stepped closer.

“I doubt your actress’s life was worth that much, Greg. So tell me—what did I really take from you?”

His smirk faltered for just a second before he masked it with another puff of his cigar.

“Sit. Let’s play.”

I pulled out the chair, the legs screeching against the floor as I sat down. Greg pushed a fresh stack of chips toward me, his smirk returning as he shuffled the deck.

“You remember Lucius’s project in Boston?” he asked, dealing the cards.

I dragged my thumb across my jaw.

I fucking knew it.

That project should’ve been mine—mine to build, mine to control, mine to turn into a gold mine. But Carlos Lazzio, in all his infinite wisdom, had decided his son wasn’t “ready.”

Instead, he’d handed it off to Lucius, his friend—the one he’d trusted more than his own blood, apparently.

I could’ve fixed that problem the simple way—one bullet, one body. But Lucius wasn’t just some guy. He was like family, and killing him would’ve been suicide. My father would’ve made sure I didn’t see the sunrise.

So I had let it go, grudgingly.

But days later, the whole site had gone up in flames. Mines buried beneath the soil had detonated, ripping through the foundation like the wrath of God Himself had hit Boston.

It had been obliterated. Steel twisted into jagged ribs, concrete reduced to ash, and the mayor scrambling to assure the public there weren’t more mines waiting to blow. The contracthad been canceled. The land rendered useless. A legacy turned to ashes.

Now that cursed patch of dirt sits there, untouched and unbuildable, because no one’s brave—or stupid—enough to dig and risk unearthing the rest of the mines.

“The one that burned to the ground?”

Greg laughed, a deep, nasty rasp, puffing out his cigar. “Yeah, that one. Funny, huh? A project that was supposed to be yours got fucking torched the second someone else laid their hands on it.”

I leaned back. “If you’ve got something to say, Greg, then fucking say it.”

His grin widened, cocky and slimy. “That project wasn’t just Lucius’s, Lazzio. It was mine. He was just a front, a little lapdog to wave at your old man. But me? I was the one calling the shots. I’m the one who told Carlos you weren’t ready—too young, too volatile, too much of a ticking fucking time bomb. And he believed me. Gave it to Lucius, just like I planned.”

He slapped his cards down—a king, four aces, and a queen.

“But then, one night, your dear father called me and said he’d decided to give you a chance—hand you the project.” He exhaled a puff of smoke, his grin turning venomous. “It pissed me the fuck off, so I destroyed it. Burned it to the ground.”

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