Page 148 of Sinful Lies

Jealousy truly is the devil’s favorite sin.

“That project would’ve brought me ten million. So yeah, boy, I took back what was mine. Call it overdue payment.”

I’d have killed anyone else on the spot for pulling this shit—for daring to run their mouth like they weren’t begging for a bullet.

But Greg? He wasn’t stupid.

I didn’t do messy. No crowds, no witnesses, no loose ends.

That’s why he sat there so fucking smug, lounging in that chair like it was a throne.

He knew I wouldn’t paint the walls with his blood—not here, not now.

But what Greg didn’t understand was that patience didn’t mean mercy.

I slapped my cards down—three aces.

Game over.

“The dog in all of this is you, Greg. Ten fucking years to pull this weak-ass stunt? That just proves one thing—you’re even more pathetic than I thought.”

His face twitched, the fake grin faltering just for a second.

I rose from my seat, ready to leave, but then he said something that stopped me cold.

“Turns out, the Lazzios are just pathetic cowards after all.”

I froze, then slowly turned back toward him.

Ain’t no fucking way.

A bucket of freezing water slammed into my back, jolting me awake with a shock that rattled my bones. My body jerked violently, teeth chattering as I gasped for air, trying to recover from the cold that clawed its way through me. My wrists were bound tightly behind my back, raw from the ropes, and my legs were lashed to the chair’s legs, making every movement a struggle. The cold burned, biting into my flesh, making my teeth rattle uncontrollably.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t do a damn thing except sit there, the ropes digging into my skin, my muscles stiff and sore.

A man appeared in front of me, his face hidden under a hood. He grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back so hard my neck screamed in protest.

“Good morning, little Lazzio,” he sneered, his voice cold and cutting. “I hope that freezing water wasn’t too much. It’s mid-August, after all. Don’t want you dying from the heat, do we?”

His laugh was hollow and dark, the kind that made your skin crawl. It wasn’t a joke—it was a taunt, a reminder that he enjoyed seeing me like this. He plopped into a chair, legs spread wide, arms crossed as though he were in charge of everything, controlling the very air in the room.

Today, he wasn’t shouting, wasn’t ranting in fury. He was calm. Too calm. It made the fear scrape deeper under my skin. There was something about his stillness, the way he carried himself, that made my stomach tighten in a way his anger never had. It was worse, so much worse.

I glanced around, searching the room for anything that could help me, anything that could be turned into a weapon, something, but it was hopeless. There was a rickety table in the corner, covered in dry bread, a bruised apple, and a nearly empty water bottle. On that table sat the Japanese knife they’d been using on me for days. The blade gleamed, cruel and sharp. Every time it cut, the pain only seemed to get worse.

It didn’t even feel like it was my body anymore—just something they were using, something to break, to destroy.

I met his eyes again, still grinning that twisted, predatory grin. He wasn’t going to stop. I knew that now. Not until he got exactly what he wanted.

He leaned in closer, his breath hitting my neck, sour and stale from cigarettes.

I fought not to gag.

“You’re tougher than I thought, little Lazzio,” he said, his voice low, like a promise of more pain to come. “But that doesn’t matter. They all break. You will too.”

I swallowed hard, the dry lump in my throat nearly choking me.

“You think your papa’s coming to save you?” he mocked, his fingers twitching as they reached behind him. “No one’s coming. You’re just a scared little boy. And scared little boys don’t last long.”

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