Page 22 of Sinful Lies

A name I knew far too well.

His file wasthick, filled with all the dirty little details I didn’t want to know but couldn’t stop myself from reading. Every financial transaction, every shady deal, every little piece of leverage Lazzio had on him.

But it wasn’t the business stuff that caught my attention. It was the personal notes—things no one was supposed to see.

Lazzio had a knack for digging up what people wanted to forget, and Greg was no exception. The guy was a mess, just one bad decision away from crumbling, but somehow he’d managed to keep up the perfect façade.

Honestly, I didn’t give a damn about his life. I was just looking for something that would tell me if he was the one I was after.

After two years in New York working for Lazzio, helping him build his empire, everything was going smoothly—except for the usual back-and-forth power games between us. You know, the kind that had my pulse racing one minute and my eye twitching the next.

It was the twisted kind of entertainment that kept me on my toes, whether I liked it or not.

I was still thirty months sober from drugs, and honestly? I was kind of proud of myself. I still drank, though—just a glass or two a week, usually when I was soaking in the bath.

Work, workouts, and my revenge-plotting nights kept my demons at bay.

But exhaustion didn’t mean I’d let up.

My apartment’s office had become a makeshift headquarters for my plans—a secret room with fingerprint-locked doors, where every lead, every scrap of evidence, and every thread of vengeance was meticulously pinned in place.

If Dr. Morano could see me now, she’d probably say I was wasting my energy clinging to the past. Revenge, she’d tell me, solves nothing, heals nothing. But what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. And it certainly wouldn’t stop me.

I hadn’t seen her in three years, though she still emailed me occasionally, asking how I was.

Sometimes, I replied. Sometimes, I didn’t.

Either way, her well-meaning concern barely scratched the surface of what I’d become.

A woman with one singular purpose: to destroy the person who had destroyed her.

The doorbell rang, pulling me out of my scheming.

I got up, gave my dress a quick pat-down, and left the room, double-checking the lock before heading for the hallway mirror.

One glance told me everything was in place—hair flawless, makeup on point.

I slipped on my heels and swung the door open.

“Happy birthday, princess,” Aussie said, holding out a bouquet of red roses with a boyish grin.

Last year, after Lazzio dared me not to screw Nathan Simons, I went ahead and did it anyway. Call it a mix of horniness and spite. He was gone to Australia, I was feeling rebellious, and Nathan was offering, so why not? Dinner turned into drinks, and drinks led to his bed.

Was it the “greatest night of my life” like Nathan had promised? Not even close.

Was it still enjoyable? Absolutely.

A hot, sweaty man deliciously kissing my neck, his mouth going places no one had in years? Yeah, I had missed that.

Without realizing it, Angelo Lazzio and his infuriatingly smug self had managed to crack open the vault I’d sworn shut.

But let’s be clear—I don’t sleep with clients.

Nathan was a one-time rebellion.

These days, I stick to men who are safe bets—no strings, no drama, no ties to my job or my boss.

That’s where Aussie came in.

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