Page 30 of Sinful Lies

He glared at me for a second.

I pouted. “Consider it my birthday present, Lazzio. No need to waste money on a card or spa vouchers this year. You’re welcome.”

His eyes flickered with something—dark amusement, maybe irritation?

Hard to tell.

“You’re twenty-five, and you still can’t get your shit together. Getting drunk, getting arrested… Do you ever stop and think? Or are you too busy being nothing but a fucking joke?”

I clenched my fists, fury burning in my veins.

Freaking Italian bastard!

“I hate yousofucking much,” I muttered under my breath. “After everything I’ve done for you and your little precious Lazzio Exhibits Inc.—how my work literally helped push your shit show to the top—you should be on your knees kissing my feet, not running your mouth like some judgmental jerk.”

I didn’t care anymore.

If he wanted to tear me down, I’d tear him apart right back.

He slammed the car to a stop, and I realized we were already at my apartment complex. My hands were shaking, but I yanked off my seatbelt quickly, the anger simmering so hot I honestly felt like I might lose it completely and really end up in jail—this time for murdering my boss.

He got out, slammed the door, and walked over to my side, pulling it open.

I ignored him, stepping out onto the pavement, my bare feet hitting the ground.

“You’re bleeding.”

“And you’re an asshole. Now move.”

He exhaled sharply, and before I could even process what was happening, he had me hoisted over his shoulder, his hands gripping the bare skin of my thighs.

I gasped. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Put me down!”

He didn’t answer, just kept walking, my legs dangling in the air as I wriggled in a mix of embarrassment and frustration.

“You can’t just—ugh,put me the hell down, Lazzio!” I shouted, kicking my legs like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

His tone was maddeningly calm. “You’re still bleeding. You’re not walking anywhere like that. I don’t need you taking a sick leave and messing up my schedule.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I almost got dizzy. “Oh, how selfless of you. Put me down before I puke all over your suit, Lazzio.”

“Do it, and I’ll make you lick it off.”

I froze for half a second. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re a fucking child.”

“You’re lucky I’m too dizzy to fight you properly,” I muttered, thumping a weak fist against his back.

He pushed open the door to my apartment complex and set me down roughly.

My feet hit the floor and I immediately winced, hissing through my teeth.

Mr. Jones, my building’s concierge—who was the picture of every English grandpa stereotype rolled into one—glared at us. He was always in that tweed cap, even indoors. It was like the thing was surgically attached to his head.

“Everything okay, Jade?”

“Just peachy, Mr. Jones. Could you grab me a first aid kit?”

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