Page 42 of Sinful Lies

Lazzio pulled away like he hadn’t just manhandled me, slipping his Rolex back on and walking to the coat rack.

He grabbed his jacket and slid it on, moving like I wasn’t even there.

“So, what are you doing for Christmas?”

“None of your business.”

I smirked, crossing my arms. “Let me guess. Another boring family dinner? I’m sure they all justloveyour charming personality.”

He didn’t respond, just grabbed his phone from the desk and made a beeline for the door, clearly trying to avoid me.

So,obviously, I followed him.

He opened the door with a soft click and stepped into the hallway.

Grace’s desk was empty—she must have gone home to her dry turkey and happy, smiling little elves.

Lazzio hit the elevator button with a flick of his finger.

“So, when do I get my Christmas present? Or should I just expect a pair of socks with your face on them, so I canliterallystep all over you?”

He tapped the button again like it might make me go away. If only.

“You know, Lazzio–”

“What areyoudoing for Christmas, Miss Whitenhouse? Let me guess—another lonely night locked in your cold, empty apartment, because no one can stand being around you. I’m sure even your family avoids you. Hell, they probably thought about putting a bullet in their heads just to escape another miserable night with you.”

His words hung in the air, too heavy, too mean, and I was frozen—caught somewhere between anger and something far more unsettling.

He turned and his hand—unexpectedly gentle—lifted my chin, forcing me to look up at him. The moment felt too intimate, too charged, and I couldn’t tear my gaze away, even if I wanted to.

“Enjoy your Christmas, sweetheart. I’m sure your misery will be the only thing that doesn’t ditch you this year.”

His thumb slowly traced the curve of my lower lip.

I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move.

My eyes fluttered closed for a second, but only for a moment—when I opened them again, his face was so close that his breath was warm against my cheek. His nose brushed lightly against mine.

For a beat, we stood there, suspended in time.

But just as quickly as it came, he pulled back.

He stepped into the elevator, his eyes locking with mine as the door slid shut with a soft click.

And for the first time, I felt it.

The silence. The absence of my usual snarky comebacks.

Angelo Lazzio had made me speechless.

I brought a hand to my lips, the echo of his touch still burning on my skin.

Jesus.

I should’ve been pissed.

I should’ve yelled something back, but my mouth? It wouldn’t cooperate.

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