Page 47 of Sinful Lies

His voice drifted to my ears, dangerously close, as he muttered something to Vittori. I couldn’t make out the words. It wasn’t like I wanted to hear them anyway. I was too busy tryingto ignore him, praying the damn couch would just swallow me whole and put me out of my misery.

But then came the next words, and they sliced through me like ice.

“Hello, Miss Whitenhouse.”

For fuck’s sake, does the universe have it out for me?

Why the hell do I have to hear that voice, see that face, evenon my fucking day off?

I leaned back further into the couch. My face buried in my drink, I let the strands of my hair fall forward, partially hiding my expression as Itriedto avoid looking in his direction.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t, it’s just that I didn’t want to.

The room suddenly felt like it was closing in on me; I could practically taste the claustrophobia creeping up my spine.

I inhaled slowly, forced myself to stand, and finished my drink in one go, the bitterness matching the churn in my stomach.

Turning my head, I finally looked at him.

Tall. Dark. And disgustingly handsome.

Honey and dark wood draped in silk sheets.

Mister Angelo Lazzio, or as I like to call him,Mr. Stick-Up-My-Asshimself,strode silently through the room.

His broad shoulders were practically bursting through the fabric of his suit, and his wavy, disheveled hair—clearly messed up from running his hands through it one too many times—only made him look more ridiculously handsome.

Ugh, I wanted to vomit just looking at him.

He casually held a cold bottle of water, his eyes flicking over mine—filled with that familiar blend of annoyance and utter boredom—before he sank into the empty chair across from Vittori. His back was now to me.

Guess he was as thrilled to see me as I was to see him.

I got up, empty cup in hand, and sauntered over to the table and stopped at his side, my hip hovering inches from his forearm.

His cards were spread out neatly in his hands, and from the look on his face, I already knew—he was going to win.As usual.

I tiptoed and leaned toward Vittori, craning my neck to peek at his cards. He angled them just enough for me to see. Pitiful. Not a single high card in sight.

“Anyway, you men are boring. I’m going back to the party upstairs.”

Vittori scoffed, leaning back with his drink. “I had the club shut down for the night. Some guy just got himself killed.”

I blinked. “Wait—your men shot someone?”

He shrugged, tossing his cards down. “Nah. Turns out the idiot stole his friend’s wife or something, and the friend shot him. Antonio just texted me—dead on the spot.”

Marco took a slow sip of his whiskey. “What’s his name?”

Vittori picked up his phone, scrolling lazily. “Manuel Ruiz. Never heard of him.”

My heart sank for a split second before sarcasm took over.

“Oh no,” I said, my voice dripping with fake disappointment.

Well, I guess he wasn’t that much of a good guy after all.

Lazzio laid his cards down, his winning hand making the men around the table groan.

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