Page 48 of Sinful Lies

“Another one of your admirers, Miss Whitenhouse?”

Lazzio,of course, had been an unwilling spectator to my love life since the day I started working for him. Not that I wanted his input, but somehow, every time I was minding my own business—flirting, mingling, or prowling for a one-night stand to scratch an itch—Angelo Lazzio made it his personal mission to be there.

Always watching. Always judging.

Sometimes he’d give me that disappointed look, like I’d just rolled around in trash. Other times, he’d make some snideremark about my “standards.” And then there were the worst moments—those rare, infuriating times he’d actuallystep in.

“I have a reputation, Miss Whitenhouse,” he’d say, voice dripping with condescension. “I can’t have my COO ruining it by parading around with whatever gutter-born stray caught her attention. Keep it fucking discreet.”

Discreet.

As if he had any right to tell me what to do, let alone judge my taste.

God forbid Angelo Lazzio ever let me havefunwithout his shadow looming over it.

“Yes,” I said, crossing my arms with a smile. “He even said he’dkillfor me. But I guess now he won’t be able to, will he?”

Lazzio’s expression didn’t change—as cool, detached, and infuriatingly calm as always. Without a word, he lifted his water bottle and drank, his Adam’s apple moving slowly, a drop of water dripping to the side of his neck. He didn’t stop until the bottle was empty, and when he finally lowered it, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Ah, my mistake. It’s just so hard to keep track with you.”

Vittori chuckled, his whiskey swirling lazily in the glass as he brought it to his lips. His eyes gleamed with amusement, darting between us like a spectator at his favorite sport. He was utterly entertained, clearly used to our fights—the verbal equivalent of cats clawing and dogs barking.

“Keep track of what, Lazzio?”

He leaned back in his chair. “Oh, you know,” he said, his tone smooth. “Your… admirers. Your suitors. The long parade of men who seem to lose their heads—sometimesliterally—whenever they get involved with you. Quite the pattern, really.”

My lips parted in disbelief. “You have theaudacityto sit there and?—”

He cut me off. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m merely observing. I don’tcarewhat you do with your life, as long as it doesn’t spill into mine.”

I scoffed. “Says the man who can’t seem to stay out of my sex life.”

He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing in that predatory way that always made my stomach tighten. His jaw twitched—just for a fraction of a second.

“If Ireallywanted to get in the way, Miss Whitenhouse, you wouldn’t have to wonder. You’d know. Trust me.”

My throat went dry.

I threw my empty cup on the table. “Well, I guess we’ll never find out, will we, boss?”

I spun on my heel and stormed out, the loud click of my heels against the floor practically screaming my frustration. Their Italian nonsense was still echoing behind me, but I slammed that damn door shut with a force that could’ve shattered glass.

Great.

My night was officially ruined.

Talk about an overbearing, overstepping, pain-in-the-ass boss.

Chapter

Eleven

“When I shop, the world gets better, and the world is better, but then it’s not, and I need to do it again.

(Confessions of a Shopaholic-the movie)”

?Sophie Kinsella

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