Page 54 of Sinful Lies

Before I could respond, my mother groaned loudly. “Dio mio, Francesca! My son is only thirty-six, not forty. You’d do well to focus on your daughter, who’s barely sober when she performs and threw up on stage again last night. And stop calling my son a womanizer!”

Francesca’s mouth dropped open in shock. “Monica! How dare you! You know Scarlett is going through a lot lately. Fame isn’t easy, right,dolcezza?” She nudged Scarlett, who was half-drunk, her head lolling over the table as a faint snore escaped her lips.

My mother laughed.

Francesca frowned. “Anyway?—”

Uncle Lorenzo shot up from his seat, the chair clattering to the floor. He swiveled, eyes darting left and right. “What did Father say about your bitching, Francesca?” His voice was thick with venom. “Lucius, you better teach your wife to keep her mouth?—”

Luciana clutched the end of his suit sleeve. “Caro mio, please, calm down?—”

“Don’t talk to me,strega! Never speak when I’m talking?—”

My father sighed heavily, giving a subtle signal to the butlers.

With practiced ease, the two men moved to restrain Lorenzo as he fought against them, dragging him out of the room.

Luciana pushed herself shakily to her feet, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

She shot a strained, apologetic glance at the table before mumbling an excuse. “I swear he’ll behave next Sunday,” she said quietly, her voice heavy with regret.

Without another word, she slipped out, her promise lingering in the air—a weak, futile attempt to clean up yet another mess my uncle had made.

“He needs to be locked in an asylum,” Francesca muttered, reaching for a piece of bread.

My mother scoffed. “As if you’re a model of sanity.”

My aunt’s jaw dropped. “Oh,prego! Says the woman who dropped 100k on shoes yesterday because a headache apparently required Jimmy Choo therapy!”

The two sisters continued their bickering, and I sank back into my chair with a sigh, my own head throbbing.

As my grandfather had always said,Non esiste una famiglia italiana senza un po’ di dramma.

There’s no such thing as an Italian family without a bit of drama.

I got James Greg’s epic sextape dumped onto my drive the day after our family dinner, right after making sure my security crew erased every trace from the memory chips while keeping a neat copy on my end.

I couldn’t resist taking a peek, and sure enough, the old man still had some game.

Almost impressive for a sixty-seven-year-old.

Now I faced a bit of a dilemma—what to do about Pauline Dupont.

The French Broadway star was one of our top earners, drawing global audiences. She had even bagged her first Tony for Best Actress, making her a real asset. But I don’t tolerate my employees fucking disrespecting me and flirting with the enemy.

That shit just won’t fucking do.

But when it comes to one specific, devilish one? Your rules surprisingly bend, Lazzio.

I shut the voice in my head down, burying it deep where it couldn’t cause any more trouble.

I reached for my phone and hit the red button to connect with my assistant, Grace.

“Yes, sir?” she answered immediately.

“Grace, set up an appointment with Miss Dupont for Friday night after her show. Tell her it’s for a contract negotiation.”

“Got it, sir. And may I remind you that you’re meeting Leonardo Vittori atLa Piadinafor lunch in thirty minutes?”

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