Page 55 of Sinful Lies

Leonardo Vittori, head of the New York outfit, is a close friend, like the brother I never had. But I was a businessman, and he was a mafia don—truth be told, we shared the same line of work, though mine was a little more legal.

“Sì.”

“Perfect. I’ll have your chauffeur come now. Oh, and I almost forgot—Miss Whitenhouse took the day off. Family emergency.”

I frowned.

I thought she had no family.

When Jade Whitenhouse had shown up at my door almost six years ago, fresh out of college and desperate for a job, I hadn’t even bothered to meet her. I had Grace send her away. She was too young, too inexperienced. I didn’t need some twenty-three-year-old who’d probably spent her teens glued toSex and the City, dreaming of the glamour of New York City and all that fake shit movies and shows peddle about working here.

I’d just opened the museum a year before, and I’d had a vision.

This place would bethenew art attraction of New York, not just a museum. I’d wanted it to be a fucking lifetime sensory experience—sight, smell, touch, taste.

I had a fucking vision, and I wasn’t about to let anyone slow me down.

I wanted the best of the best, and no young girl was going to measure up to that.

Or so I’d thought.

Then, as I’d been getting ready to leave, she’d barged into my office. Her eyes were as dark as night, her face pale as snow, lips blood red. She had a frown on her face, but it wasn’t one of fear—the girl had attitude. I could tell right away she wasn’t the type to take no for an answer, and that intrigued me.

And damn, the girl was breathtaking.

The most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

My eyes were drawn to her, something unfamiliar and heavy settling in my chest, and when our gazes met, I almost found myself at a loss for words.

Even when I threatened her, she didn’t flinch.

Instead, she met my gaze with a cool, unwavering stare, as if she welcomed the challenge. That look—that fucking look—had told me all I needed to know: She wasn’t afraid of me. And that made her even more dangerously attractive.

She’d left without saying a word, the air thick with the lingering scent of musk and dark amber. Moments later, Grace had stormed into my office, her face pale, glasses askew, one hand pressed to her chest like she was about to collapse.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” she stammered, still breathless. “Shepushedme! I?—”

A chuckle escaped my lips. “Prepare her contract, Grace. She starts Monday.”

I threw on my coat, grabbed my phone, and walked out of the office, heading toward the elevator.

“What? But sir, she’s… so disrespectful! No manners! She didn’t even say hello or introduce herself properly when shearrived. She just barged in and demanded to see you, as if she were the queen of the world, and she almost killed me! She?—”

The elevator doors slid open, and I stepped inside.

“Grace, go join your family. I’m sure your grandkids are dying to see you.”

Grace had been in her early fifties, having worked for my father since her twenties, and for me the past fifteen years. She’d known every Lazzio, known our stubbornness, our ruthlessness.

I trusted her with my life, and I always respected her judgment.

But this time, I hadn’t listened to her.

I had to trust my gut. And my gut told me that Jade Whitenhouse was going to make me billions.

The crease in her forehead deepened. “I don’t know, sir. I have a bad feeling about this one.”

“We’ll see. Merry Christmas, Grace.”

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