Page 58 of Sinful Lies

?Benjamin Franklin

Jade

“I need you to sign these,” I announced, barging into Lazzio’s office without bothering to glance up.

I dropped the new contract with the Louvre onto his desk—a hard-won deal allowing us to rent up to 25 of their pieces each month.

I was particularly excited about this one. Once the museum’s construction was finally complete, I wanted to showcaseLes Ombres de Francesca da Rimini et de Paolo Malatesta. Nothing screams passionate, destructive love like those two tragic fools.

They were the ultimate story of lust overruling reason, of two people so consumed by their desire that it led them straight to Hell.Classic.

“Perfetto. Ci sarò tra due settimane. Manda i miei saluti ad Antonio.”

I fixed my gaze on Lazzio as his smooth Italian accent filled the room.

He stood by the window, casting a long shadow over the chaos of New York City—cars, helicopters, and a million flashing lights below.

Today, he wore his usual tailored Armani suit, a sleek, dark gray two-piece with the vest draped over the back of his chair.

I cleared my throat impatiently, tapping my heel against the marble floor to get his attention.

He turned slowly, a frown deepening between his brows, with that infuriating smirk tugging at his lips—the one I’d fantasized about slapping off more times than I cared to admit.

His gaze slid down my body, taking in the sparkly, violet two-piece blouse and short skirt, paired with my knee-high Hermes heeled boots. The skirt was so short it left little to the imagination, and I knew the thought crossed his mind too, because I saw a flicker of irritation flash in his eyes before they met mine.

He ended his call and placed his phone on the desk.

“If I didn’t know you, Miss Whitenhouse,” he sneered, sarcasm dripping from every word, “I’d think you were fucking raised in a barn. Knock before you stomp in like you own the place.”

I rolled my eyes and grabbed one of his precious framed photos off the desk—his parents looking stiff as ever, and his dog, Georgino, the mutt he spends an excessive amount of time with, in my opinion.

I set it back down with a smirk.

“Funny, Ialmostdo own the place, remember? Got thirty percent, so it’s practically mine.”

He scoffed, dropping into his chair. “I’ve got the remaining seventy, Miss Whitenhouse. So, I fucking win. Now, what the hell do you want?”

Oh, but not for long, Lazzio.

“I need you to sign these,” I said, pointing to the contract. “So I can send them off before I go home.”

He flicked through the papers quickly, then scrawled his signature right next to mine, shoving them back at me.

My gaze dropped to his hand, which was covered in freshly bruised knuckles.

I raised an eyebrow. “Burned yourself with your toaster again?”

His expression darkened.

“What?”

“Get out, Miss Whitenhouse.”

I laughed, strutting around his desk and perching myself on the edge, thighs brushing against his hand as I crossed my legs. “You’ve been awfully moody today, Lazzio.”

He leaned back, arms crossed, eyes lingering on my bare legs for a moment longer than necessary. “Got raided by the feds yesterday.”

“Yeah, heard about that.” I took his hand, eyeing the fresh bruises. “Did you take a swing at Vittori?”

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