Page 64 of Sinful Lies

I stood there, fuming, my heart pounding in my chest.

Oh, Angelo Lazzio, I can’t wait to stand in your ruins and watch you burn.

Kicking the door shut behind me, I made a beeline for the kitchen, the weight of three grocery bags pulling at my arms. I dropped them onto the counter with a sigh.

After shoving everything haphazardly into the fridge, I slipped out of my coat and kicked off my shoes, leaving a messy trail of clothes as I made my way to the bathroom.

I cranked the shower to the hottest setting, steam filling the space almost instantly.

Stripping off the rest of my clothes, I stepped into the scalding stream, letting the water beat down on me like a storm.

It seared against my skin, but the heat couldn’t wash away the words echoing in my mind—settling for scraps, eating off the floor.

Ugh, I should've killed him on the spot.

My hands pressed against the cold tiles, my head hanging low as the water soaked my hair, turning it into a dark curtain that veiled my face.

I stayed under the spray until it ran icy, my skin prickling with the cold.

Wrapping a black towel around my body and another around my hair, I padded out into the dimly lit apartment.

Lighting the candles scattered around the room, I poured myself a glass of red wine, letting its warmth bloom inside me as I finally sank into my velvet sofa.

Angelo Lazzio—the devil’s thorn buried under my skin.

I took a long sip of wine, savoring its dark, bitter bite before getting up and heading to my office.

My thumb pressed against the cold fingerprint scanner until the door clicked open.

I slipped inside, letting it shut slowly behind me, sealing me into the dimly lit space.

The room remained in darkness for a beat longer before I flicked on the light, harsh brightness revealing the meticulously organized chaos—the blueprint of my revenge.

No one had ever stepped foot in this room but me.

And for good reason.

Because if they did, I’d either end up in a cell or worse—bound and gagged in some dark basement.

This room was my lair, my sanctuary, crammed with secrets and lies, every piece of it a sharpened knife aimed straight at Angelo Lazzio’s throat.

I navigated through the sea of scattered documents and photos on the floor, careful not to disturb the mess I had so deliberately set up.

I sank into my crimson velvet loveseat, grabbing the small remote I always kept there.

With one press, the hidden TV slid out from its panel in the wall. I switched to the last channel—the live feed from Lazzio’s security cameras at his Broadway theater, The Sunflower.

I’d overheard him on a call earlier, mentioning he needed to speak with one of the actresses, so I knew exactly which camera to pull up.

I scanned through the different camera angles, eyes narrowing as I searched the building.

Finally, I found him—smoking in the back alley, his silhouette framed by the cold, winter air. The smoke from his cigarette mingled with the white puffs of his breath, dissipating into the darkness. He leaned against the brick wall, only half of his face visible; the other half was cloaked in shadow.

One thing I’d learned about Angelo Lazzio—he was a paragon of health.

He worked out every day, ate like a monk, barely touched alcohol, and never smoked… unless he was absolutely stressed.

Tonight, something had clearly gotten under his skin.

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