Page 113 of Sinful Lies

I turned around.

Leonardo Vittori, dressed head to toe in black, his eyes glittering with amusement.

Of course, it had to be him. As if Lazzio wasn’t enough of a headache, his best friend had to be just as insufferable.

I’d spent years unraveling their unlikely alliance—a mafia boss of the Sacra Corona, and a nepotism-bred heir to an entertainment empire.

Turns out, the two weren’t so different. Both thrived on stealing, manipulating, and ruling like the world owed them everything.

Match made in hell, really.

I let my gaze rake over him. Six foot four, buzz cut, green eyes sharper than broken glass. His cheekbones could cut stone, and under his left eye, those two infamous tear tattoos marked him as a family traitor—a man who’d killed his own blood.

“Why, Vittori? Hoping I’ll aim for you next?”

“Oh, Jade,” he drawled, his Italian accent wrapping around the word like silk dipped in venom, “if I were Lazzio, I’d have shot you the second you barged in to disrupt my meeting. Right here”—he tapped his temple with two fingers—“between your pretty little eyes.”

“If you were Lazzio,” I chuckled, leaning closer, “you wouldn’t need to hide behind empty threats. You’d have the balls to do it instead of flapping your mouth.”

His smirk deepened, lazy and taunting. “You’re lucky I like my women with a bit of bite. Makes taming them so much more… satisfying.”

I rolled my eyes, stepping back.

“Taming, huh?” I snorted. “Get out of my way. Some of us actually have work to do.”

As I moved past him, my eyes flicked over the crowd.

People were tipsy, mingling, laughing, their voices blending into a soft hum beneath the awestruck gazes that lingered on the art. It all felt distant, a background murmur to the heat building in the air.

Vittori’s scoff pulled me back. “I see it now.”

I glanced back, brow raised. “See what?”

His eyes landed behind me before closing the space between us, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face. “Why Lazzio’s obsessed with you.”

Even before I turned, I could feel Angelo’s eyes on me, burning my skin.

A spark of an idea flickered, dangerous and wicked.

I stepped closer to Vittori, flattening my hands against his chest, tilting my head just so, letting my eyes soften. “Really? Why is that?”

His smirk didn’t falter—if anything, it deepened.

He knew exactly what game I was playing, and the bastard was enjoying it, probably feeling Angelo’s murderous stare drilling into his face as much as I could sense it.

His hand cupped my face, thumb grazing my cheek.

He leaned down, his breath brushing my ear as he spoke. “Cause you’re the kind of devil that makes men beg for pain.”

A quiet laugh slipped past my lips as I let my hands fall and stepped back.

“Then I guess you’d better hope he likes to suffer.”

Vittori’s laughter echoed through the room, but it was abruptly interrupted by a shrill scream—“Fire!”

The entire room froze, people scrambling for the exits, their heels clattering against the marble floors in a mad rush. Glasses fell, drinks spilled, and for a moment, panic reigned.

And then, through the chaos, Angelo appeared like a storm. His eyes found me immediately, and the fury in them was almost palpable.

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