Page 195 of Sinful Lies

“Now?” My voice was cold, clipped. I turned to him, a shadow of a grin curling at the edge of my lips. “Now, I need your help with something.”

Because one way or another, this wasn’t fucking over.

Chapter

Forty-Four

“Revenge, the sweetest morsel to the mouth that ever was cooked in hell.”

?Walter Scott

Angelo

“Long time no see, Greg.”

The bastard spun around, eyes wide like a cornered rat, his hand twitching toward the railing of his jet stairs.

I leaned against the doorframe of the jet, arms crossed, a slow, deliberate smirk playing on my lips.

“What thefuckare you doing in my jet, Lazzio?”

It had taken me ten minutes to track Greg down.

Ten. Fucking. Minutes.

That’s all I had needed to learn that the second he’d slipped out of the masquerade ball, he’d swung by his house to pack a bag before making a break for Thailand.

The bastard thought he was clever, timing his little getaway for when the feds would be breathing down my neck, thinkingI’d be too preoccupied to stop him. And here he was, at four a.m., standing on his shiny private jet, smugly assuming I was someone else’s problem now.

Judging by the look on his ugly mug, though, he wasn’t just surprised to see me.

He was scared.

I let the silence hang for a moment, just to watch the panic tighten his shoulders, before I pushed off the doorframe and shrugged lazily.

“You’re not paying your pilot enough,stronzo.Told him I had somethingvery importantto discuss with you. Slipped him fifty grand in cash, and—well—who the fuck says no to fifty grand?” I grinned, slow and sharp. “Certainly not your guy.”

Greg froze, panic flashing across his face, before his instincts kicked in. Like the rat he was, he spun on his heel, lunging down the stairs in a desperate sprint.

I stayed where I was, leaning casually against the jet’s door frame, and pulled my gun out in one smooth motion.

“Run, and you’re dead,” I called lazily.

The bastard didn’t stop. Of course he didn’t. Greg was always the kind of idiot who thought he could outrun consequences.

Bang.

The shot cracked through the night, clean and sharp. The bullet hit the ground at his feet, sending up a spray of dust and concrete. He stumbled, nearly eating shit on the bottom step before skidding to a stop.

I took my time descending the stairs, the barrel of my gun aimed directly at him.

“I don’t miss twice, Greg,” I said, my voice calm, almost bored. “You know that.”

He turned slowly, hands already raised, his face a cocktail of fear and disbelief.

“You’re insane,” he breathed.

“No,” I said, stepping closer, each movement deliberate. “I’m fuckingpissed.”

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