This Little Lie of Mine II

Andrew corners me just as I step out of my car in the visitor parking area of the Moretti Group headquarters.

“Hey,” he says, snapping his fingers and pointing at my ankle like he’s clocking a weak spot. “Did you manage to get some ice on that? Want me to piggyback you in?”

I roll my eyes. “Pretty sure that won’t scream ‘intimidating’ to the Morettis.”

He clicks his tongue. “Yeah… good point.”

Then he rolls his neck, side to side, like he’s working out invisible kinks, and makes a whole show of cracking his knuckles. After that, he checks his sleeves for lint, tugs his suit jacket tighter, adjusts his tie with theatrical flair—then flashes me one of his signature grins.

“Let’s go.”

“Sure,” I drawl flatly. “I’ll be right behind you.”

The doors swing open as we approach, and I step into the lobby—immediately awestruck by the size and the sheer opulence of it all. Polished marble floors stretch out beneath high ceilings, where chandeliers glint like a thousand tiny suns. 

The air smells faintly of expensive cologne and power. It’s the kind of place built to intimidate. And it’s working.

I was already nervous on the way here, but now my palms are clammy again. My stomach twists, like a chasm just opened deep inside, pulling everything down with it.

A freaking black hole.

“Composure, Jenna,” I murmur as I stride across the lobby, eyes locked on the elevator at the far end. “They only know what you let them know.”

Andrew holds the elevator open until I reach it, leaning back casually with his arms folded as the doors slide shut behind us.

“Who do you think we’ll meet?” he asks. “I heard the CEO’s… dying.” His voice drops to a conspiratory whisper. 

I know.

“Maybe one of his sons?” He taps his chin thoughtfully. “He has two of them, but from what I read online, they’re both running operations overseas.”

I know that too.

And I also know Salvatore Moretti has three sons. But no one else does—because somehow, Lucien scrubbed every trace of his existence off the internet. Like a ghost who never officially belonged.

“Eh well,” Andrew shrugs, his thinking done. “It doesn’t matter. We’re here to do our jobs and whoever wants to stand in our way will have to answer to Internal Affairs. The way I see it, we’re their best option at avoiding heavy fines, jail time and possibly bankruptcy.”

I arch a brow, sparing him a glance. For someone who sounds like he’s offering them a lifeline, I have a feeling Andrew would rather see the Morettis come crumbling down. 

A soft ping announces our arrival. The doors slide open, and I step out automatically, my heels sinking slightly into the plush carpet as we move down the corridor. It opens into a wider space, sleek and quiet, where two women behind a counter rise as we approach.

One of them steps out, offering a curt nod. “Good afternoon. Mr. Moretti is expecting you.”

“Which one?” Andrew jokes, flashing a grin.

She doesn’t respond—just turns and disappears behind the desk.

He chuckles under his breath. “Alright, then. Let’s do this.”

I slow my pace, instinctively keeping a step or two behind him. Something coils tight in my chest, goosebumps rise on my arm and the air around me thins out. 

Andrew strides toward the office like it’s any other meeting. I stay back—holding my breath—as he knocks once and pushes the door open.

And walks in.

I wait a second. Then another, before going in after him.  

“Mr. Moretti,” he announces audibly, to a man standing by the window, his back turned to us. “I’m Andrew Schafer from Vanguard Asset Protection.”

The man by the window turns…slowly and I feel my knees weaken in fear, like I’m caught in a trap, waiting to be devoured. To be torn apart in shreds, mercilessly. 

My throat works uselessly, unable to fight the fear that spreads across my chest and freezes my heart, forcing the breath in my lungs out of my throat in a rush. 

“Black,” he says, facing us. 

Wait. 

I do a double-take, my eyes narrowing.

Who is this?

I thought we were here to meet Mr. Moretti. The man standing in front of us has pale brown eyes—so light they almost look translucent—and a thin white scar trailing from the corner of his left eye, slicing halfway down his cheek.

He doesn’t look like a Moretti. Not the ones I’ve seen in dossiers or surveillance photos or the ones who matter.

So who the hell is he?

“Black,” he repeats with a measured smile, taking a step toward us. “Lorenzo Black.”

Andrew scoffs. “I don’t think you should start this relationship with lies, Mr. Moretti. It’s not a good look at all, seeing as we’re supposed to be auditing your company.”

Lorenzo chuckles and the sound, weirdly, sends a familiar rush down my spine. My brows furrow as I struggle to place it…to remember where I’ve heard it before. 

“I assure you,” he says, voice calm and effortless, “I have no intention of hindering your investigation. I’m more than willing to cooperate in any way you need, Mr. Schafer. I believe it’s in both our interests to keep things smooth.”

“Why did your secretary say Mr. Moretti was waiting for us, then?”

Lorenzo glances at me—an unreadable expression crossing his face before he faces Andrew again. “That’s because I’m a distant family member to the Morettis. I’m stepping in for Salvatore Moretti in the meantime,” he shrugs slightly, “so the position still belongs to him.” 

Andrew’s pointed glare is full of doubt. 

“You think I’d pull an elaborate prank when the company is at stake?” He continues smoothly, with a small laugh. “That would be foolish, Mr. Schafer.” 

He looks at me. Again.  

“You think?” Andrew fires back, too fast. His tone’s sharp—sass layered over disappointment. He clearly expected to lead, not get steamrolled.

“Because you sound like a slick man hiding behind a wall of…” He gestures vaguely. “Smoothness. And, uh… more slickness.”

I almost wince.

Lorenzo just smiles. My fingers pinch my skin as the nagging feeling grows. It feels too familiar, like a memory hanging just out of reach. 

“What about you, Miss Carr?” The way he says my name, with an undertone of interest, places me on edge. “Would we have the pleasure of seeing you around?”

“Ah—” why am I suddenly tongue-tied?  

My mouth opens, but the words stall, like my brain hasn’t caught up to my body. He’s just being polite. This is normal. It should be normal.

So why does it feel like he’s watching me too closely? Like he’s savoring every hesitation, every flicker of discomfort?

I clear my throat, forcing a small smile. “I’ll be around… if I’m needed.”

He holds my gaze a second too long. And I swear there’s something in his eyes that sees right through me. 

“You’re the lead consultant, after all,” he says, his voice soft but deliberate. “I think it’s only right that you and I get to…” His mouth curves into a knowing smile—brief, fleeting, almost a glitch in his mask. “…know each other a little better.”

The smile vanishes before I can react, almost as if it was never there. But I saw it. It felt like he knew something, something that was supposed to be an inside joke between us. 

But what? 

Who is this stranger that has my heart thudding against my ribs, like I’m at the point of danger, but rather than run away, I’m tempted to go closer? 

“We’ll need to meet with your Chief Finance Officer,” Andrew steps in, hijacking the conversation and giving me a moment  to breathe. 

I turn away as he continues talking with Lorenzo, stepping quietly out the door. I inhale sharply as the door closes softly behind me, gulping in air with my hand to my chest. 

What was that? 

Lorenzo Black isn’t Lucien Moretti. I would’ve recognized those green eyes from a mile away. The thin white scar on his face looks old too and his hair…too brown to be the black my fingers ran through that night in Barcelona. 

Then it hits me. 

My eyes widen in realization. I expected the worst. I walked in, fully expecting that I’d run into Lucien and the past five years would fall apart in moments. 

I was preparing myself for the worst and when it turned out to be different, my mind couldn’t cope. 

“Of course,” I laugh, slapping my hand against my thigh as relief washes over me. “That’s what happened.”

The door swings open again and my laughter stops abruptly as Andrew walks out, his face contorted into a stormy scowl. “What happened?” I ask. 

He huffs. “Nothing. But I can tell you that he’s hiding something,” he says. “That’s how they all behave—smug, narcissistic, like they’re untouchable. And we’re going to find every last piece of evidence, even if we have to spend nights going through receipts, cheques and every single contract awarded to the company.”

“Huh,” I mutter. 

I can think of someone who fits the description perfectly. Smug enough to meet with a federal agent even though he knew he was walking into a trap. Narcissistic enough to know I’d come to him. 

Sinful…

“Nope.” I shake my head sharply. “Not going there.”

The sooner I get Lucien out of my head, the better. I might be five years behind, but I’ve let him live rent-free in my mind for far too long.

“What are you waiting for?” Andrew calls, already striding down the corridor, shoulders squared like a man on a mission.

I exhale, shaking my head—

But I still glance back, sparing one last look at the slight ajar door. Lucien Moretti might be behind bars, where he belongs, however, I have a sinking feeling that there’s something I’m missing. 

And whatever it is…it’s not something good.