Page 120 of I'm sorry, Princess
Dante leans back, fingers wrapped around his mug, and exhales through his nose. “Your father is gone,” he says softly. The way he says it strips Lorenzo of his walls, just for a second. “I need someone I can trust.”
Then, just as he stands to leave, he adds, “Dobbiamo ucciderli, in fretta.”
Charming family talk over morning coffee.
Dante gives Lorenzo a nod and then looks at me with that same unreadable look. “It’s been a pleasure, Serena,” he says in that lilting Italian accent, and I give him a polite smile in return as he and Sebastian leave.
“Well, that wasn’t terrifying at all,” I say, trying to keep the mood light. Lorenzo doesn’t laugh. He’s still somewhere else, lost in his head, jaw tight, leg bouncing under the table.
I crawl into his lap without thinking, wrapping my hands around his face and forcing him to look at me. Those ocean-blue eyes, always stormy, finally meet mine.
“Hey,” I whisper. “Are you okay?”
He kisses me, soft, slow, but distracted. “Yeah. But I need to go out for a few hours.”
“Can Bianca make you something?” he asks, already pulling away.
I hesitate. I want to say yes. I want to disappear into this little bubble for another day, or ten, but reality is clawing its way back in.
“I actually need to go home,” I admit. “It’s been one week.”
He looks at me like I’ve just said something in another language. “So?”
“So,” I say, laughing nervously, “I have a job. Assuming they haven’t fired me. And I haven’t checked on my apartment in days.”
“Will I see you later?”
He studies me for a second, then gently trails his thumb across my cheek, down to the fading bruise near my jaw. My breath catches. The memory of that night rushes back and settles like lead in my stomach.
“I haven’t forgotten about this,” he says, voice quiet, eyes dark.
“I have,” I lie.
He doesn’t believe me. I know it. I can see it in his expression.
I lean in and kiss him, soft, searching, trying to distract us both.
He pulls back just slightly. “I’ll get you one of my cars. Or someone can drive you.”
I shake my head. “It’s okay. I’ll take an Uber. I don’t need the drama of pulling up to my apartment in a blacked-out Maserati.”
His brow arches. Typical.
But he doesn’t argue.
The Uber pulls up in front of my apartment, a place I finally call my own. It’s been two weeks since I moved in, and not once have I regretted it. My parents’ house, with all its cold marble and emptiness, never felt like home. Too many silences. Too many ghosts. This place? It’s mine. Not just the name on the lease, but mine in the way I decorated it, chose it, paid for it, even if part of the money came from my trust fund. I still earned the rest. I still chose this.
Three bedrooms, two massive bathrooms, a kitchen I never use properly, and a floor-to-ceiling view of the city from the ninth floor. The light pours in at sunset like the sky is bleeding gold, and sometimes I sit on the couch with a glass of wine pretending the world outside doesn’t exist. It doesn’t compare to Lorenzo’s mansion, but it’s mine. Every square inch of it.
I drop my keys into the bowl by the door, kick off my shoes, and immediately text Sienna.
Me:I’m alive. I’ve been with Lorenzo all week. I have so much to tell you.
Seconds later, she calls.
“OH. MY. GOD,” she screams so loudly I flinch. “I KNEW IT. TELL ME EVERYTHING.”
I do. Almost everything, anyway. I tell her about the week I spent at his place, about the way he looks at me like he’s already memorized every inch of my skin, about how I’ve officially crossed into the realm of becoming a cliché in a dark romance novel. She giggles at every detail, makes me swear to give her updates, and tells me she missed me like hell. We plan to meet tomorrow night. I need her. I miss having someone who knows everything without needing the full explanation.
