Page 140 of I'm sorry, Princess
We stopped into a coffee shop and ordered our usual. He’s standing just off to the side of the Duomo, coffee cup in hand, sunlight spilling over him like it belongs there. Thecathedral towers behind him, white and green marble glowing under the late-morning sun, but somehow my eyes can’t move past him.
We’d ordered our usual from a little café around the corner, his double espresso, my decaf cappuccino, but it’s not the coffee that’s waking me up. It’s him.
He’s in a cream linen shirt, the top few buttons undone to reveal the start of his chest and the glint of layered gold chains against warm skin. The fabric skims over broad shoulders and a chest I know is all muscle, tapering to a lean waist. His full-sleeve tattoos snake down both arms, the dark ink visible where his sleeves are rolled, a stark contrast to the soft light fabric.
His trousers are a warm camel shade, perfectly tailored, sitting high on his waist and falling in clean, sharp lines. His dark brown curls are just messy enough to look careless, catching bits of sunlight like strands of bronze. The sunglasses hide those sharp blue eyes, but even without seeing them, I know he’s aware of me watching him.
He looks… expensive. Effortless. Like he doesn’t belong in the chaos of the square, yet somehow owns it. Like every camera in the world could turn to him and it still wouldn’t be enough.
He lifts his espresso to his lips, takes a slow sip, and it’s almost obscene, the way his throat moves, the subtle flex of muscle in his forearm, the ink shifting under his skin. Every movement is controlled, deliberate, like he’s fully aware of the effect he has on me.
Around us, tourists chatter in half a dozen languages, the bells of the cathedral echo over the square, the smell of espresso and fresh pastries drifting from nearby cafés. But all I can think is, Florence may have the art, the history, the beauty.
And still… the masterpiece is standing right in front of me.
After we finish our coffees, Lorenzo lets me drag him through the streets of Florence, ticking off places I’ve dreamed about since I was a child.
First stop: Piazza della Signoria. The square opens up before us like a living museum, cobblestones warm under the sun, surrounded by grand Renaissance buildings. I snap pictures of the replica of Michelangelo’s David, the towering statues in the Loggia dei Lanzi, each one frozen mid-movement, dramatic and impossibly detailed. I take a dozen photos of us here too, well, of him, because he looks like he belongs among the marble and history.
We walk to Palazzo Vecchio, its tall medieval tower cutting into the blue sky. Inside, the ceilings are covered in intricate frescoes, gold leaf catching the light. It smells faintly of polished wood and centuries-old stone. I’m in awe, and I tell him so. He just smirks, like he knew I would be.
Next is the Uffizi Gallery, where I lose myself in art I’ve only ever seen in books. Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus is more breathtaking in person, the colors softer, the details alive. Lorenzo walks beside me quietly, watching me instead of the paintings. I pretend not to notice, but my cheeks warm anyway.
I take so many pictures that my phone storage is gasping for air. I want to post a story of us, to tell the world I’m here with him, but I hesitate. I don’t know how he’d feel about it, and I don’t want to push. So I don’t.
By midday, we’re at Mercato Centrale for lunch. The market is alive with noise and scent, the warm tang of fresh bread, the spice of salami, the sweetness of pastries. I try slices of pizza with different toppings, artichoke, truffle, pear and gorgonzola, each one more delicious than the last.Lorenzo orders his usual carbonara, because of course he does. I take a picture of it anyway.
Our last stop before heading to meet his mother is the Bargello Museum. The building itself feels ancient and fortress-like, and inside it’s filled with sculptures that look almost human in their precision. Donatello’s David, smaller than I expected, still stops me in my tracks.
By the time we step back into the golden afternoon light, my feet ache, my phone is bursting with pictures, and my heart is full in a way I can’t explain.
Our last stop is Piazzale Michelangelo, the city of Florence spread below us like a painted masterpiece, terracotta rooftops glowing against the silver sky, the Arno cutting through the heart of it all. I’m exhausted from the day, the walking, the food, the endless photos, but I wouldn’t trade a single step.
Then the sky opens up.
One moment it’s cloudy, the next we’re drenched, water soaking us to the skin in seconds. My hair clings to my cheeks, my dress plastered to my body. His linen shirt is transparent now, hugging the lines of muscle underneath, dark ink on his arms glistening with rain.
And then I hear it.
Loud music, carried through the square, “Perfect Symphony” by Ed Sheeran and Andrea Bocelli.
It’s raining. I’m in Florence. And a love song is pouring into the air as if the city itself decided to stage this moment.
“Dance with me.” His voice is low, certain.
Before I can answer, he takes my hand, pulling me closer, and we start moving the way dancers do in palaces in the old films I grew up watching. Slow, deliberate, like the world isn’t rushing around us. Rain runs down my face, mingling with the heat of my skin.
When Andrea Bocelli’s voice begins, Lorenzo lifts me effortlessly by my waist, spinning me. The wind rushes over my face, my dress twisting around my legs, and I’m smiling so hard it almost hurts. His hands are strong, grounding me even as he moves me, twirling me again before pulling me back into him. My palms rest on his neck, his hand on my lower back, and when his mouth finds mine, it’s a kiss that steals my breath.
The thunder rumbles above us, the rain falling harder, the marble beneath our feet slick and cold. But all I can feel is him. All I can see is him.
He’s smiling, really smiling, not the sharp smirk he gives the rest of the world, and it’s so genuine it makes my chest ache. He kisses my hand like it’s a vow, then rests his palm against my back as we sway.
When Bocelli’s voice rises again, he scoops me into his arms, carrying me as if I weigh nothing, dancing with me cradled against him before setting me back down. My face is wet, not just from the rain, but from something deeper. Joy. Love. Too many emotions to name.
And then it happens.
“I love you.”
