Page 170 of I'm sorry, Princess
I exhale slowly, then raise my voice so both of them hear me before the bass from the club swallows my words. “Quick reminder. You’ll have four men shadowing each of you. When Beaumont and Archibald take the bait, and they will, they’ll drag you into a private room. There’s a wall. Behind it, my men are waiting. All you need to do is get them to drink. Doesn’t matter how, sweet words, a smile, pour it down their throats, pour it off your tits, I don’t fucking care. Make them drink. Once they’re out, you walk. A car will be waiting out back. Your job ends there. Ours begins.”
Both girls nod. Dahlia’s lips twitch in a faint smile, like this is just another Tuesday for her. Clara, though… Clara looks back at me one last time, her glare cutting through me, but she doesn’t say a word. Her silence is worse than her fury.
The door swallows them, leaving me in the alley’s shadow.
I adjust the Glock against my hip and roll my neck, every muscle thrumming with rage and anticipation. Tonight isn’t just about power plays or leverage. This is about blood. About my father. About ripping answers out of two men who thought they could kill Giovanni Moretti and sleep soundly afterward.
They were wrong.
The bass from the strip club rattled through the walls like a second heartbeat. Neon lights bled across the smoke-filled air, masking the stink of cheap perfume, sweat, and liquor. The perfect cover. Our balaclavas blended seamlessly with the masks of the partygoers; no one questioned us, notwhen everyone inside was too drunk or too desperate to care.
“Go with Clara,” I told Andres, my voice clipped, calm. His eyes flashed with understanding, and he slipped into the crowd behind her. I would take Beaumont myself.
Thomas Beaumont. The man who thought he could own Serena’s future. The man whose shadow still stained my family’s past.
He sat with his bloated frame spilling over a velvet chair, whiskey glass trembling in his hand as Dahlia swayed into his lap. His eyes lit up like a starving dog thrown fresh meat, pupils wide and filthy. He couldn’t even keep his hands still, pawing at her thighs as she danced. Dahlia pushed him back each time, teasing him, stringing him along until he leaned in closer, drunk and pliant. She bent down, whispering something against his ear. His grin widened. When she stood and beckoned, he hauled himself up instantly, stumbling after her like the pathetic pig he was.
I followed at a distance, four of my men ghosting at my back. No one noticed us in the haze of alcohol and bass. Beaumont barely kept his footing as he trailed Dahlia down the hallway, muttering promises he’d never keep.
The door closed behind them in the private room we had prepared. I lingered just beyond, ear tuned to the muffled laughter and murmurs. Then Dahlia’s voice, sultry, smooth: “Just one drink with me, baby.” The sound of liquid pouring, the clink of glass. A pause. Then his gulping, greedy, desperate.
Silence followed.
The door cracked open, Dahlia sliding out, lips curled into a smirk. “All yours,” she whispered, brushing past me. “That’ll be ten grand. Cash.” She winked like this was just another Tuesday and vanished into the neon-lit haze.
I stepped inside.
Beaumont was sprawled across the velvet sofa, head tilted back, snoring softly, the glass slipped from his hand. Out cold. Drugged and drooling like the worthless piece of shit he was.
I crouched beside him, checking his jacket. His phone. His wallet. All mine now.
“Sir, are you okay?”
The voice was thin, uncertain. A man’s silhouette filled the doorway, young, nervous, wearing the badge of hired muscle in the cut of his suit. His eyes flicked from Beaumont to me, widening with horror. He raised his radio, panic spilling across his face.
“Help! They got Mr. Beau—”
My Glock barked once. The bullet tore through his skull before he finished the sentence. Blood sprayed the doorframe, painting the wall crimson as his body crumpled in silence.
“Kill them all,” I growled into my comm, cold steel in my tone.
And then chaos erupted.
Gunfire snapped through the bassline as my men moved through the club, efficient and merciless. Suppressed shots to the head. Throats slit in shadows. Snipers from the rooftops picked off guards one by one as the crowd below stayed oblivious, too drunk, too distracted by flashing skin and neon lights to notice the silent war overhead.
By the time Andres arrived, dragging John Archibald between two masked men, the floor was already littered with bodies hidden in corners, blood soaking into carpets, lives erased before they realized they were in danger.
We hauled Beaumont and Archibald out through the side window, tossing their dead weight into the waiting van. They were still unconscious, limp like cattle ready for slaughter.
Inside the club, my snipers finished off the last of their security detail with surgical precision. Not a single one of mine had fallen. Over-prepared, over-armed. Exactly as I wanted it.
Ten minutes later, the convoy thundered back into the lot at Cursed. The bassline from upstairs pounded through the concrete, the sound of Alisa’s distraction working perfectly. A party so loud no one would ever suspect the monsters screaming below their feet.
We dragged the Attorney General of the United States and the Chief of the fucking FBI down into my basement. Their wrists bound, their heads lolling from the drugs, their power stripped clean.
I peeled off the balaclava, the bulletproof vest, running a hand through my sweat-damp hair. The air in my lungs felt heavier than lead.
Because here it was. The moment I had been waiting for. Revenge. Answers. Closure.
