Page 49 of I'm sorry, Princess
Books. Coffee. Candids with her overhyped best friend. Stupid reels and even stupider comments flooding in from desperate little fanboys who think they stand a chance. I scroll through them lazily, my thumb pausing on a photo of her reading in bed, oversized hoodie hanging off one shoulder.
Pathetic.
They don’t even know what she looks like when she moans.
I send Andres a message.
“Flag every male commenter. Pull their handles. I want names.” Because while she plays pretend with her coffee and soft girl quotes, she still belongs to me.
She just doesn’t know it yet.
"Why the fuck would I do that?" Andres leans in the doorway like he owns the place, a cigarette already hanging off his lips. Classic. I don’t even need to ask if Francesco passed along the message, I can tell by the smirk on his face that he knows exactly why he’s here.
"For fuck’s sake, just do it," I mutter, voice flat with boredom.
I’m not in the mood to explain myself. Not now. Not when my blood's still simmering from scrolling through her damn Instagram. Every idiot flooding her comments with hearts and fire emojis like they have a fucking chance.
He watches me, eyes too sharp. He knows. Of course he fucking knows.
"It’s time for you to come home, Lorenzo." He exhales smoke like a threat. ‘We’ve got problems. The Colombians are stirring shit again.’
I scoff, dragging a hand down my face. "You’re a fucking Colombian. Can’t you deal with your people?"
He shrugs. "Kirill doesn’t want me involved. Too close. It’s on you."
Of course it is. Everything is.
"Is Lucy running smooth?" I ask, steering the conversation back to what matters.
"Is she in their systems?"
He nods. "She’s fully operational. We’ve already pulled most of what we need. Even if they find the device, it’s too late. Their security’s a joke."
He flicks through his phone, lazy but confident. Typical Andres.
"Good." I lean back, already thinking about what needs to be tied up. What’s left. Who’s left. And then… her.
"Tell Francesco I want out Tuesday." My tone is final. I’m done playing prisoner.
"Still have one more thing to handle here."
His brows rise. ‘Freeze the cameras again?’ The bastard’s grinning now.
"Yeah."
He stands, taking another drag of his cigarette, and eyes me like he’s waiting for the punchline. "Need anything else, lover boy?"
I pause, then glance down at my phone, the glow of her feed still burning on the screen. Her face. Her lips. All those goddamn comments.
Jealousy doesn’t sit well on me, it turns to violence too quickly.
"Take care of them." My voice is ice. "Block every fucker who comments on her posts. If they come back, I want them gone. Permanently."
I tap my phone once more, zooming in on her latest picture, her smile soft, unreadable.
"And get me access to her account." I look him dead in the eyes.
"I want to know who she talks to. Who she’s texting. If she’s fucking someone… I want a name."
