Page 63 of I'm sorry, Princess
She’s quiet for a moment, her sharp eyes watching me closely, her expression unreadable.
“Okay,” she finally says, her tone soft but firm. “We’ll talk about it later. You know I’ll always listen. But for now.” She glances out the window as the car slows to a stop. “We’re here.”
The club is massive, a sprawling testament to excess and exclusivity. It’s no surprise that it’s packed tonight, it’s the grand opening, after all. How Sienna managed to snag tickets to an event this exclusive is beyond me. Especially when it’s rumored to be tied to someone in the mafia.
Not just anyone, though. This is likely for Lev Roman Morozov, a name that carries both reverence and fear. Billionaire, playboy, one of the wealthiest men in New York. At least, that’s the image he wants the world to see.
But everyone who knows anything about power in this city knows the truth. Lev is one of the three rulers of New York’s Bratva, a name that carries weight far beyond the glitz and glamour of his public persona.
The Bratva Mafia is a shadow network, running the city in ways most people can’t imagine. And Lev? He’s one of the faces behind it, the billionaire face, the one who makes it all look effortless. He’s only 27, though it’s unclear if he’s the youngest of the trio.
Then there’s Kirill Alexander Volkov, the oldest of the rulers, a man whose name alone is enough to command fear. He’s the tactician, the one whose whispers make or break empires.
And finally, there’s the third. The mystery. No one knows his real name. No pictures, no public presence. He’s only known by his code name: Ice.
He’s the ghost in their power triangle, the most hidden, the most unpredictable. Why he stays in the shadows, noone knows, but the rumors surrounding him are enough to keep even the boldest at bay.
Everyone in New York knows about the three rulers of the Bratva, their control spanning far and wide. Lev might be the billionaire golden boy, but beneath the surface, he’s as dangerous as the rest.
The club does not disappoint. It’s grand, opulent, and undeniably Russian in its aesthetic. A Russian song blares through the speakers, the kind of beat that makes you move even if you can’t understand a word.
Glamour blonde, I think to myself. That must be me, the way I’m vibing to this song like I actually know what they’re saying.
The place is packed, but it doesn’t feel like a typical nightclub. The air is heavy with something else, business, power, danger. Most of the crowd is dressed in sleek black suits, their sharp gazes and quiet conversations giving them away as people who are here for more than just drinks and dancing. Mafia types, no doubt, probably here to strike deals or intimidate rivals.
But honestly? I don’t care what kind of serial killers or mobsters are lurking in the shadows tonight. I didn’t come here to think about them, or about the man whose name I refuse to even think.
Nope. Tonight is about fun, forgetting, and losing myself in the music and the buzz of alcohol.
Sienna and I make our way to the bar. It’s time to get drunk.
I glance at her, marveling at how confident she is. Sienna doesn’t need liquid courage; she can flirt, dance, and own the floor the second she steps onto it.
Me? Not so much. I need a boost. Or two. Or three, maybe.
I lean against the bar, already planning how to make up for lost time. Tonight, I’m not going to overthink or spiral. Tonight, I’m going to let loose.
Sienna and I take a second shot, and I can already feel the buzz kicking in. Around us, eyes begin to linger. I don’t mean to sound arrogant, but we’re hot. The kind of hot that commands attention without even trying.
The sultry beats of “Killshot” by Magdalena pulse through the room, the perfect soundtrack to our rebellion. We take a third shot, and the moment it hits, we head straight to the dance floor, losing ourselves in the music.
I sing along with the lyrics, my body moving in time with the beat. Sienna and I sway our hips in perfect unison, our movements slow and deliberate, hands brushing each other’s as if we’re the room’s entertainment.
We look like a lesbian couple hired to drive everyone wild, and judging by the heat in the room, it’s working. Maybe that’s exactly what I want, to be untouchable, unattainable, to make them all want something they’ll never have.
“Beauty is power,”my mother always said, and tonight, I’m proving her right. I’m going to make them kneel with their mouths open and their hearts in their throats.
I don’t need him.
I can have any man I want. Except him.
But we don’t want him, remember?
The voices in my head, quiet when I’m sober, are louder when I’m drunk. Taunting, questioning, challenging me to believe what I’m telling myself.
I push them aside, focusing on the rhythm of the song, the way my body feels under the lights, the electricity of being watched. For now, that’s all I care about. For now, that’s enough.
The fourth shot hits, and at this point, I DO NOT FREAKING CARE.
