Page 78 of I'm sorry, Princess
I glance around the room, taking in the chaos, the overturned table, the broken chair, the scattered papers.
That’s enough fucking paperwork for today.
I leave the office as fast as I can, the chaos I left behind still fresh in my mind. The moment I’m in the car, I grab my phone and call Francesco.
“Meet me at my place in 30 minutes,” I say, my voice sharp, leaving no room for discussion. Francesco has been my father’s lawyer for several years. If anyone knows something about my father’s dealings with Beaumont, it’s him.
The drive home feels longer than it should, my thoughts a mess of anger and unanswered questions. As soon as I step inside, I head straight for the bar. Thewhiskey bottle is in my hand before I even realize it, and I pour myself a glass, the amber liquid swirling as I grip it tighter than I need to.
The first sip, or rather, half the glass, burns its way down, but it barely takes the edge off.
By the time Francesco arrives, looking tired and worn, I’m already pouring a second glass. He sits across from me, his face tight with questions he doesn’t dare ask. I pour him a glass too, sliding it across the table without a word.
“Tell me about the business my father had with Beaumont,” I demand, my tone clipped as I take another sip. Half the glass again, burning a path straight to my gut.
Francesco stares at me, his expression unreadable but serious. Like he’s calculating his next move.
“Don’t lie to me,” I say, my voice cold and even, as I finish what’s left in my glass.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, as I lean forward, my gaze locked on him. He’ll talk.
Francesco sighs heavily, setting his glass down before slipping off his jacket and draping it over the chair.
“Beaumont wanted to rent one of your father’s hotels for private parties,” he begins, his tone calm but with an edge of discomfort. “To be specific, he wanted The Grand Hotel.”
He looks at me, though it feels like he’s looking through me, his gaze distant.
“Your father did his research into Beaumont’s so-called parties,” Francesco continues, swirling his glass absentmindedly. “He found out that these events usually involved drugging women and having orgies, some consensual, some not. And he declined the offer.”
The words hang heavy in the room, the air thickening with each passing second.
Francesco finishes his whiskey as fast as I did earlier, placing the glass on the table with a quiet clink. “Beaumont wasn’t happy, obviously. He contacted your father afterward, and they had a long discussion. I don’t know the specifics of what was said, Giovanni never told me.”
His voice is steady, but there’s a weight to it, like he’s trying to piece together fragments of a puzzle himself.
“That’s all I know,” he says finally, leaning back in his chair.
I study him carefully, watching for cracks, for tells, for anything that might suggest he’s holding back. But there’s nothing.
Francesco is one of the very few people I trust. A very short list. And for now, I believe him.
“Why are you asking?” Francesco’s voice cuts through the silence, his gaze still fixed on me, but distant, like he’s piecing together fragments of a puzzle.
“Apparently, they were good friends,” I reply, my voice flat, swirling the remaining whiskey in my glass before downing it in one go. The burn feels like nothing now. Maybe I’m turning into an alcoholic like Beaumont wanted my father to be.
Francesco narrows his brows, but he knows better than to push. Not now. Not when I’m like this.
He stands, slipping his jacket back on, adjusting it with practiced ease. “Good night, son,” he says, tapping my shoulder lightly as he heads toward the door.
I watch him leave, the sound of his footsteps fading down the hall.
The moment he’s gone, I strip off my clothes and throw them on the floor. Bianca will have a surprise tomorrow, a bloodstained suit to deal with. Maybe she’ll stop scolding me about the mess when she realizes I came home covered in someone else’s blood.
I step into the shower, letting the cold water cascade over me, the shock jolting my senses as the blood streams from my body, swirling down the drain in thin red ribbons.
I close my eyes, leaning against the cold tiles, my fists clenched at my sides.
The plan forms in my head, clear and vicious.
