Page 123 of I'm sorry, Princess
“Exactly.”
I want to punch him in the throat, but instead I grab the bat from the back seat while he shoves a screwdriver into my hand like it’s the Holy Grail. Shorts, t-shirts, sneakers… yeah, we look like gym bros who wandered into a cartel ambush. They’ve got bulletproof vests and semis. Fair fight.
The music is still blasting, bass pounding in my chest. I don’t lower it. Fuck them.
I step out, grin wide, cigarette still dangling from my lips. “Anything we can help you with, ladies?”
A gunshot cracks the air, a warning. My grin sharpens.
“You’re coming with us,” one of them says thickly in Italian.
I count, two in the car in front, three spilling from the one that boxed us in, two more sliding out from the rear. Seven. Seven vs two. Odds are dogshit. But I don’t see seven men. I see seven fucking corpses waiting to happen.
I smirk at Andres, who’s shaking his head like I’ve already lost my goddamn mind. Maybe I have.
“Come fight me, then,” I taunt, spreading my arms. “Or do you need your guns to hold your cocks steady? Pathetic.”
That gets under their skin. One charges me, quick and stupid. Wrong move. Andres swings the bat like a major leaguer and cracks his skull so hard the sound echoes. The fucker drops instantly, twitching.
Adrenaline surges through me like fire. Two more rush me. I welcome them. The first gets my fist square in his nose, crunch, blood sprays like a fucking fountain. He collapses, clutching his face. I don’t stop. I hammer his jaw with another punch, then his temple. He’s out cold, maybe worse.
The second tries to come from the side. Idiot. I jam the screwdriver into his eye socket. He screams, clawing at his face as blood and tissue pour down his cheek. His shrieks are high-pitched, pathetic. I laugh, a sharp, maniacal sound ripping out of me.
“Come on, then!” I roar, daring the rest to step forward. My knuckles are split, dripping with blood, some mine, mostly theirs. Andres, covered in sweat and rage, spins the bat in his hands like he was born with it.
They hesitate.
Seven vs two. Now five vs two. And already, they’re fucking scared.
The song still blasts through the speakers, bass rattling my chest, drowning out the screams. Blood sprays, bonessnap, and it’s almost poetic. I laugh, breathless, adrenaline tearing through my veins.
“This is better than the gym,” I shout over the music, swinging the bat into another skull, and Andres shoots me a glare like I’ve lost my fucking mind. His face is splattered red as he drives his boot into a man’s jaw, the crunch echoing like a drumbeat. He doesn’t admit it, but I know the bastard is enjoying himself.
Another one thinks he’s smart, presses the cold barrel of his gun to the back of my head. Wrong fucking move. Before he can even breathe, I ram the screwdriver straight into his buddy’s gut, twisting until he howls, blood soaking my hand. I drag him by the wrist and shove his body in front of mine, using him like a shield. His friend freezes, not daring to fire. I rip the gun from his hands and smash the butt into his temple, knocking him flat.
I twirl the pistol, grinning. “Cheating, huh? Not today.” My voice is manic, cruel. I aim at the last coward bolting for his car, squeeze the trigger, and shred his tires. The vehicle drops, useless. The fucker’s face turns pale with horror as I stalk him, my smile wide, eyes lit with fire.
Three still breathing. Four lying motionless in a pool of blood and bone shards. Andres has two pinned to the ground, their heads caving under every brutal swing of the bat. They twitch and squirm, but he’s relentless, punishing every movement.
I drag the one who tried to run, slam his head into the hood of his car until he goes limp, then haul his body next to the others.
I exhale smoke, blood dripping down my arm, and smirk. “That was fun.”
Andres doesn’t even bother answering, his look says enough.
I grab my phone, kneel in the middle of the carnage, and snap a picture. Me, grinning like the devil, screwdriver still in hand. Andres in the background, bat dripping, with the bodies sprawled at our feet. Two still twitching, five very fucking dead.
Picture sent.
ME:Easy. 2vs7.
Lev:Are they still alive? Can I beat them too?
ME:A couple. We’ll take ’em to the basement. I’m driving the Lambo. Come pick them up.
Lev:Of course, baby. ??
I roll my eyes. Fucking Lev. Ever since I started calling Andres honey bear to piss him off, Lev has been dropping his own nicknames on me. Twisted bastard.
