Page 122 of I'm sorry, Princess
Sienna:Just between us girls... does he taste like sweet cannoli?
Me:You guys are disgusting ??
I laugh out loud despite myself, cheeks turning a violent shade of red.
Kylie:Could you grab it with one hand or did you need both?
Clara:Definitely both. Her hands are tiny.
Sienna:He does give big dick energy.
Me:BYEEEE.
I toss the phone onto the couch, still laughing, my face sore from smiling. They’re insane. I love them. And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m in a good place, just me, in my home, freshly scrubbed and wrapped in a robe, the sound of city traffic below me and the warmth of friendship buzzing through my phone.
I open my book.
And for tonight, I let everything else fade.
Chapter Thirty-three
Lorenzo
“Timeless” by The Weeknd, Playboi Carti is thundering through the speakers, bass rattling the glass, while Andres sulks in the passenger seat like a brooding teenager glued to his phone. He’s been moody as fuck lately, probably because I’ve been on cloud nine with Serena warming my bed. My method of tearing Beaumont apart through his daughter? Scrapped. She’s mine. Untouchable. I’ll burn the whole world before I let her be part of my plan.
The mirror catches my eye, two black cars tailing us. Not subtle. Not casual. They’re fucking hunting us.
I hit the gas.
150 km/h. Still there.
200 km/h. Closer.
250 km/h. I smirk as Andres finally tearshis eyes off his phone and grips the door handle, his jaw clenching so tight I swear I hear his teeth grind.
“You got guns in the car?” he asks, voice sharp, like he already knows the answer.
I give him a quick side glance. “Uh… no.”
The look he gives me could fucking kill.
“You got anything useful?”
“Yeah,” I grin, trying not to laugh as I weave through traffic, “a baseball bat.”
If looks could incinerate, I’d already be ash.
“Why the fuck do you have a baseball bat?” he growls.
“What do you mean, honey bear?” I almost lose it at his flaring nostrils. “To protect us.”
Before he can insult me again, I slam the brakes. Tires screech, smoke burns, and we nearly plow into the front car that cuts us off. Doors fling open, guns up, pointed right at us.
“Moretti, scendi dalla fottuta macchina!” one of them yells.
Andres mutters, “Fucking Italians.”
I cut him a glare. “I’m a fucking Italian.”
