Page 13 of I'm sorry, Princess
For a second, just a second, I wonder what it feels like to be her.
To belong to him.
To stand at his side while the world watches, knowing he’d burn it all to the ground just to protect what’s his.
I shake the thought away.
Gosh, what’s wrong with me?
I scroll further.
And then I see it.
An anonymous post buried between polished Forbes articles and fake charity galas:
“Lorenzo Moretti: mafia prince? Several of his competitors have mysteriously disappeared after private meetings. Oddly enough, his business keeps thriving.”
I feel the chill slide down my back.
My thumb hovers, but I keep reading.
There’s another post from the same account.
“Is the heir of the Moretti Empire the most ruthless man New York has ever seen? Rumor has it, he once beat two men to death with his bare hands. NYPD has yet to confirm.”
My throat tightens.
I toss the phone on the bed, my pulse hammering.
I open Instagram.
@LorenzoMoretti.
His feed is exactly what I expect, minimal. Controlled. Calculated.
Chess boards.
Half-finished games. Captions in Italian I don’t understand.
A boxing ring. His taped hands in focus, veins like ropes, scars across his knuckles.
Another photo from a gala, the shadows hide half his face, like he planned it that way.
No smiles. No family photos. No careless selfies.
Just fragments of a man no one really knows.
His Instagram is boring.
“Honey, are you awake?”
My mother’s voice breaks the silence, soft but unusually excited. Her nails tap delicately against my door like she’s knocking on porcelain.
“Yes, come in,” I answer, locking my phone screen quickly.
The door opens and she steps inside, and for a moment, I blink.
She’s stunning.
