Page 157 of I'm sorry, Princess
Lev casually flips her the middle finger.
I can’t help it, I laugh. Loud. The whole scene is ridiculous, a twisted family comedy in the middle of blood and war.
Alisa might be young, but she’s no pushover. She’s a little heathen raised by wolves, by Lev, to be exact. He practically raised her, and it shows. They fight like cousins, like siblings, like two sides of the same wicked coin.
“Thank you all for coming. I know this is short notice,” Kirill begins, his deep voice cutting through the room. His hands rest heavy on the polished table, commanding silence. “Lorenzo has two important matters to address.”
Dozens of eyes shift to me. I lean forward, elbows braced, and let the weight of my words land.
“The hit on your youngest daughter, Kirill, was done by Italians.”
The temperature in the room drops. Kirill’s fist tightens against the wood, the muscle in his jaw twitching. His men stiffen. Even Ice, usually carved from stone, tilts his head ever so slightly.
“How so?” Kirill asks, voice deceptively calm, the threat humming beneath it like a blade unsheathed.
“Because of my family ties to the Cosa Nostra, I’ve been carrying a target on my back,” I explain, my tone steady, deliberate. “That target was extended to those close to me. I dug into the attack, those men, the father and thetwo sons who tried to kidnap Anastasia, they were working under Italian orders.”
The room shifts, whispers curling in the air.
“I don’t yet know the exact reason,” I continue. “And I don’t believe they did it to spark an all-out war. But it was sanctioned. And sanctioned means they’re testing boundaries.”
Silence. Thick. Heavy. Until Kirill speaks.
“I’ll look into it.” His voice is sharp as broken glass. Then, after a beat: “I’d appreciate it if you dug deeper from the inside.”
He doesn’t need to spell it out. He wants me to call my uncle. To pull favors from the very family I’ve spent years severing ties with. My stomach knots, but I simply nod.
“Done.” Then, unable to stop myself, I tilt my head toward Andres, lips twitching with amusement. “Oh, and Andres killed the capo’s right-hand man. Shot him straight in the head.”
Kirill’s eyes cut to Andres, sharp, calculating. Lev, on the other hand, beams like a child at Christmas, clapping Andres on the back.
“Well?” Kirill finally asks, one brow raised.
Andres shrugs, leaning back in his chair like it’s nothing. “He wouldn’t shut the fuck up.” His tone is so casual, so indifferent, it’s almost insulting.
Alisa glares daggers across the table. “For fuck’s sake. Do men actually think before they act?”
Lev grins wolfishly, pointing at himself. “Not this one.” He digs into his ice cream with glee. “Personally? I say we just toss a few bombs at the capo’s house. BOOM. Problem solved.” He spreads his arms wide, as if painting the explosion across the air.
Ice, quiet until now, finally speaks, his voice as cold and unyielding as his name. “I can deal with Don Luciano.”
The weight of that statement presses into the room. Kirill meets his gaze, then nods once, decisive.
“We cannot afford a war with the Italians,” Kirill declares. His voice is iron, leaving no room for debate. “But we will remind them of our strength. They need to know power without mistaking it for weakness. Keep me updated.”
Alisa shifts in her seat, her gaze flicking to me and Andres, sharp as knives. “We wouldn’t even be in this mess if your foster kids kept their guns to themselves.” The venom in her tone drips heavy on the word foster. Her favorite weapon when she wants to cut deep.
Andres doesn’t flinch. Neither do I. We’ve heard it before. But it still burns, the way she spits it. Kirill’s foster kids. Strays he picked up, raised into wolves.
Kirill ignores her jab, his face unreadable. “What’s the second thing, Lorenzo?”
The room stills, all eyes on me. My pulse hammers once, hard, before I steady it. How do you tell the Bratva you want the Attorney General of the United States and the Chief of the fucking FBI tied up in your basement?
I lean forward, voice calm, calculated, deadly serious.
“I want to interrogate two people.” My voice is calm, steady, but the silence it creates feels like gunpowder waiting for a spark.
Kirill leans forward, curious. “Who?” His tone is casual, but his eyes are knives. “You wouldn’t ask for help unless they’re more than just made men. You can handle those yourself.”
