Page 163 of I'm sorry, Princess
He exhales, tired. “It’s not a big deal. I’ve been through worse.”
“Ian,” I say firmly, “don’t lie to me.”
He finally meets my eyes. “He asked me to stop the wedding.” His words are quiet, defeated.
My tears fall freely now, hot on my cheeks. “What?” My voice trembles.
He nods. “Long story short? He kidnapped me to that Russian’s club. They have a torture basement there, Serena. A fucking basement. He wanted me to fight him, and…” He laughs bitterly. “Well, you can see who won.”
I feel sick.
Lorenzo. My Lorenzo. The man who held me like I was fragile glass. The man who whispered princess into my skin. The man who told me he loved me in the rain.
He lost control.
Ian goes on, his voice hollow. “He told me to call off the wedding. I told him there’s nothing I can do, that it’s not my choice. And then he let me go.” He swallows hard, and for the first time since I’ve known him, I see real fear in his eyes. “Serena, he’s dangerous. Even if this wedding never happens, and I know he’ll try to stop it somehow, please. Stay away from him. You don’t know what he’s capable of.”
My heart splinters. I knew Lorenzo wasn’t clean. I knew he was tied to shadows, to Bratva and Cosa Nostra. But I never, never, imagined he would drag Ian into that world. Beat him until his face was unrecognizable.
Why? Why does he still think he has the right? He ended things. He left me shattered. He ignored me for two weeks. And now he does this?
My blood boils.
He doesn’t own me. He doesn’t get to decide who I marry, who I talk to, who I breathe for. If he chose to destroy us, then he lost that right.
I hug Ian briefly, my tears soaking his shirt. “I’ll fix this,” I whisper.
“Please don’t,” he says softly. “The damage is already done. Just do me a favor and stay away from him. He’s not the man you thought he was.”
But I already know that.
I pull back, wipe my cheeks, and walk away before I break down completely. Rage is pulsing through my veins, hot and consuming.
I get into my car and slam the door shut, my knuckles white around the steering wheel. My blood is boiling.
I drive straight to the Cursed.
Chapter Forty-three
Serena
Ipull into the club’s parking lot, my tires screeching against the asphalt, and I don’t even bother to straighten the car. My pulse is hammering, my chest so tight it feels like it might collapse. His Lamborghini is parked neatly by the entrance, sleek, black, untouchable. He’s here.
I slam the door and storm inside.
The bass of the music hits me like a wave, “Sex Appeal” by Alicoeurbrise x dacold vibrating through my chest. It’s Tuesday. Four in the afternoon. And still the place is alive, men in suits nursing glasses of whiskey, dancers wrapping themselves around chrome poles, laughter and moans tangled in the air thick with perfume and expensive cologne.
Andthen I see her.
Clara.
She’s on stage like she was born there, the spotlight bathing her in a golden glow. A goddess in lace. Her black curls spill down her back in wild waves as she grips the pole, her body arching, sliding, twisting with the beat. Her red lips curve into a smirk as she bends low, her hips rolling in hypnotic rhythm, the lace bodysuit clinging to every curve like it was painted on.
Men lose their fucking minds. Bills rain at her feet, their eyes locked on her as if she were the only thing that mattered in the world. Some of them lean forward, mouths parted, helpless, as though she’d bewitched them.
And then there’s Lev.
He’s not laughing. Not smirking. His madness is gone, replaced with an intensity I’ve never seen before. His gaze is devouring, jaw clenched so hard the veins on his neck bulge, his glass nearly shattering in his hand. Every time a man stares too long, his knuckles tighten. He looks like he’s seconds away from ripping throats out.
