Page 168 of I'm sorry, Princess
I whirl on him, breath shaky. “And what the hell am I supposed to wear?” I hiss. “You ripped my shirt to pieces.”
He moves lazily, like a predator in no rush to chase because the prey is already caught. Opening his closet, he tosses me one of his shirts. I pull it over my head, the fabric soft against my skin, the scent of him, mint, smoke, and something darker, flooding my senses. God, it feels like wearing him.
I clutch the hem tight and head for the door again. His voice stops me.
“What now?” I snap, glaring at him over my shoulder.
He smirks, that cruel curve of his lips that promises nothing but chaos. “Aren’t you going to give me a goodbye kiss?”
I roll my eyes, my heart clawing at my ribs. “This,” I spit, gesturing between us, my voice breaking, “was a mistake.”
His smirk sharpens, wicked and merciless. He steps closer, close enough for his breath to brush my cheek.
“Then, baby…” His tone is velvet and venom all at once. “…let’s ruin each other a thousand times over. Because I’d rather be your worst mistake than watch you belong to anyone else.”
He takes my hand and presses his lips against it, mocking, reverent, devastating.
I rip myself away and practically run, my pulse thundering in my ears as his laughter follows me down the hall. By the time I reach the bar, the bartender’s judgmental gaze lands on me, his shirt hanging off my body, my hair a mess, my shame written across my face.
I force a brittle smile, push past her, and go straight to my car.
Today wasn’t a conversation. It wasn’t closure.
Today was a disaster.
Chapter Forty-four
Lorenzo
“Forty cars are ready.” Andres’s voice cuts through the hum of activity, calm and clipped, as if we were about to attend a business dinner instead of orchestrating a kidnapping that could start a war.
I don’t answer. My hands are already busy, sliding into the heavy bulletproof vest, feeling the weight settle across my chest like armor and burden all at once. The Kevlar presses against me, familiar, suffocating, a second skin I’ve worn more times than I care to count. I grab an AK-47 from the rack, the steel cold in my palms, its weight anchoring me to what I’ve decided must be done.
On the table, a neat pile of balaclavas waits. I take one for myself and toss another to Andres. He catches it effortlessly, tugging it over his head, his eyes hard butsearching mine like he’s waiting for me to flinch. I don’t. I can’t.
Lev and the rest of the soldiers are already waiting in the basement, engines idling in their throats, weapons checked and loaded. They’re hungry for blood. I know it, I can feel it in the way the air vibrates with their anticipation. Tonight, there will be no mistakes.
It will be me and Andres who go personally to collect Thomas Beaumont and John Archibald. No delegating. No middlemen. I want my hands in this. I want to drag them by their collars into the dark, lock them into the basement, and finally rip the truth from their throats.
Kirill stays at the office. He trusts me enough to let me lead. Ice said he’ll join us once we’ve got them secured; interrogation is his art, and he paints with pain.
I roll my shoulders, the vest groaning against my muscles. My fists still ache from earlier, knuckles raw and cracked. It’s fitting. My body is a battlefield, always has been. Tonight will be no different.
I try, God knows I try, to push her out of my head. Serena. Her face, her voice, the way her body caved to mine just last night even though she came here to end things. I should never have touched her. I should’ve let her walk. But how the fuck was I supposed to resist? She’s not a woman, she’s a goddamn siren, dragging me into her storm until I can’t tell if I’m breathing or drowning.
Lev’s words echo in my skull: she’s like a siren. And for the first time, I finally understand. When she stormed into my suite, eyes blazing, jealousy dripping from every word when she saw Ashley there… Christ, it made my cock hard. She doesn’t realize it, but I wanted that. I wanted her to hate the thought of me with anyone else. I wanted her obsessed, just like I am.
But even as her scent still lingers on my skin, vanilla and sin, another truth gnaws at me: I’m about to make her hate me forever. Because tonight, I’m going after her father. And John fucking Archibald. If they don’t give me the answers I want, I’ll put bullets in both their skulls and burn what’s left.
Closure. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. To know what really happened to my father. To strip the fear from my mother’s eyes and finally bury this ghost. And if the price is Serena’s heart, then so be it. I’ll take her love and her hate. She was mine the second I touched her.
We head toward the club’s exit. Outside, the line of black G-Wagons gleams like a fleet of predators in the dying light. Each one packed with four armed men, faces hidden behind balaclavas, rifles resting across their knees. A hundred and sixty soldiers. My army. My war.
They can’t outnumber us. They can’t outrun us. Tonight, Florence was a memory, New York will be a battlefield.
As we step into the night, I catch sight of Alisa by the doors, her sharp little frame bristling with fury, her eyes cutting into me like knives. Kirill had ordered her to keep the club loud and full, distraction wrapped in decadence. Inside, the music is pounding, bodies grinding against poles and each other, laughter drowning out the sins already happening beneath their feet.
It’s fitting. No one will hear the screams when the Attorney General of the United States and the Chief of the FBI beg for mercy in my basement.
