Page 1 of I'm sorry, Princess
Chapter One
Lorenzo
“FBI! OPEN THE DOOR!”
Their screams echo through my house like a bad joke.
I lean back in my leather chair, my legs crossed on top of the desk, cigar lit between my fingers. Thick smoke coils in the air, mixing with the scent of old scotch, the kind only men like me can afford. I take a slow drag, my lips curving into a smirk while my eyes flick to the CCTV monitor on the wall.
Ten armed FBI agents stand outside my house like clowns at a circus, struggling with my front gate like it’s the fucking Trojan War.
Pathetic.
I could’ve programmed the locks to open with a fingerprint, but where’s the fun in that?
“Sir, there are some armed people banging on the door.”
Bianca’s voice slices through the air, calm but clearly annoyed. She’s probably pissed they’re interrupting her cooking.
“I know,” I reply, my tone deadpan. “Don’t worry about it.”
She sighs like this is an inconvenience, like I’ve let the mailman in with muddy boots. Then she walks off, probably back to the kitchen to finish making her fucking lasagna. Bianca’s been with me for years. She’s seen worse.
My gaze shifts back to the cameras. For fuck’s sake, they’re still trying. One of them just slipped on the wet tiles. I bark out a low laugh, cigar smoke curling from my lips.
Fifteen minutes to breach a front door? These are the idiots sent to take me down?
Pancake and Milkshake, my Belgian Malinois, sit beside me, eyes glued to the screen. Their jaws twitch, their sharp ears perk. Pancake growls low under his breath. Milkshake licks his lips, eager for the command I won’t give.
“Stay.”
They sit back, muscles tight, eyes gleaming. Killers in disguise, named like a fucking joke. Imagine the last thing you hear being: “You got mauled by Pancake.” That’s the kind of irony I live for.
My phone buzzes. Andres.
“Are they there?” His voice is bored, like he’s asking if the coffee’s ready.
“Yeah,” I reply, eyes locked on the screen. “Let them in.”
I hang up before he says anything else.
The front doors finally give way with a crash. The sound echoes through the house. I take another sip of scotch, savoring the burn in my throat. I watch them storm in like they’re the fucking cavalry, bulletproof vests strapped on, eyes wide, adrenaline pumping.
Amateurs.
They don’t know I’m watching every step they take.
Bianca flashes me a disapproving glare from the hallway, hands on her hips, muttering in Italian under her breath. Probably about the mess they’ll leave. I give her a small smirk. She knows I’ll handle it.
They’re at my office door now.
“FBI! OPEN THE DOOR!”
I don’t move. I swirl the scotch in my glass, letting the ice clink softly.
Pancake and Milkshake are crouched beside me, drool spilling from their mouths, their bodies coiled like loaded weapons. They’re trained by the best—ex-Navy SEALs, men who know how to build monsters out of muscle and obedience. One word from me and these agents won’t walk out alive.
But not tonight.
