Page 23 of I'm sorry, Princess
His education was nothing short of elite. Home-schooled by the finest tutors in the country, he excelled in every subject. By the time he reached adulthood, he graduated with distinction in Science and Mathematics from Harvard, followed by Harvard Business School, a testament to the relentless expectations placed upon him.
But life didn’t follow the script of privilege for long. After his father’s untimely death, the family fractured. Hismother, overcome with grief, moved back to Florence, Italy, choosing to isolate herself from the world that reminded her of her loss.
At just 18 years old, he was thrust into responsibility far beyond his years. He stepped into the role of running the Moretti Empire, guided only by his uncle, Dante Moretti. Together, they navigated the complex web of business and legacy.
His mother’s retreat into depression left him without the maternal support he once knew. Alone, except for Dante, he bore the weight of an empire, and the shadows of his family’s grief, on his young shoulders.
Lorenzo Moretti’s public persona is one of confidence and affluence, the polished image of a man who commands respect wherever he goes. To the world, he is the epitome of success, a scion who not only inherited the Moretti Empire but transformed it, molding it into a living testament to the enduring power of the Italian entrepreneurial spirit.
But those who truly know him understand that beneath the polished exterior lies a man driven by more than wealth. He is fueled by an unrelenting responsibility to preserve and elevate the Moretti legacy, no matter the cost.
And cost is the right word.
Beyond the glowing biographies and celebratory articles, Lorenzo Moretti is known as one of the most ruthless businessmen in the world. His name is whispered in corridors of power, laden with accusations that paint a far darker picture.
They say he’s built his empire on a foundation of fear, gun trafficking, blackmail, and the strategic dismantling of anyone who stands in his way.
And then there are the darker rumors.
The stories of men who disappeared, of rivals and adversaries who crossed him only to vanish without a trace. Whispers of blood on his hands, though no evidence has ever surfaced. Speculation, they call it, and yes, maybe I googled him too much.
But here he is.
How could someone like him, a man who always seemed untouchable, be arrested? How could they bring him here, into a system he has always seemed immune to?
I can’t wrap my head around it.
“Who is she?” he asked, his tone laced with surprise that mirrored my own.
For a moment, I couldn’t speak, caught off guard as his piercing blue eyes locked onto mine.
Those eyes, icy, unrelenting, and filled with something dangerous.
He is, without a doubt, the most attractive man I’ve ever seen. His dark-brown curls frame a face that’s all sharp angles and perfection, his full lips curled into the faintest smirk.
And then there’s his sheer presence.
Towering at what must be 6’4”, his frame is massive, broad shoulders, powerful arms, and muscles etched under tattoos that snake across his skin. He looks like he could crush any man with his bare hands.
Unlike the other inmates in their orange jumpsuits, he’s dressed casually, in a fitted black t-shirt and dark jeans. The simplicity of it somehow makes him look even more untouchable. Superior.
He doesn’t just look like he’s in control. He acts like it, radiating an energy that dominates the room. It’s overwhelming, almost hypnotic, like he could command anyone to obey with nothing but a look.
My pulse quickened, and I felt an unwelcome heat rise in my cheeks.
“I didn’t know you guys would gift me a prostitute before meeting the third psychologist this week,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement, the smirk on his lips widening.
The words were a joke, meant to provoke. And while the guards shifted uncomfortably, I felt the heat turn to ice.
Oh my Gosh. I can’t believe he actually said that to me.
I wasn’t expecting him to be warm and welcoming, but I’d at least assumed I had more class than to compare me to a prostitute.
“Watch your mouth,” Ian snaps, his voice sharp and commanding.
The tension in the room shifts immediately as Lorenzo’s gaze meets Ian’s. The air feels charged, both men silently sizing each other up like they’d love nothing more than to throw a punch.
I glance between them, feeling the weight of Ian’s protective energy. He’s always had a soft spot for me, but I don’t need him fighting my battles. I can take care of myself.
