Page 60 of I'm sorry, Princess
The drive to Critique, a quiet coffee shop we’ve frequented over the years, takes ten minutes. When I arrive, I spot Ian immediately. He’s sitting at a corner table by the window, his expression as composed as ever, holding two coffees, his white Americano and my decaf caramel latte with oat milk.
What can I say? He knows me well. I am that type of girl.
He stands as I approach, his tall frame casting a shadow over the table. “What are you doing, Serena?” he asks, his voice low but familiar, and he pulls me into a hug.
His scent wraps around me, fresh snow, crisp and clean, the smell I’ve always loved. I hesitate briefly before hugging him back, a small smile playing on my lips.
“I got your text,” I reply, stepping back slightly. “I’m fine, thank you. Long time no see, Ian. I’ve missed you.”
His jaw flexes. Subtle, but noticeable.
That’s interesting. Ian rarely shows emotion, and even when he does, it’s controlled, deliberate. My curiosity piques, and I tilt my head slightly, studying him.
“Is everything okay, Ian?” I ask, my voice soft but direct.
After what feels like an eternity, Ian finally releases me from our five-minute hug. He takes a deep breath, his jaw clenching before he speaks.
“We lost the case,” he says, his voice heavy with disappointment. “Moretti was released today. We didn’t have enough proof to keep that bastard in jail.”
“Ian—” I start, unsure what to say.
“I’m telling you,” he interrupts, his voice sharp, frustration bleeding through every word. “There’s so much corruption. Even if we had enough evidence to keep him locked up, he would’ve found a way out. You know what we were after, don’t you? It wasn’t just those damn files he has on everyone.”
His voice cracks, and I can see the storm brewing in his eyes, anger simmering just beneath the surface. His forehead vein pulses, a visible sign of his barely-contained fury.
“We wanted him because of the gun trafficking, Serena,” he continues, his tone rising as he gestures sharply. “He’s a fucking mobster. Every rich Italian fuck like him is tied to the mafia. Can you imagine? Such a goddamn cliché.”
I watch as he looks to the ceiling, almost as if searching for answers, and I feel rooted to the spot, too stunned to say anything.
“As far as we know, he’s killed at least ten people in illegal fights back when he was 23. By 24, he was running guns across borders like it was nothing. And you know what’s the worst part?” His voice drops, quiet but deadly, his words laced with venom.
“He doesn’t just use those files to blackmail people. He tortures them, Serena. He fucking kills them. And then heblackmails their families, pushing them until they either kill themselves or disappear to another fucking continent.”
His voice cracks again, and when I look at him, I notice tears glistening in his eyes. Ian doesn’t cry. Not ever.
My stomach twists, dread pooling in my chest. I don’t understand why he’s telling me all of this now, why he’s suddenly unraveling in front of me.
Does he know?
He’s a fucking monster, Serena,” Ian says, his voice sharp and full of conviction. “Have you ever wondered why all his enemies are dead? Every single one of them. The man is untouchable.”
He leans forward, his hands trembling slightly as he grips his coffee cup. “He can’t kill us, yet. We’re the FBI. But that doesn’t mean he won’t come after us eventually. He’s already made it clear we’re in his sights, and now we’ve lost him. Completely. I don’t know if we’ll ever have another chance like this again.”
Ian finishes speaking, his voice trailing off as he takes a sip of his coffee, his frustration palpable.
But I’m just standing there, frozen.
This morning, I was thinking about him, about his body, his hands, the way he felt inside me. I was reliving him. Now Ian is sitting here, calmly telling me that he’s a serial killer.
Nice.
“I’m sorry, Serena,” Ian says, his voice softer now. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just needed to get it off my chest. You’re one of my closest friends, and I—I don’t know who else to talk to about this.”
He reaches out, placing a hand lightly on my leg, his touch meant to reassure.
“It’s fine,” I manage to say, though my voice barely sounds like my own. “I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry, Ian. I’m sorry I couldn’t help.”
The words tumble out, automatic, hollow. My head is spinning, too stunned to process anything.
