Page 75 of I'm sorry, Princess
My mother’s cries.
I blink, and the room shifts. I see a coffin, massive and heavy, carried by four men in black suits. My mother, in a black dress and sunglasses, sobbing loudly. I blink again, shaking my head, trying to force the image away. But the sound, her cries, echoes in my skull, clawing at the anger, twisting it into something darker.
My pulse pounds in my ears. The vein in my neck throbs, and the rush of blood feels like fire in my veins. I need to get out. I need to move.
Before I can, someone fucking slaps me.
The sting snaps me back. My head whips to the side, and I slowly turn to glare at whoever just dared to slap me. My gaze is venomous, promising pain. Unless this is some kind of foreplay for a hate fuck with Serena, which, let’s be honest, I wouldn’t complain about, I don’t tolerate anyone slapping my fucking face.
I lift my head, my vision clearing, and there it is.
Kirill’s face comes back into focus, steady and unyielding. He slapped me.
And the look on his face says he’ll do it again if he has to.
“When did it start?” Kirill asks, his voice calm but edged with caution. His face is blank, but I can see the wheels turning behind his eyes. He’s trying to read me, to figure me out.
I meet his gaze with a cold smile. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now tell your dogs to get their hands off me before I break them and use what’s left to fuck their wives.”
The room goes still, tension crackling in the air. Kirill lets out a low, measured sigh.
“Release him,” he orders, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
The men let go, their hands falling away reluctantly. I straighten up, rolling my shoulders as Kirill continues, his tone sharper now, frustration bleeding through his words.
“You almost killed your opponent. He’s in intensive care now, along with my other employee, the one you decided to beat the shit out of.”
His brows narrow as he stares me down, his discomfort clear. He’s tense, trying to pick apart the mess I just created, trying to decide what the hell to do with me.
Oh, right. I was fighting in his ring.
I glance at him, shrugging off his glare like it’s nothing. The tension rolling off him is palpable, but I can’t bring myself to care.
I’m not a fucking psychopath. I just… forget things sometimes. Like the fact that I’m not supposed to kill the guy I’m fighting. Or that I should stop hitting them before they stop breathing.
It’s simple, really. Easy enough. I definitely won’t forget next time. Probably.
I leave the ring without looking back, not even sparing Kirill a glance. Blood drips from my mouth, the metallic taste lingering. That bastard got a good hit in, it’ll leave a mark by morning.
Driving to work feels almost laughable after the chaos I just walked out of, but besides breaking faces and plotting revenge against the people who killed my father, I do occasionally have to play the part of a businessman.
Still dressed like a gentleman, I’m in my black Armani suit. The white polo t-shirt underneath, however, is another story, blood-stained and nearly ripped to shreds thanks to the goons who thought they could hold me down.
I pull up to the Moretti Estates building. Thirty stories of sleek glass, standing tall like a monument to my success. Unlike most CEOs, I know exactly what’s happening on every floor. I know every employee’s name and what they contribute. Efficiency matters.
Stepping out of my black Cadillac Escalade, I adjust my tie.
Can’t have the boss walking in looking like a complete psychopath, now, can I?
The doors slide open as I enter the building, and the room falls silent. My employees freeze, their eyes widening as they take in my “new look.” I can see the fear in their expressions, the way they avoid eye contact.
What’s the problem? I thought “casual messy” was trending these days.
I take the elevator to the 20th floor, the ride smooth and quiet. When the doors slide open, I’m greeted by my assistant, Ashley.
She used to be a regular fuck, nothing serious, just something to pass the time. Now? She’s here for business, and that’s where it ends.
“Mr. Moretti,” she says, her tone carefully neutral as her eyes dart to the blood on my shirt.
