Page 119 of I'm sorry, Princess

He tosses me one of his oversized shirts and a pair of gym shorts that will absolutely not fit me properly. The waistband is ridiculous, and the legs are practically pants.

“I don’t think these count as clothes on me,” I grumble, still flustered.

“You’ll survive,” he calls over his shoulder as Milkshake trots after him like a trained soldier, guarding the bathroom door.

I look down at Pancake, who is now fully curled up in my lap like he lives here. I sigh.

Breakfast, murder dogs, and a man who makes my blood boil and my thighs clench.

The way I look right now is... tragic.

Wearing Lorenzo’s oversized T-shirt that falls halfway down my thighs and a pair of gym shorts that practically swallow me whole, I feel like a child playing dress-up in her older brother’s closet. My hair’s a mess from the bed, my legs still sore, and I haven’t even glanced in a mirror. Honestly, I don’t want to. I’m clinging to the last scraps of dignity I have left.

Lorenzo walks ahead of me toward the kitchen, the dogs flanking him like trained soldiers, their ears alert and tails swaying in unison. I trail behind, barefoot, trying to fix my hair with my fingers, suddenly self-conscious. But thenBianca turns and gives me that warm, motherly smile, and it melts a bit of the anxiety crawling beneath my skin.

I smile back. Gosh, I could get used to mornings like this.

Around the dining table, two men are already seated with steaming mugs of coffee in their hands. One of them, a younger guy in a bulletproof vest with a gun holstered at his waist, barely glances at me. The other, older and effortlessly poised, is clearly the one in charge.

My eyes flick to Lorenzo’s expression. It's unreadable.

“Uncle,” Lorenzo says with a short nod, moving in to shake his hand.

“Sebastian,” he adds, addressing the guard. Sebastian nods once in return.

His uncle. That makes sense. He looks early forties, tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp Italian features softened by a few smile lines. He’s handsome in a cold, dangerous kind of way. Definitely a Moretti. Probably the youngest brother, considering Lorenzo’s father was well into his fifties.

“I came with the dogs as soon as I heard you were out,” his uncle says warmly, looking down as Pancake and Milkshake nuzzle at his feet. “Didn’t want you missing them too much.”

Then his gaze shifts. He sees me.

And for a split second, there’s surprise. His eyes quickly take me in, bare legs, wrinkled T-shirt, tangled hair. I feel the heat rise to my cheeks.

I step forward anyway, keeping my voice polite but steady. “Hi. I’m Serena.”

I extend a hand.

“Dante Moretti,” he replies smoothly, and instead of shaking my hand, he takes it and kisses the back of it like an old-school gentleman. I blink in surprise.

Definitely runs in the family.

We sit at the table. Bianca places a plate of biscotti in front of me, and I mumble a soft thank you while pretending not to feel the full weight of Dante’s gaze on me.

The conversation quickly turns to business. They talk about shipments, names I don’t recognize, and something about Florence. Apparently Lorenzo’s mother is still there and not doing well, relying too heavily on antidepressants and surrounded only by staff. Dante urges him to visit. The guilt flickers in Lorenzo’s eyes for a second before he shuts it down again, his features returning to stone.

I try to keep my focus on the coffee mug in my hand, but I catch Bianca glaring at Dante from across the room. It’s subtle but unmistakable. Whatever history lies between them, it’s not a good one.

The conversation shifts again, now into Italian, faster, more intense. I only catch a few words, but it’s enough to know it’s not good.

“Don Luciano sta diventando un problema che dobbiamo affrontare,” Dante says, his tone low and grave.

Lorenzo doesn’t even flinch. “Why?”

Dante hesitates. Then glances at me. The room feels heavier.

“He’s becoming greedy.”

Lorenzo stiffens, his jaw tightening, but his voice remains calm. “I already told you what I think.”