Page 125 of I'm sorry, Princess

I never knew they were Italian. Kirill gave me the files on a politician’s sons who tried to snatch his daughter, and I did what had to be done. They didn’t name who they worked for. Kirill told me to end them, so I did, clean, fast, final. And now I’ve got Luciano breathing down my neck because his bloodline got erased on my watch.

This isn’t good. An Italian-Russian war will burn the city to ash.

I exhale smoke, bored of their sobbing. “Put them inside.”

My men drag them, kicking, screaming, their nails clawing at the concrete. They thrash as they’re shoved into coffins, fists pounding against the wood, muffled wails echoing in the dark. It’s beautiful, like a symphony of terror.

We load them in the van, drive forty minutes to Westline. The deposit yard is empty, save for shadows and guns. Dante is already there with three Range Rovers, his men steady, armed.

Opposite him, Luciano. Four cars, ten bodyguards, rifles gleaming, snipers in the distance. The old bastard stands there smiling like he’s already won.

I park the Lambo, step out, gesture to my men. The coffins hit the ground one by one, heavy thuds in the dirt. Inside, the screams get louder, fists pounding, muffled cries shaking the wood. Luciano’s face hardens. His right-hand man, sweating, terrified.

I smirk, flick ash at their feet. “Want them back? Or should I bury them here, so you can assist, of course?”

Their screams grow frantic, nails scratching against wood, begging.

Luciano just stares, studying me, eyes burning. Calculating. Silent.

I nod to my men. They shove the coffins closer, the cries piercing the night. His soldiers rip the lids open, dragging their men out, gasping for air, broken and sobbing.

I step forward, voice calm but sharp enough to cut. “If you ever come near me again, or near Bratva,”

Dante’s head jerks toward me, his eyes wide. He didn’t know. He didn’t realize I’d drawn that line long ago, bound myself to the Russians, blood or not. His face twists with betrayal. I don’t care.

“…you’ll be next in this coffin.”

My men drag another box forward, flip the lid open, the yawning mouth of death waiting. The message is loud, brutal, undeniable.

Luciano’s eyes darken, rage etched across every line of his face.

“Careful, Lorenzo,” he growls.

“Traditore!” his right-hand snarls, spitting the word like venom.

Pop.

The bastard’s skull explodes, blood spraying as Andres lowers his gun with zero hesitation.

“Shut the fuck up,” he mutters, smoke curling from the barrel.

The corpse drops at Luciano’s feet, twitching before going limp.

Silence.

Then the world erupts in chaos.

Chapter Thirty-four

Lorenzo

What. The. Fuck.

The shot still echoes like thunder when I whip around to face Andres.

He’s calm. Dead calm. Gun still raised, smoke curling from the barrel like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just blow the fucking head off the right hand of the Don in front of twenty witnesses.

I snap. “What the fuck?” I growl at him, my voice low and sharp, as bullets start screaming past us.