Page 135 of I'm sorry, Princess

I’m sitting on the edge of something, rage, anticipation, exhaustion, and she’s still not here. And yet, I wait.

My mother was ecstatic when she heard I’d be flying in. She sounded like the version of her I almost forgot existed, before the medication cocktails, before the hospitalizations. But this visit isn’t just for a sentimental reunion. Andres got into Lucy's files. My father, the man I was taught to idolize, was arrested eight years ago for beating Thomas Beaumont to death.

I’ve replayed those words over and over. “Not a violent man,” I always believed. But maybe I’ve inherited more from him than just a name and a family I don’t claim. Maybe that rage, burning slow, violent, unrelenting, is mine too.

I tried asking my mother for the truth. I got excuses. Vague distractions. “I need to go.” “I have company.” “We’ll talk later.” Classic tactics of avoidance.

So now, I’m dragging Serena into it. Not because I need a distraction, because I want her to see it. Florence. The place I grew up.

Her driver finally pulls up to the jet. She steps out, wind tugging at her hair, face calm but unreadable. She looks like a storm dressed in silk. Mine. One of my guardstrails behind her. He knows better than to slack off. Ever since people started realizing we’re together, I’ve made sure she’s protected. There are too many people who’d love to hurt me through her.

Her mother being one of them.

I’ve seen many monsters in my life, men who'd kill without blinking. But that woman? She made my blood run colder than most. Hitting Serena… bruising her body like that. And the worst part? Serena defended her.

“She's mentally unstable,” she told me. “She didn’t mean to.”

Bullshit.

So, I returned the message. Set fire to her mother’s car. I watched from across the street as the flames climbed, licking at the paint, twisting metal. And her mother? Screaming, crying like it was the end of the world. It wasn’t. I was just getting started.

I could’ve burned her house too. But I didn’t. That house belongs to Serena too. And there are lines I won’t cross. Not when it comes to her.

But let her mother try something again, and I’ll erase her completely.

Serena steps out of the car like she owns the fucking runway, two oversized suitcases and a small designer bag in hand, for a weekend in Florence. I raise a brow, smirking as the guards move in to handle her luggage.

“You know we’re not moving there, right?” I say dryly, already walking toward her.

She gives me that smile, the one that melts every ounce of rational thought in me, and slides her arms around my neck. “A girl never has enough stuff on holiday.”

I grab her by the waist, anchoring her to me. My mouth meets hers in a slow, claiming kiss. Soft. Intentional.Possessive. Her body melts into mine like she belongs nowhere else. Which she doesn’t.

I pull back just enough to murmur against her lips, “Why do you need all those clothes when you’ll be naked most of the time?”

She gasps, blushing, pushing at my chest half-heartedly. “Lorenzo!”

I kiss her again, harder this time, just to shut her up. Her lips are addictive. Her skin still smells like vanilla and trouble. “I missed you,” she whispers like a secret.

And it hits me harder than it should. I saw her this morning. She left my bed only hours ago. Still… I missed her too. My chest tightens and it pisses me off.

“Did you?” I murmur, brushing my thumb along her lower lip. She nods, wide-eyed and honest, and I swear, I nearly throw her over my shoulder and take her right here.

My eyes rake over her. The short dress clings to her curves like sin itself. Her tits peek just enough to taunt me. Mascara perfectly smudged around her long lashes. Baby pink gloss on her lips. And the glow, she’s always wearing that damn shimmer. Like she wants to shine for me.

Heels, of course. She lives in them. And every time she wears them, I’m tempted to fuck her with nothing else on but those heels.

I nod at my guards to give us space and guide her up the steps into the jet. She walks ahead of me, swaying like she knows exactly what she’s doing. I adjust my pants and exhale through my nose.

This girl is a fucking menace.

She settles into the leather seat like she’s royalty. I glance at her ridiculous pile of luggage already being loaded into the cargo.

We’re going to Florence for two days.

She brought three books. Ten outfits. Four swimsuits. Five heels. Two flats. A makeup bag the size of a suitcase. Skincare like she’s running a spa. Sunblock, two bottles. Because apparently one isn’t enough for her delicate skin.

She looks at me, smug, like she expects praise for packing light.