Page 19 of I'm sorry, Princess

“You’ll rot here.” His voice trembles but he thinks he’s in control.

His forehead vein looks like it’s about to pop. The motherfucker’s vibrating with rage.

“We’ve got enough evidence to keep you locked for another week. Maybe more.”

He says it like he’s proud, like he just won the lottery.

Cute.

Little does he know, Andres is feeding him exactly what I want him to find. Feeding him crumbs while the real shit stays buried where they’ll never reach it. They think they’re running the game, but they’re just pieces on my board.

I sit up, let my feet hit the floor, cracking my neck, stretching slow like a predator bored of playing with its food.

“They’re firing that stupid bitch,” he snarls, spit flying, “and if you pull this shit again, Moretti, I’ll beat you until no one will recognize that pretty face of yours.”

I chuckle, low and dangerous, the kind of laugh that makes weak men sweat.

“Maybe you should do the job for them, Detective,” I hiss his title like it’s an insult, stepping forward until I’m towering over him, eyes locked onto his. I see the hate in his stare. I feed on it.

“Be my psychologist for the day. Sit down, take some notes. Maybe you’ll get so fascinated by me like they all do.” I lean closer, lowering my voice to a rasp. “Maybe you’ll end up on your knees too.”

His hand twitches toward his belt like he’s gonna pull something or maybe just swing.

Do it, I dare him with my eyes.

I would love to paint this concrete with his fucking blood.

He slams his fist against the bars so hard the metal rattles. The sound echoes down the hallway, but I don’t flinch.

His face is a storm, rage, disgust, humiliation.

I’ve already won.

And he knows it.

I turn my back on him like he’s not even worth my attention. Lay back on the mattress, pull out my phone. Yes, my fucking phone. Watch his eyes flick to it, his surprise not even masked anymore.

I scroll through my messages, completely ignoring him, knowing my silence will piss him off more than any insult.

“You’ll regret this, Moretti,” he seethes.

His voice cracks again.

Weak. Predictable. Boring.

I smirk without looking up. “Get in line.”

He storms off, leaving the air thick with his failure.

That’s right, I think, my fingers tapping against the screen.

You’re just another badge in a suit.

I’m Lorenzo fucking Moretti.

Chapter Six

Serena