Page 28 of I'm sorry, Princess

“Confidential,” Lorenzo says smoothly, leaning back in his chair, clearly pleased with himself.

The smug look on his face is infuriating, but I hold my tongue, swallowing the million things I want to say.

Chapter Seven

Lorenzo

Serena Beaumont.

The last name strikes a chord, one that’s too familiar to ignore. Thomas Beaumont, the Attorney General. And this girl? She’s his daughter.

She looks far too young to be working as a psychologist for the FBI. I knew her father would pull strings to get her a cushy position, but the fucking FBI? The man’s delusional. She’ll be eaten alive in this world.

These idiots are so proud of themselves, acting like they’ve pulled off some grand feat by catching me. They don’t even realize I’m here because I want to be here.

Amateurs.

Not that I planned to end up in this situation, but when you’re handed an opportunity, you take it. That’s rule number one.

Andres warned me the cops were on their way to my office. They wanted me on charges of money laundering and blackmailing. Almost laughable, almost. Sure, it wasn’t entirely false, but they didn’t have real proof. Nothing that would stick.

But instead of running, I saw an opening.

Andres handed me the device he’s been working on. A sleek, unassuming little thing he’s named Lucy. Don’t ask me why. Andres has his quirks, and I don’t care about his reasons.

All I care about is that Lucy will do exactly what I need her to do.

They think they’ve got me cornered. They think I’m some caged beast they’ve managed to tame.

But the truth?

The real game hasn’t even started yet.

Lucy’s role is simple but crucial: extract every piece of information from the feds’ systems, their computers, their CCTV cameras, their internal files. All I have to do is stay close enough for Andres to do his magic, and he’ll take control of everything they think is secure.

In a couple of weeks, thanks to Lucy, we’ll know exactly who’s behind this pathetic attempt to drag me to jail. Try is the right word, these assholes aren’t capable of actually keeping me here unless I let them.

I know there’s a massive target on my back. That’s the cost of running my business the way I do. But the truth? I don’t give a fuck.

My father, Giovanni Moretti, was a man of law. He ran his business cleanly, legally, by the book. He had principles, good ones, and people respected him for that. Hell, I respected him for that, too.

But principles didn’t save him.

After his death, I met Andres Rivera, and everything changed. Andres wasn’t just a tech genius, he was the genius, a hacker who could dismantle the digital world with a keystroke. We became unstoppable.

With Andres by my side, I built something my father could never have dreamed of. I started collecting files, dirty, depraved, incriminating files, on every powerful man I encountered. Politicians, CEOs, judges, mob bosses. Their secrets became my leverage, and their weaknesses became my weapons.

And unlike my father, I don’t give a shit about respect.

I don’t need their respect.

What I need is control.

I wasn’t expecting my future psychologist to look like that.

She looked far too young to be here, early 20s at best, with tanned legs and full lips that had me wondering how they’d taste. Her hair was long, soft-looking, the kind that would fit perfectly in my hand as I pushed her pretty little mouth to take all of me.

The thought stirred something in me, a distraction I didn’t need but couldn’t ignore.