I’m sorry, Princess (Chains of Desire #1)

Chapter One

Lorenzo

“FBI! OPEN THE DOOR!”

Their screams echo through my house like a bad joke.

I lean back in my leather chair, my legs crossed on top of the desk, cigar lit between my fingers.

Thick smoke coils in the air, mixing with the scent of old scotch, the kind only men like me can afford.

I take a slow drag, my lips curving into a smirk while my eyes flick to the CCTV monitor on the wall.

Ten armed FBI agents stand outside my house like clowns at a circus, struggling with my front gate like it’s the fucking Trojan War.

Pathetic.

I could’ve programmed the locks to open with a fingerprint, but where’s the fun in that?

“Sir, there are some armed people banging on the door.”

Bianca’s voice slices through the air, calm but clearly annoyed. She’s probably pissed they’re interrupting her cooking.

“I know,” I reply, my tone deadpan. “Don’t worry about it.”

She sighs like this is an inconvenience, like I’ve let the mailman in with muddy boots. Then she walks off, probably back to the kitchen to finish making her fucking lasagna. Bianca’s been with me for years. She’s seen worse.

My gaze shifts back to the cameras. For fuck’s sake, they’re still trying. One of them just slipped on the wet tiles. I bark out a low laugh, cigar smoke curling from my lips.

Fifteen minutes to breach a front door? These are the idiots sent to take me down?

Pancake and Milkshake, my Belgian Malinois, sit beside me, eyes glued to the screen. Their jaws twitch, their sharp ears perk. Pancake growls low under his breath. Milkshake licks his lips, eager for the command I won’t give.

“Stay.”

They sit back, muscles tight, eyes gleaming. Killers in disguise, named like a fucking joke. Imagine the last thing you hear being: “You got mauled by Pancake.” That’s the kind of irony I live for.

My phone buzzes. Andres.

“Are they there?” His voice is bored, like he’s asking if the coffee’s ready.

“Yeah,” I reply, eyes locked on the screen. “Let them in.”

I hang up before he says anything else.

The front doors finally give way with a crash. The sound echoes through the house. I take another sip of scotch, savoring the burn in my throat. I watch them storm in like they’re the fucking cavalry, bulletproof vests strapped on, eyes wide, adrenaline pumping.

Amateurs.

They don’t know I’m watching every step they take.

Bianca flashes me a disapproving glare from the hallway, hands on her hips, muttering in Italian under her breath. Probably about the mess they’ll leave. I give her a small smirk. She knows I’ll handle it.

They’re at my office door now.

“FBI! OPEN THE DOOR!”

I don’t move. I swirl the scotch in my glass, letting the ice clink softly.

Pancake and Milkshake are crouched beside me, drool spilling from their mouths, their bodies coiled like loaded weapons. They’re trained by the best—ex-Navy SEALs, men who know how to build monsters out of muscle and obedience. One word from me and these agents won’t walk out alive.

But not tonight.

Not yet.

They break the door down.

Ten guns pointed straight at my head.

I stay seated.

I finish my cigar. I don’t flinch. I don’t blink. I watch them like a lion watches sheep.

Then, from the crowd of badges and bullshit, one of them steps forward.

“I’m Detective Ian Archibald.”

He flashes me his badge like it’s supposed to mean something. Like that piece of plastic will save him.

I stare at him. Cold. Unbothered. I know who he is.

I know his father.

I know his weaknesses.

I know more about his life than he fucking does.

Pancake growls, a deep, guttural sound, his jaw tightening. Milkshake’s eyes flicker with hunger for a kill.

“Down,” I command softly, and they obey, but their eyes never leave Ian.

He’s trying to be brave, but his hands shake just a little. He pulls out the cuffs like he’s doing me a favor.

“Lorenzo Giovanni Moretti, you’re under arrest for blackmail, illegal arms possession, and suspected racketeering. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

He goes on, reading me my rights like he’s the hero of this story. Like I’m supposed to be scared.

I stand slowly, towering over him.

I lock my gaze on his, my lips curling into a smirk that sends a shiver down his spine.

I don’t do fear.

Not for him. Not for anyone.

He snaps the cuffs on my wrists, but let’s not kid ourselves. I’m here because I let myself be here. I could end this right now.

But I won’t.

Not yet.

A black van waits outside. How fucking dramatic.

As I walk past the agents, hands cuffed, my dogs flank Bianca, their eyes never leaving me.

She mutters something in Italian under her breath, probably cursing Andres for dragging me into this mess.

I get into the van, my wrists cold with steel, but my mind razor sharp.

I lean back in the seat, smirk curling at my lips.

Andres, you better be right about this plan, or I’ll put a bullet between your eyes myself.

The game just started.