Page 1 of Savage Prince

CHAPTER 1

A HOT STRANGER

Serena

I will not cry. I will not cry.

Blinking quickly, I force back the tears as I jab my finger into the elevator button but keep my gaze pinned on my cousin and best friend, Bella, who still stands in the doorway of the penthouse watching me leave. Her new boyfriend tucks her into his side as she brushes away a tear that’s spilled over. Her bottom lip trembles when I step into the elevator with one last wave, and Raf presses a sweet kiss to her forehead.

So what if we’ll be living an entire ocean away from each other with my new job in Milano? And who cares if she’s met the man of her dreams? We’re blood. And have been best friends for two decades. Nothing will ever change that.

I exhale a sigh of relief once the doors glide closed, convincing myself I’m overreacting as I lean against the sleek metal wall. When your father is Dante Valentino, the enforcer and brother to thecapoof the ruthless Kings, the most notorious crime syndicate in all of Manhattan, there’s nothing moreimportant than blood and loyalty. As a result, I don’t have many female friends, but with Bella I never needed one.

The past few months in Milano have been tough without her and our cousin crew, the Valentinos and Rossi’s. But I love it there, and I’m finally thriving.

My phone vibrates, and I draw in a breath as I fish it out of my purse, brushing the Glock 42 I take everywhere.

New message from Italian_Stallion69.

He was the guy I’d swiped right on before leaving my cousin’s welcome home party earlier this evening. Black hoodie with sunglasses, face covered in shadows, there was just something dark and mysterious about him. I have to stop it with these dating apps. My finger hovers over theViewbutton for an endless minute. I should just go home and get some rest, right? Or I could drown all my anxieties and fears with a hot stranger and just forget for one night…

Fuck it.

I press the button and the message pops up.

Italian_Stallion69: Meet me for a drink?

This guy doesn’t waste any time. I like that.

Me: Where?

Italian_Stallion69: You pick. I’m not from here.

Oh, a tourist. Even better. Then there’s no chance we’ll awkwardly meet up a few months from now. And luckily, there’s the perfect bar down the block from here.

The elevator doors slide open, and I cross through the elegant lobby of my uncle’s modern building before I find my driver parked out front. One of the perks of being a mafia princess, no need to hail cabs in the typical congestion of New York City. He opens the door, but I wave him off. “I’m not going home yet, Nicky. The night is still young and hot, like me.” I toss him a wink. “I’ll text you when I’m ready.”

“Yes, Miss Valentino.” He dips his head and slides back into the front seat of the Audi SUV. “Take your time.”

I don’t know what I’d do ifPapàwere as controlling as Uncle Luca who forces an entire security team on Bella. I would lose my shit to have someone following me every second of the day. The Valentinos and my dad’s half-brothers, the Rossi’s, may have found peace, but that doesn’t mean every other criminal association in New York City doesn’t want our parents dead.

As the daughters of the notorious Valentino brothers, and heiresses to the King’s throne, Bella and I, along with our cousins, have grown up surrounded by guards, trapped in gilded cages of our fathers’ makings.

Or at least that’s what they tried to do…

When I turned eighteen, six years ago now, I satPapàdown and told him I’d had enough. Luckily, my mom is awesome, and she had my back. After a lot of yelling, crying and cursing, we’d come to an understanding, and I’d been allowed to move into my own apartment with a minimal security team attached. I attended the Fashion Institute in Manhattan, graduated and got a job, and what do you know? I’ve survived just fine.

Now after a summer in Milano working for Dolce & Gabbana, I’ve been offered a full-time position. It’s more than I ever could have wanted. The only downside is being so far away from Bella and our cousin crew.

With a quick wave goodbye to Nicky, I continue down Fifth Avenue toward the Pierre Hotel. It’s sophisticated and luxurious, the perfect spot to wow a tourist, plus if things don’t work out with the Italian Stallion, I won’t have to worry about getting harassed by dirtbags.

Not that that’s ever a major issue with Dolce around. My fingers tighten around my new Prada purse, home to my beloved weapon I affectionately named after my favorite designer. Pa insisted I learned my way around a gun at the ripe old age oftwelve. The shooting range quickly became my favorite place to go with him, and now my aim is as sharp as my tongue. Target practice was our bonding time, a safe place for both of us to get out some aggression.

Some members of our family think I have a wild streak just like him. They’re not wrong, but they keep it to themselves unless they want their head bitten off byPapà. I’m still his only child and little princess.

The grand façade of the elegant Pierre Hotel is just ahead, and I pick up the pace, an odd stillness across Fifth Avenue. Most of the stores are closed at this hour, the sidewalks barren. A limo pulls up alongside me, likely going to The Pierre or the St. Regis nearby. It slows, and the hair on the back of my neck rises.

After years raised in a family like ours, I’ve developed a sixth sense, an innate awareness for self-preservation. I slow my footsteps, internally grumbling at my choice of stilettos. Fabulous but not ideal for running.

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