Page 2 of Savage Prince

The black stretch limousine stops just a few yards in front of me, and the back door whips open. The distinctive gilded canopy of The Pierre next block is so close it’s taunting. I almost make a run for it, but he’s too damned fast. A man in all black leaps out of the car, reaching for me. I try to jerk back, but I stumble on my damned high heels, and my heart catapults up my throat as an arm curls around me. I wiggle and squirm and kick, but the steel band around my torso only tightens, squeezing the air from my lungs.

“Let go of me!” I scream as I try to slide my purse from under my arm into my hand. Either my phone or Dolce would do right now. The asshole wrenches my clutch from my fingertips, and I hiss out a curse as it clatters to the sidewalk.

“Let me go!” I shout again.

He tosses me into the backseat of the limo before I can shriek out a second string of expletives. Icy fear streaks up my spineas my face hits the soft leather. I search the dimly lit back seat, heart kicking against my ribs. Another man sits on the far seat wearing a black hoodie, smoldering velvety eyes locked on me.

Shit. Tinder guy, really?

He’s completely still, jaw locked in a hard line.

“Do you have any idea who I am?” I shout as the guy who just nabbed me dives into the car and shoves me down. “When my father finds out I’m gone he will paint the city in your blood,” I hiss.

The man in the back slides to the edge of the seat and pushes back the dark hood. The overhead light reveals the harsh contours of his savagely handsome face. “Do you have any idea whoIam,tesoro?”

My stomach drops, a tight knot twisting my insides. “Fuck,” I grit out.

Antonio Ferrara.

CHAPTER 2

FASHIONISTA

Serena - One Month Earlier

Hopping off the tram atThe Duomo, I throw the driver a wink and race across the street to thepiazza. The towering spires of the grand gothic cathedral spiral up to the cloudless sky, overlooking a crowded square filled with pesky tourists and peskier pigeons. The damned rats with wings followed me all the way from Manhattan. Ignoring the flying pests and countless tourists snapping photos in front of the white church’s jagged spiked peaks, my footsteps quicken. It’s a perfect summer evening, which meansaperitivo, or the typical Milanese happy hour at my favorite rooftop bar with sprawling views of the historic site.

Strutting through Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, one of the world’s oldest shopping malls, I pause beneath the glass-vaulted dome to peek through the window of Prada. I’ve had my eye on a cross-shoulder bag that would be perfect for running around the city for weeks now. Once I get my next paycheck, it’s mine. After living in Milano for two months now, I’ve managed to save up alittle bit of money to fund my extravagant lifestyle. Between epic nights out and my measly internship salary, it’s been a struggle, but I prefer it a hundred times over dipping into my trust fund.

At twenty-two,Papàhanded over my share of the Valentino family fortune and it’s a shit ton of money. There are definite perks to the only child thing, but all that money also comes with strings. Which was why I leapt at the chance to get a job in fashion and make my own mark without having to rely on Daddy’s fortune.

“I see you eye-fucking that Prada, girl. What are you waiting for, just make your move.” Santi strolls up, looking fabulous as always in frayed D&G jeans and a tight leopard-print button down. He bends down to offer me the traditional Italian double-cheeked kiss before joining me beside the window. Santiago and I met the first day I started at Dolce & Gabbana and have been inseparable ever since. We’re the most promising fashion design interns according to Bianca, our boss.

“Just a couple more weeks and I’ll be strutting around Via Montenapoleone rubbing shoulders with all the fashionistas with that bad girl.”

“Aren’t you filthy rich, Serena? Why the unnecessary restraint?” His dark brow arches, amber flecks illuminating his warm hazel eyes.

“I’m not filthy rich, my family is. And I’m trying to prove to my dad that I can get along just fine without him or his money.”

“What a waste.” He smirks before swinging his arm around my shoulder. “If I came from the kind of money that you do, I would be living it up here.”

“I think we’re doing just fine, don’t you? I didn’t see you complaining the other night when I got us into Armani Privé with a private table.” The elegant club is a staple in Milano, designed by the iconic Giorgio Armani himself. Luckily, I madefriends with the bouncer my first week here and have been enjoying free admission ever since.

“Your fuck buddy bouncer got us into the club.”

“Semantics.” I shrug as I lead us across the intricate tile mosaics of the galleria. Dmitri has proven invaluable over the past two months, and he’s a decent lay, so it’s a win-win really.

Tucked between Savini Café and Prada is a secret staircase that leads to a quaint rooftop bar. Only the locals know of its existence, and it’s become one of my favorite summer happy hour spots.

Once we reach the fourth floor, Santi opens the graffitied door which leads to the open-airterrazzo. Shimmering lights are hung across graceful arcs, setting the spires of the grand Duomo alight in an ethereal glow. I draw in a breath as I take it all in. Even though I come here at least once a week, it’s still a breathtaking sight.

The cute hostess greets us with a smile before motioning for us to seat ourselves. There are only about a dozen tables across the rooftop and more than half are already full. I weave my way to the edge of theterrazzowhich overlooks thepiazzabelow and flop onto the wrought iron chair.

“Damn, do I need a drink.”

“Same, girl. The usual?” He tosses his head of light brown curls back, tucking a few wayward locks behind his aviators.

“Of course. I was drinking Aperol Spritz long before it became a thing.”

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