Page 13 of Lost Prince

I drop the gun, my hands shaking uncontrollably. I glance at Elio and Matteo. Elio looks concerned, but Matteo is watching me with awe and respect.

"That's the Lazaro we know," Matteo says, clapping me on the back.

I flinch away from his touch, unable to bear the pride in his voice.

“I’ve got to go.” I stumble out of the office, needing to escape the suffocating atmosphere.

“Lazaro,” Elio calls after me.

I ignore him, continuing toward the exit of the warehouse, feeling the weight of dozens of terrified gazes. The employees give me a wide berth.

"Lazaro,” Elio calls again.

I keep moving toward the exit. I can't be here anymore. I can't be this person they want me to be. When I get outside, I suck in a deep breath, willing fresh air to purge the anger and violence pumping through my blood.

Then I start walking with no destination in mind. I walk aimlessly through the streets. I don’t know how long I’m at it when I turn a corner to find an auto mechanic shop. Without thinking, I walk in. The smells of oil and grease hit me, and along with them, the need to work, knowing that cars bring me peace.

“You’re not allowed—” The older man approaching me stops short, his eyes widening in recognition and fear. "M–Mr. D'Amato. Can I… can I help you with something?"

His reaction stings, reminding me of the blood still on my hands.

“I want to work on a car.”

His eyes narrow. “Whose?”

It takes me a moment, but I suspect he thinks I want to sabotage a car. “Any car. Doesn’t matter.” I point toward a dark sedan up on a lift. “How about that one?”

The man is wary about letting me near his cars, but also afraid to send me away. "We have protocols, insurance…"

“I know cars. If I fuck it up, I’ll pay to buy the owner a new car.”

“It needs brakes and rotors,” the man says.

I nod and make my way to the car. Here, I can be me.

5

DIANA

Icarry a tray with napkins and utensils to the dining room to help Maria set the table for dinner. Raised voices filter through the walls, muffled yet urgent. The tension in the D'Amato household, always simmering beneath the surface, has reached a boiling point.

I inch closer to the door, straining to catch snippets of conversation. Elio's deep baritone mingles with Matteo's smoother tones and Lana's sharp retorts.

"I told you not to push him," Lana hisses. "He's not ready."

"How was I supposed to know the bastard would pull a gun?" Elio fires back.

My heart leaps into my throat. A gun? What happened?

As they continue, the story unfolds. The warehouse. The confrontation. Lazaro losing control, beating a man to a bloody pulp. I feel the blood drain from my face, my mind struggling to reconcile the brooding, lost soul I've come to know with this violent outburst.

But what chills me most is the realization that Lazaro has vanished. No one knows where he's gone or what state of mind he's in.

“You shouldn’t eavesdrop,” Maria comments.

“It’s hard not to hear.”

“You’ll learn to not hear if you’re smart.”