Page 11 of His Nephew's Ex
His eyes rake over me slowly, not sexually but appraisingly, like he’s cataloging every detail. “That depends on what you’re offering.”
“The only thing I have to offer you is information about my misery with Flavio.”
“What information?”
“My problem with him started with vandalism, moved to stalking, and now he’s taking pictures through my bedroom window.” I pull out my phone and show him the latest photo, watching his expression darken as he takes in the implications.
“He’s coming into your house uninvited?”
“Yes.”
The glass in his hand cracks under the sudden pressure of his grip, whiskey leaking through his fingers onto the bar. The violence of his reaction should scare me, but instead, it fills me with savage satisfaction. Finally, someone who understands exactly how violated I feel.
“Go home, Loriana Parlato,” he says, his voice carrying an edge that makes everyone within earshot suddenly find their drinks very interesting. “Pack a bag. Stay with friends, family, anywhere but your apartment.”
“I’m not running away. That’s why I’m here—”
“You’re here because you’re brave and stupid in equal measure.” He stands abruptly, pulling a money clip from his pocket and throwing bills onto the bar. “But this conversation is over. Go and do as I say.”
“Wait.” I grab his arm before he can walk away, feeling the corded muscle tense under my fingers. “You still haven’t answered my question. Will you help me get a meeting with Simeone?”
He stares down at my hand on his arm, then slowly lifts his gaze to meet mine. There’s something dangerous in his eyes now.
“Tomorrow,” he says quietly. “We’ll send a car for you.”
“Who are you?” I whisper.
His smile returns, sharp and predatory. “Monacelli. Tiziano Monacelli.”
I pull my hand away. “I heard about you. The Silver Devil’s right-hand man. That’s you.”
“Among other things.” He tilts his hand to the side, studying me. “Are you sure you want to do this? There’s still time to back out.”
“I’m out of options.”
“No.” His eyes narrow ever so slightly, never leaving mine. “You always have options. You could run. You could hide. You could wait for Flavio to get bored and move on to easier prey.”
“That’s not who I am.”
“No,” he agrees, the corners of his mouth lifting. “It’s not. You’re the kind of woman who walks into the Viper’s Den and demands an audience with the devil himself.”
“So what happens now?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Now,” he says, nodding toward the door “you go home. And since you’re stupid enough to refuse to pack that bag, I suggest you stay awake and wait.”
“For what?”
“For your audience with the boss.”
I stare at him for a long moment, trying to read the subtext in his words, the promise and unspoken threat tangled together like barbed wire. Then I nod, grabbing my purse from the bar.
“At least this will soon be over,” I mutter.
“No,” he disagrees. “It’s just beginning.”
I walk away on unsteady legs, feeling his eyes track my movement across the room. Every step feels like walking through quicksand. At the door, I turn back once. He’s still watching me with that unreadable expression of his.
The bouncer nods as I pass, a gesture of respect that wasn’t there when I arrived. Word travels fast in places like this.
