Page 23 of His Nephew's Ex
“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” I say, but the words ring hollow even to my own ears.
“Is it those texts you keep getting? The ones that make you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”
My poker face crumbles completely. “How did you—”
“Because I pay attention.” He moves closer, lowering his voice even though we’re alone in the bar. “And because there’s been men watching this place. Different ones every day, but they’re there. Professional types who think they’re being subtle but stick out like sore thumbs in this neighborhood.”
Professional surveillance. The kind that comes with expensive suits and earpieces and orders from very powerful men. Either Simeone is having me watched for protection, or someone else is watching me for entirely different reasons.
“What kind of men?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want the answer.
“The kind who know how to hurt people without leaving evidence.” Clay’s expression darkens. “Loriana, whatever you’ve gotten yourself mixed up in, it’s bigger than harassment from a spoiled boyfriend. This is serious shit.”
You have no idea how serious,I think, but don’t say.
How can I explain that I’ve traded one nightmare for another? That in seeking protection from Flavio’s stalking, I might have painted a target on my back for his uncle’s enemies?
Or worse—what if Simeone lied to me? What if he never actually dealt with Flavio at all, and this is just the next stage of my ex’s escalating campaign of terror?
The thought makes my stomach churn with nausea and betrayal. I gave myself to Simeone completely, trusted him with my body and my safety, believed him when he promised that Flavio wouldn’t be a problem anymore. If he lied about that, what else did he lie about? I know he’s dangerous, but is he just as unhinged as his nephew?
“I need to go somewhere,” I hear myself saying. “Can you handle the lunch rush alone?”
Clay nods without hesitation. “Where are you going?”
“To get some answers.”
Every stoplight, every curve on the way to Simeone’s estate feels like torture. My hands are slick on the wheel, dread building with each mile marker. The anonymous texts have escalated from generic threats to disturbingly specific details—my morning routine, the jasmine perfume I wear, the fact that I live alone above the bar. Someone is watching me closely enough to know intimate details about my life, and I need to know if that someone is the man I trusted with my virginity or the psychopath I thought he’d handled.
The iron gates of his property loom before me like the entrance to another world—one where normal rules don’t apply and violence is just another business expense. I give my name to the intercom, half-expecting to be turned away, but the gates swing open immediately.
He’s expecting me,I realize with a chill.He’s been expecting me.
The mansion sprawls before me in all its intimidating glory, beautiful and dangerous in equal measure. Like its owner. I park my ancient Honda between two luxury vehicles that cost more than my bar earns in five years, feeling distinctly out of place in this world of marble and money.
Tiziano appears before I can even knock, his winter-pale eyes unreadable as he ushers me through hallways lined with priceless art and fresh flowers.
“He’s in his office,” Tiziano says, opening familiar double doors. “He’s waiting for you.”
The implication hangs heavy in the air. Simeone knew I would come. Knew I would eventually need answers badly enough to venture back into his domain, despite the way our last encounter ended with his possessive threats and my defiance.
He’s standing with his back to the door when I enter, silver hair catching the afternoon light as he stares out the floor-to-ceiling windows at his perfectly manicured grounds. Even in profile, he’s devastating—all controlled power and dangerous grace wrapped in an expensive suit that’s been tailored to perfection.
“Stellina.” He turns as the door closes behind me, and the impact of his full attention hits me like a physical blow. Those obsidian eyes rake over me with possessive hunger that makes my skin flush with unwanted heat. “I wondered how long it would take you to come to me.”
“Don’t.” The word comes out sharper than I intended. “Don’t call me that, and don’t look at me like you own me.”
His smile is pure predator—sharp, knowing, absolutely devastating. “But I do own you, don’t I? Every time you close your eyes, you remember exactly how it felt to have my hands on your body, my name on your lips. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Heat floods my cheeks because he’s absolutely right, and we both know it. I’ve spent every night since our encounter reliving every touch, every whispered endearment, every moment of pleasure he wrung from my inexperienced body with the skill of a master musician.
“That’s not why I’m here,” I manage, though my voice lacks conviction.
“No?” He moves closer with that fluid grace of a lion on the hunt. “Then why are you here,stellina? What’s driven you back to my door despite all your protests about wanting nothing to do with dangerous men?”
I pull out my phone and show him the latest text, watching his expression darken as he reads the threatening words. “This. The messages never fully stopped, and they’re getting worse. More specific. More personal.”
He takes the phone from my trembling hands, his fingers brushing mine in a contact that sends electricity shooting up my arm despite the gravity of the situation. As he scrolls through the messages, I watch his face transform from casual interest to cold fury that makes the temperature in the room drop several degrees.
