Page 29 of His Nephew's Ex
The door closes behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with the echoes of his words and the sudden, terribleunderstanding that I may have been raising a monster all these years.
I reach for the phone, dialing Tiziano’s number with hands that shake with rage and something that might be fear.
“Put surveillance on Flavio,” I say when he answers. “Twenty-four hours. And double the security around Loriana.”
“Boss? What happened?”
I stare at the door through which my nephew just walked, seeing not the boy I raised but the monster I may have created. “I think I’ve been blind to who he really is. And if I’m right, Loriana is in more danger now than she’s ever been.”
I just realized that I have raised a soulless monster.
10
Loriana
The brick crashes through my bedroom window in the middle of the night, exploding glass across my floor like deadly confetti. I bolt upright in bed, my heart slamming against my ribs as shards cascade onto my nightstand, my dresser, the spot where I was sleeping just moments before.
The window exploded inward, but that’s not what stops my breath. It’s the figure perched motionless on the fire escape—a void in human shape, watching me through the fresh wound in my wall. Neither of us moves. Neither of us breathes. The night holds its breath with us.
Then he’s gone, footsteps clanging down the metal stairs.
Glass transforms my bedroom floor into a minefield as I stumble toward the broken window. My feet leave wet, dark prints with every step, but the pain feels distant, unimportant. The fire escape stands abandoned now, as if no one was ever there at all. As if I imagined the whole thing.
Black electrical tape binds a folded sheet of paper to the brick, like a tourniquet. My fingers tremble against the adhesive, peeling it away with the certainty that I won’t like whatever lies beneath.
I’ll own you when I am ready.
Flavio. It has to be Flavio, despite what Simeone promised about handling him. The masked figure was about his build, his height.
This threat doesn’t scream or demand or throw itself against locked doors. It whispers. It waits. It plans three moves ahead while you’re still trying to understand the game. The spoiled rich boy has grown into something far more terrifying—a patient hunter with unlimited resources and nothing but time.
I grab my phone with trembling fingers, scrolling through my contacts. Detective Ory’s number stares back at me, but what’s the point? Another report, another useless promise to “look into it” while the threats escalate and my safety disintegrates.
My thumb hovers over Simeone’s number, the private line he gave me with instructions to call day or night. Part of me rebels against the idea of running to him for help, of proving his pointthat I need his protection to survive in a world that’s become increasingly hostile.
The other part of me, the part that’s standing in a room full of broken glass at two in the morning, knows I don’t have a choice anymore.
Before I can dial, heavy footsteps echo in the hallway outside my apartment. My blood turns to ice water. Did the masked man circle back? Did breaking my window give him access to the building’s interior?
There are three sharp knocks on my door, authoritative and demanding. “Loriana. Open up.”
Simeone’s voice, rough with concern and something darker. Relief floods through me so intensely that my knees nearly buckle, followed immediately by confusion. How is he here so fast? How did he even know what happened?
I wrap a robe around my nightgown and pad to the door on glass-cut feet, leaving small bloody footprints on the hardwood. Through the peephole, I see him standing in my hallway like an avenging angel, his silver hair disheveled, expensive suit wrinkled, dark eyes blazing with fury that makes the air around him practically vibrate with menace.
“How did you—” I start as I unlock the door.
“Later.” He pushes past me into the apartment, his gaze immediately cataloging the damage. When he sees the blood onmy feet, the glass scattered across my bedroom floor, something primal and violent flickers across his features. “Are you hurt?”
“Just some cuts from the glass. Nothing serious.” I close the door behind him, suddenly aware of how thin my robe is, how exposed I am in front of this man who’s seen me naked and vulnerable and desperate for his touch. “Simeone, how did you know to come here?”
He turns to face me fully, and I see the truth written across his expression before he speaks. “I’ve had men watching you. For your protection.”
“You’ve had me watched?” The words come out sharper than intended, fury blazing through the fear. “For how long?”
“Since the night you left my estate.” His voice is matter-of-fact, unapologetic. “Since I realized that claiming you made you a target for anyone who wants to hurt me.”
“You’ve beenstalkingme.” I wrap my arms around myself, feeling violated all over again. First the masked figure on my fire escape, now this revelation that Simeone’s men have monitored my every move. “For four days, you’ve had people watching me, following me—”
