Page 31 of His Nephew's Ex
“Then why—”
“Because the alternative is losing you completely.” His forehead rests against mine, and I can feel his breath ghosting across my lips. “Because I’d rather have you safe and furious with me than free and dead.”
“How long?” I ask quietly. “How long would I have to stay?”
“Until the threat is eliminated. Until I’m certain you’re safe.” His dark eyes search mine, looking for agreement or rebellion in equal measure. “Until you decide you want to leave.”
“And if I decide I want to leave?”
“Then I’ll let you go.” But something in his expression suggests that outcome isn’t one he’s prepared to accept easily.
I hunt for manipulation in the lines of his face and find only exhaustion. The kind that comes from making impossible choices. He hates this as much as I do—the necessity of it, the way danger has forced our hands. We’re both victims of circumstances that laugh at what we want.
“What about my bar? My life, my routine—”
“Clay can manage the Crimson with additional security. Your life continues, just from a different location.” He straightens, putting minimal distance between us while keeping me trapped against the counter. “It’s not permanent, Loriana. It’s practical.”
Practical. Like discussing the weather or choosing which restaurant to visit for dinner. Not like upending my entire existence to move into a mafia don’s mansion because faceless enemies are using me to hurt him.
“I need to pack,” I hear myself saying, though I’m not sure when I made the decision.
Relief floods his features so intensely that I wonder if he was more worried about my refusal than he let on. “We leave in twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes?” I stare at him incredulously. “I need more time than that to pack up my life.”
“You need less time than that to stay alive.” His voice hardens, all business now that I’ve agreed. “Pack essentials. Everything else can be retrieved later under proper security.”
“This is insane,” I mutter, but I’m already moving toward my bedroom to gather clothes. “A few weeks ago, I was a simple bar owner with simple problems. Now I’m fleeing my apartment in the middle of the night because mafia wars are being fought over my head.”
“A few weeks ago, you were a simple bar owner who caught the attention of a very complicated man.” He follows me, watching as I throw clothes into a suitcase with shaking hands. “Now you’re under his protection, for better or worse.”
The words hang between us like wedding vows, binding us together in ways that have nothing to do with love and everything to do with survival.
I grab essentials—clothes, toiletries, the few pieces of jewelry that belonged to my mother. Each item I pack feels like another step away from the life I built for myself and toward something I don’t understand but can’t escape.
“The bar will be okay?” I ask as I zip up the suitcase. “Clay and the girls—”
“Will be protected.” His promise is absolute. “Anyone who threatens what’s yours threatens what’s mine.”
The territorial edge to his words should set my teeth on edge, yet it doesn’t. Instead, there’s something almost soothing about his absolute conviction, the way he speaks of my world as if it’s already under his protection. Safety guaranteed, even if the price is distance.
“Ready?” he asks as I shoulder my overnight bag.
I look around my apartment—at the broken glass still scattered across my bedroom floor, the bloody footprints I left on the hardwood, the jagged hole where my window used to provide light and fresh air. This was my sanctuary, my refuge from the world, and now it feels more like a crime scene.
“No,” I answer honestly. “But let’s go anyway.”
His nod carries the weight of resignation—we move now or we don’t move at all. The phone buzzes against the silence like an unwelcome reminder that the outside world won’t wait for us to be ready.
“Si,” he answers curtly, switching to Italian as we step into the hallway. The rapid-fire conversation is too fast for me to follow, but I learned enough Italian during my time with Flavio that I catch enough words to understand it’s about security,about threats, about the hunt for whoever violated my sanctuary tonight.
When he hangs up, his expression is grim.
“What is it?” I ask as we descend the stairs toward the street.
“They found the point of entry. The fire escape access was forced—professional tools, minimal damage, someone who knew exactly what they were doing.”
A chill runs down my spine. “Professional.”
