Page 37 of His Nephew's Ex
His cruelty ignites something savage in me—I want to tear that smirk apart with my fingernails, make him bleed. But then I catch it: something raw and broken flickering behind his eyes, deeper than bruised ego or wounded lust.
“Even if that’s true,” I say quietly, “it doesn’t give you the right to terrorize me. It doesn’t justify what you’ve done.”
“Doesn’t it?” The tilt of his head is almost casual, but his eyes burn. “You’re a problem, Loriana. A threat to everything the Codella name represents. Care to guess how I handle problems?”
The threat hangs between us like smoke, subtle but unmistakable. I should be afraid—any sane person would be afraid. Instead, I feel something else entirely: rage so pure it burns away every other emotion.
“Are you threatening me in your uncle’s house?” I ask conversationally. “Because that seems spectacularly stupid, even for you.”
“I’m stating facts.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Simeone may think he owns you now, but blood is thicker than pussy. When he gets bored with playing house—and he will—where do you think that leaves you?”
“Probably right where I’ve always been. Taking care of myself.”
“Will you?” He leans closer, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper. “Because I’ll be waiting,bambina. And when he throws you away like he does all his toys, I’ll be there to pick up the pieces.”
“You’ll be waiting a long time.”
“We’ll see.” His fingers reach toward my face, and I jerk back instinctively. “You look good in silk, by the way. Much better than those cheap dresses you used to wear to impress me.”
“I never dressed to impress you.”
“Didn’t you?” His laugh is sharp, mocking. “Six months of careful outfits, of making sure your hair was perfect whenever we had plans. Six months of playing the perfect girlfriend while you counted down the days until you could give me your precious gift.”
Heat floods my cheeks because there’s truth in what he’s saying, even if it’s twisted by his own narcissism. I had tried to look good for him, had believed we were building something real together.
“That was before I knew what a waste of time you were.”
“And now? Now you know what a real man feels like?” His voice turns ugly. “Tell me, does he make you scream his name the way I never could? Does he fuck you like the whore you always wanted to be?”
The insult snaps whatever control I had left. My hand moves before I can think, connecting with his cheek in a slap that echoes through the marble foyer like a gunshot.
Flavio’s head snaps to the side, and when he turns back, there’s something genuinely dangerous in his eyes—something that makes me take an instinctive step backward.
“You bitch,” he breathes, his hand moving to his reddened cheek. “You fucking bitch. Do you know what I could do to you? What I should do to you for that?”
“Try it,” I snarl, past caring about consequences or safety or anything but the rage burning in my chest. “Put your hands on me and see what happens.”
“You think he’ll protect you forever?” Flavio’s voice rises, echoing off the walls. “You think this little fantasy will last? He’s using you, Loriana. Just like I was. The only difference is his methods are more sophisticated.”
“At least he’s sophisticated enough not to get caught fucking someone else in my bed.”
“Because he’s fucking half the city instead.” The cruelty in his voice makes me want to hit him again. “Did you think you were special? Did you think the Silver Devil would give up his reputation for some nobody bartender from the wrong side of town?”
“Better a nobody than a pathetic wannabe who needs daddy’s money to feel important.”
“Daddy?” Flavio laughs, the sound sharp and bitter. “You mean the father your precious Simeone got killed? The man whose blood is on the hands that touch you.”
“Enough.”
One word cuts our argument dead, sharp enough to draw blood. We both snap to attention, turning toward Simeone on the staircase—a figure of elegant menace with silver fire for hair and eyes that could burn down the world.
Behind him, Tiziano emerges from the shadows with his hand resting casually on what I’m sure is a concealed weapon. The temperature in the room drops, and suddenly I remember exactly where I am and what kind of men I’m standing between.
“Zio,” Flavio starts, but Simeone’s raised hand silences him instantly.
“Get out.” The command is quiet, conversational, more terrifying than if he’d shouted.
“I need to talk to you—”
