Page 5 of His Nephew's Ex
“Flavio, please. Let’s just go. This isn’t worth it.”
He looks from her to me, and I can see him calculating whether I’m serious about the bat. Smart money says yes, and apparently, he reaches the same conclusion.
“This isn’t over, Loriana,” he says as he backs toward the door. “You don’t get to embarrass me like this and walk away clean.”
“Is that another threat?”
“It’s a promise.”
They gather their clothes in humiliated silence while I stand guard with my bat, watching every move. When Flavio tries to stop in front of me, I raise the Louisville Slugger to shoulder height.
“Move along, birthday boy. Party’s over.”
He glares at me, and in that moment, I see something that chills me to the bone. Not anger—I could handle anger. This is something colder, more sinister. Something that whispers of the cold killer blood that runs within his veins.
Finally, they leave my apartment, the door slamming behind them with enough force to rattle the windows. I slide the chain lock into place and lean back against the door, the bat still clutched in my hands.
The apartment falls silent except for the sound of champagne still fizzing on the hardwood floor. The smell of Dom Pérignonand shattered dreams fills my nose, mixing with the lingering scent of sex and betrayal.
I slide down the door until I’m sitting on the floor, catching sight of my black dress pooling on the floor like spilled ink. The red lace peeking out from beneath it is a reminder of the gift I’d planned to give tonight, now as worthless as everything else I’d believed about my life.
Six months. Six months of careful dating, of building what I thought was something real, of believing that maybe, just maybe, I’d found someone who understood that trust was earned, not demanded.
The tears come then, scalding tracks down my cheeks that taste of fury and humiliation. I cry for the innocence I almost threw away on a man who saw it as an inconvenience. I cry for six years of friendship incinerated in one night of betrayal. I cry for being foolish enough to believe that bad boys can genuinely fall in love, that monsters can learn to love instead of devour.
But mostly, I cry because I’m alone again. Completely, utterly alone in a world that keeps teaching me the same brutal lesson: the only person you can trust is yourself.
The sound of my phone buzzing interrupts my misery. A text message, probably from Flavio, already trying to manipulate me into forgiveness, or Astrid with some pathetic excuse for her betrayal.
I was right, the text is from Flavio.
This isn’t over,Bambina.You and I aren’t done. I’ll see you when you cool down.
I’m done with men like Flavio. Pretending that his twisted sense of logic, charm, or his family’s influence makes him worth wasting another moment of my life on is deceiving myself. No, I’m done letting dangerous men shape my world and manipulate my choices.
And while I can’t erase tonight, I can sure as hell make sure it never happens again.
3
Loriana
The brick crashes through my front window at exactly 9:47 PM on a Friday night, sending glass cascading over my best booth like deadly confetti. The sound cuts through the rock music and conversation, turning forty-three paying customers into wide-eyed witnesses of what my life has become since I told Flavio Codella to go to hell.
“Everyone, stay calm!” I shout over the sudden chaos, my voice carrying the authority I’ve spent three years building in this neighborhood. But even as I say it, I watch Mrs. Foley grab her purse and make for the exit, followed by the young couple who were celebrating their anniversary in the corner booth.
Through the jagged hole where my window used to be, I catch a glimpse of Flavio’s Maserati speeding away, its engine roaring like a battle cry. This is the third incident this week—broken windows, slashed tires, and yesterday, dead roses scattered across my doorstep with a note that simply said“Soon.”
“That’s it.” Clay appears at my elbow, his weathered face twisted with fury. “I’m calling Detective Ory again.”
“Don’t.” I’m already moving toward the supply closet for the broom and dustpan. “You know what he’ll say. No witnesses, no proof it was Flavio, just circumstantial evidence and a restraining order that’s about as useful as tits on a bull.”
“Language, boss,” Mia calls from behind the bar, but there’s no real reproach in her voice. At twenty-two, she’s tougher than most men twice her age, which is why I hired her. That, and she can handle the college crowd without breaking a sweat.
“Sorry, Mia, but I’m fresh out of polite tonight.” I start sweeping glass, each clink against the dustpan marking another dollar lost, another customer who might not come back. “Sofia, how many people left?”
My other waitress does a quick count of the room. “Twelve. The Browns, the anniversary couple, the group of lawyers from downtown...”
Twelve customers. On a Friday night. That’s nearly three hundred dollars in lost revenue, not counting the windowreplacement or the fact that half of those people will probably never set foot in Crimson again.
