Page 6 of His Nephew's Ex
The remaining patrons huddle in their seats like survivors of a bombing, nursing their drinks with shaking hands. I can practically see the Yelp reviews writing themselves:“Dangerous atmosphere. Glass everywhere. Will not return.”
“This can’t continue,” Sofia whispers as she helps me sweep. At nineteen, she’s newer to the job but sharp as a tack. “He’s going to drive us out of business.”
She’s right. In the two weeks since I threw Flavio and Astrid out of my apartment, he’s escalated from pathetic drunk texts to full-scale psychological warfare. It started small—showing up during my busiest hours just to sit at the bar and glare, nursing one drink for hours while scaring away other customers with his increasingly erratic energy.
But when I banned him from the premises, things got creative.
Monday: My delivery truck’s tires were slashed in the alley.
Tuesday: Someone spray-painted “WHORE” across my front door in blood-red letters that took me three hours to scrub off.
Wednesday: A group of his friends showed up during ladies’ night, drunk and belligerent, starting fights with my regulars until I had to call the police.
Thursday: Dead roses and that note.
The list goes on and on, and now this.
“Maybe we should close early tonight,” Clay suggests, eyeing the remaining customers who look ready to bolt at the first sign of more trouble. “Give everyone a chance to calm down.”
“Absolutely not.” I dump another dustpan full of glass into the trash, the sound like breaking bones. “I won’t let that spoiled piece of shit drive me out of my own bar.”
But even as I say it, I know I’m fighting a losing battle. Flavio doesn’t have to destroy my business—he just has to make it unprofitable. Every broken window costs me money I don’t have. Every scared customer is revenue that doesn’t come back. Every night I spend looking over my shoulder is a night I’m not focusing on what I built here.
The door chimes, and every head in the place snaps toward the entrance. My hand instinctively moves toward the baseball bat I keep behind the bar, but it’s just Detective Rob Ory, his rumpled suit and tired eyes marking him as one of the few cops who actually gives a damn about this neighborhood.
“Heard that you had another incident,” he says, taking in the broken window with professional resignation. “Same pattern as the others?”
“Brick through the window, speeding car, no witnesses.” I gesture helplessly at the damage. “Just like you said would happen when I filed that restraining order.”
Detective Ory sighs, pulling out his notebook even though we both know this is a pointless exercise. “Any of your customers see the vehicle?”
“Maserati,” Mrs. Cox pipes up from the corner booth where she’s been nursing her gin and tonic. “Dark blue or black, hard to tell under the streetlights. But it was definitely that Codella boy’s car—I’ve seen him around the neighborhood.”
Ory writes it down, but his expression tells me what I already know. “Mrs. Cox, would you be willing to make a formal statement?”
The elderly woman’s face goes pale. “Oh, I... well, I didn’t get a very good look, you understand. And my eyesight isn’t what it used to be...”
And just like that, my witness evaporates. Because everyone in this neighborhood knows exactly who Flavio Codella is, and more importantly, whose nephew he is. Simeone Codella’s reputation casts a shadow long enough to reach into my bar and turn potential witnesses into selective amnesiacs.
“Right.” Ory closes his notebook with a snap. “Miss Parlato, can I speak with you privately?”
We step toward the broken window, glass crunching under our feet. The night air rushes through the opening, carrying with it the sounds of the city and the promise of rain.
“You need to consider other options,” Ory says quietly, his voice pitched low enough that my staff can’t overhear. “This restraining order is just a piece of paper, and we both know it. Young Codella has money, connections, and apparently no intention of backing down.”
“What other options?” I cross my arms over my chest, partly for warmth and partly because I’m tired of everyone telling me how powerless I am. “Sell my bar? Leave town? Let some entitled fuckboy win because I had the audacity to break up with him?”
“Language,” Ory says mildly, but there’s sympathy in his eyes. “I’m not saying give up. I’m saying be smart. Maybe consider reaching out to—”
“No.” I cut him off before he could finish the thought. “I’m not calling his uncle. I’m not begging some mafia don to leash his nephew because the legal system can’t do its job.”
“Pride’s a luxury you might not be able to afford much longer,” Ory says, and the gentleness in his voice makes it worse somehow. “This escalation pattern—it doesn’t usually stop on its own.”
I stare out through the broken window at the street where I’ve built my life, brick by brick, customer by customer, dream by stubborn dream. Five years ago, this was just another emptystorefront in a neighborhood everyone else had written off. Now it’s mine—the regulars who trust me with their Friday night celebrations, the open mic musicians who got their start on my small stage, the community I’ve helped build around bottles of beer and shared stories.
“What would you do?” I ask finally. “If someone was trying to take everything you’d worked for?”
Detective Ory is quiet for a long moment, studying my face. “I’d probably do exactly what you’re doing. And I’d probably end up in just as much trouble.”
