Page 63 of His Nephew's Ex
And whether I’m strong enough to say no when he asks.
21
Loriana
The dress I choose for our date is midnight blue silk that clings to curves I’m still getting used to, elegant enough for the formal dining room but simple enough that I don’t look like I’m trying too hard. My hands shake as I apply lipstick, and I have to start over twice when my mind wanders to the conversation waiting for me downstairs.
I take one last look in the mirror, smoothing the silk over my hips and adjusting the neckline that shows just enough skin to be interesting without being obvious. The deep blue makes my eyes look darker, more mysterious, and for once, I feel like I might be worthy of the heated looks Simeone gives me when he thinks I’m not watching.
The distance to the staircase multiplies with each heartbeat. My heels betray me, announcing my approach in sharp staccato notes that slice through the quiet house. Does he know I’m coming? Of course he knows. Simeone always knows.
The thought makes my pulse quicken.
The banister becomes my lifeline as reality shifts below. Golden light spills and spreads like honey from some distant source, while music—Italian, ancient, knowing—rises through the floorboards to claim me.
The first step down feels momentous, like I’m crossing some invisible threshold. My free hand trails along the smooth wood of the railing as I descend slowly, carefully, hyperaware of how the silk whispers against my legs with each movement. The dress was expensive—one of several he’d had delivered without asking, along with shoes and jewelry and everything else a mafia don’s woman might need. Tonight, I’m grateful for his impeccable taste.
Halfway down the staircase, I catch a glimpse of candlelight dancing on the dining room walls, and my breath catches. He’s really done something special. The realization sends warmth blooming through my chest, followed immediately by a flutter of nervousness that makes me pause on the landing.
I smooth my dress one more time, checking that the neckline hasn’t shifted, that my hair is still perfectly arranged in the loose updo I spent twenty minutes perfecting. Everything has to beperfect tonight. I can feel it in the air, the weight of importance that makes every detail matter.
Roses bloom in the air around me, their sweetness cut by his lingering presence—cologne mixed with something essentially him. The marble floor becomes a dark mirror, catching dining room light and fracturing it beneath my heels until I’m treading on scattered stars.
Stop. Breathe. Hand on heart, heart on fire, fire everywhere inside—and outside too, candles, so many candles, and roses like blood drops, like stars fallen, like— How did he make something so vast feel so small? So dangerous?
Simeone stands beside the windows, silhouetted against the night sky like a dark angel surveying his domain. He’s changed into a black tuxedo that emphasizes the silver in his hair and makes him look like something carved from marble and moonlight.
“Stellina.” His voice is warm honey as he turns to face me, and the heat in his dark eyes makes my breath catch. “You look breathtaking.”
“Thank you.” I smooth my dress nervously, suddenly feeling underdressed despite the expensive silk. “This is beautiful, Simeone. You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”
“Yes, I did.” He moves toward me with that fluid grace, stopping just close enough that I can smell his cologne. “You deserve beautiful things. You deserve everything I can give you.”
The sincerity in his voice makes my chest tight with emotion I’m not ready to name. “It’s just dinner.”
“No,” he says quietly, pulling out my chair with old-world courtesy. “It’s not.”
The first course arrives as we settle into our seats—something delicate with truffle oil that I can barely taste over the awareness crackling between us.
“You’re quieter than usual tonight,” Simeone says, swirling his wine thoughtfully. “What’s on your mind, stellina?”
I pause with my fork halfway to my mouth, surprised by the gentle inquiry. “Just thinking about how surreal this all feels sometimes.”
“Surreal how?” His smile is patient, encouraging.
“A few months ago, I was living in a cramped apartment in Brooklyn, surviving on takeout and instant coffee.” I gesture to my crystal glass filled with sparkling water. “Now I’m having seven-course dinners by candlelight in a mansion that belongs in a magazine.”
“And where did you grow up? You’ve mentioned Brooklyn, but never your childhood.”
The question catches me off guard. We’ve shared a bed for weeks, shared our bodies, but somehow I’ve managed to keeppieces of my past carefully locked away. “Queens. Little Italy in the Bronx, actually. My grandmother had a small apartment above her bakery.”
“What was it like? Growing up there?”
I find myself smiling despite my nervousness. “Loud. Everything was so loud—traffic, neighbors arguing through thin walls, my grandmother yelling at customers in Italian when they complained about her prices.” I pause, remembering. “But it smelled like heaven. Fresh bread every morning, espresso that could wake the dead, and on Sundays, sauce simmering from dawn until dinner.”
“You miss it.”
“I miss her.” The admission comes out rougher than I intended. “She raised me after my mom died. Taught me that respect is earned, not given, and that a woman who can’t take care of herself can’t take care of anyone else.”
