Page 8 of His Nephew's Ex
“What if reaching out to Simeone just makes things worse?” I ask. “What if Flavio decides that involving his uncle is the ultimate betrayal and really goes off the deep end? And that’s assuming I could even figure out how to contact him.”
“Then at least you’ll have someone on your side who’s scarier than he is.” Clay’s pragmatism cuts through my emotional fog like a blade. “And getting in touch with him... well, men like Simeone Codella have eyes and ears everywhere. But keep in mind that they don’t take kindly to people who waste their time.”
He’s right, of course. I can’t fight this alone, and the legal system has proven useless. Every day I delay is another day for Flavio to escalate, another opportunity for him to hurt me or my business or the people I care about.
But even thinking about trying to contact Simeone Codella feels like stepping off a cliff into darkness. And that’s assuming I could even figure out how to get a meeting with a man whoworks in the shadows and lives in a mansion that has more guards than Fort Knox.
After Clay leaves, I climb the stairs to my apartment and sit on my couch, staring at Detective Ory’s card. The photo of me unlocking the bar sits on my coffee table, a reminder of how vulnerable I really am.
Even if I wanted to reach out to Simeone—which I don’t—I have no idea how someone like me contacts someone like him. Ask around the neighborhood? That’s a good way to get myself in more trouble. Look him up online? Right, because mafia dons definitely have LinkedIn profiles with their contact information.
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number:
Sweet dreams, bambina. See you tomorrow.
My blood turns to ice. He’s watching me right now, probably from somewhere across the street. He knows I’m alone, knows I’m scared, knows I’m running out of options.
I pull all my curtains closed and double-check every lock, but I know it won’t matter. If Flavio wants to get to me, some deadbolts and window latches won’t stop him.
The photograph stares up at me from the coffee table, a promise and a threat rolled into one. Tomorrow will bring new harassments, new escalations, new proof that I’m fighting a war I can’t win alone.
But tonight, I’m still too proud to surrender.
Tonight, I’m still telling myself I don’t need help from a world I don’t understand and can’t access even if I wanted to.
Tomorrow might be different.
Tomorrow, I might finally be desperate enough to figure out how to find the one man who could end this nightmare.
4
Loriana
The sound of shattering glass from downstairs rips me from sleep at 4:21 AM, followed by the piercing wail of my security alarm. I bolt upright in bed, my heart slamming against my ribs as the reality crashes over me—someone just broke into my bar.
I grab my baseball bat from beside the bed and creep toward the stairs, my bare feet silent on the hardwood. The alarm continues its deafening shriek as I peer down into my bar, expecting to see Flavio ransacking the place or spray-painting more obscenities on my walls.
Instead, I find something worse. A photograph of me is taped to my cash register. It was taken from the fire escape. Looking at the image, I can tell it was taken two days ago. I’mbrushing my teeth in nothing but a tank top and underwear, completely unaware that someone was inches away from my glass, watching. On the back, in Flavio’s careful script:
You should never close the curtains on me. I hate having my view obstructed, bambina.
My hands shake as I drop the photo, rage and terror warring in my chest. He was here. Right outside my window, close enough to touch the glass, close enough to break it if he wanted. The fire escape creaks in the wind, and every sound makes me flinch.
I grab my phone and scroll through my contacts, finger hovering over Detective Ory’s number. But what’s the point? Another report, another useless restraining order, another promise that they’ll “look into it” while Flavio escalates his campaign of threats and attacks.
No. I’m done being a victim. Done waiting for the system to save me when it’s already proven it can’t. If I’m going to survive this, I need to fight fire with fire.
And in this neighborhood, there’s only one fire hot enough to burn Flavio Codella.
The Viper’s Den squats on the corner of dark and dangerous like a festering wound, its neon sign flickering between red and darkness. At 11 PM, the kind of people who frequent this place are just getting started—the ones who do their business in shadows and settle their debts in blood.
I pause outside the heavy wooden door, my reflection wavering in its scratched surface. The black dress I chose is conservative but form-fitting, professional but not prudish. I need to look like someone worth listening to, not some scared little girl playing dress-up in the big leagues.
The bouncer is a mountain of muscle and scars, his dead eyes taking my measure as I approach. “This ain’t your kind of place, sweetheart.”
“You’d be surprised what kind of place is mine.” I keep my voice steady, even though my pulse is hammering in my throat. “I’m going in.”
He doesn’t move. “Turn around. Go find a nice wine bar in SoHo.”
