Page 86 of His Nephew's Ex
“Good.” I turn away from him like he’s already ceased to exist. “Tiziano will see you out of this city. After that, your life is your own responsibility.”
As my men form up around us, creating a protective formation that transforms my wife and me into the center of an armed constellation, I feel something settle in my chest that might be satisfaction or justice or simply the restoration of proper order.
The pretender has been cast down. The threat to my family has been neutralized. The woman I love is safe in my arms, where she belongs.
Now I can focus on what actually matters: building a dynasty worthy of the blood that truly runs in the Codella veins.
“Take me home,” Loriana murmurs against my chest.
“Sempre, stellina,” I promise. “Always.”
28
Loriana
The marble steps of our estate feel different beneath my feet now—not just cold and elegant, but solid. Real.Safe.Each one carries me further from the nightmare of that warehouse and closer to something I’m only now beginning to understand: home isn’t just a place, it’s the man whose arms tighten around me with every step we climb together.
“Careful,stellina,” Simeone murmurs as my heel catches slightly on the edge of a step. His grip shifts to support more of my weight, like I’m made of spun glass instead of the steel he claimed to admire. “We’re almost there.”
Almost where? Our bedroom? Safety? The place where I can finally stop pretending that being kidnapped by his psychoticformer nephew and my crazy ex-boyfriend didn’t shake me to my core?
“I can walk,” I protest, but my voice lacks conviction. The truth is, I don’t want him to let go. Don’t want to test whether my legs will actually hold me up without his strength keeping me anchored to this moment, this reality, this proof that I survived.
“I know you can.” His voice carries that note of infinite patience I’ve learned means he’s not budging on something. “But I need to carry you. I need to feel you safe in my arms.”
This isn’t about my supposed fragility—it’s about his need to reassure himself that I’m really here, really whole, really his to protect again.
When we reach our bedroom, he gently sets me down. The room looks exactly the same as when I left it this morning—silk curtains, expensive furniture, the lingerie I’d been planning to surprise him with later tonight draped across the chaise lounge like a promise I’m no longer sure I can keep.
Everything’s the same, but I feel fundamentally altered. Like I’ve been disassembled and put back together with some crucial piece in the wrong place.
“Sit,” he commands gently, guiding me toward the edge of our bed. “Let me look at you.”
“Simeone, I’m fine—”
“You’re not fine.” His hands frame my face with infinite care, thumbs stroking across cheekbones that probably show the stress of the last few hours. “You’re breathing, you’re safe, you’re home. But you’re not fine.”
When did this dangerous man learn to read the difference between survival and actually being okay?
His fingers find the bruises on my wrists where the restraints bit into my skin, and something violent flickers across his features. “He marked you.”
“They’re just bruises. They’ll fade.”
“They’re proof that someone put their hands on what belongs to me. They’re evidence of how badly I failed to protect you.”
“You didn’t fail—”
“I left you alone.” The words crack out of him like a confession torn from his chest. “I knew Flavio was unstable, knew he was dangerous, and I still left you with security protocols that proved inadequate.”
I watch him examine each mark on my skin. The careful way he touches the rope burns around my wrists, the gentle pressure of his fingers checking for deeper damage I haven’t admitted to.
“Look at me,” I say quietly.
His dark eyes lift to mine, and I see something I’ve never seen before: genuine fear. Not anger, not rage, not the cold calculation that usually follows threats to his empire. Just raw, honest terror at how close he came to losing something irreplaceable.
“I’m here,” I whisper. “I’m safe. Because you came for me.”
“I should’ve been there to begin with. Should’ve anticipated—”
