Page 9 of His Nephew's Ex
“I said I’m going in.” I meet his stare without blinking, drawing on every ounce of authority I’ve learned from managing drunk customers and belligerent college kids. “Unless you’re planning to physically stop me, move.”
His expression changes in small ways, showing surprise or even grudging respect. After what seems like forever, he steps aside.
The interior hits me like a slap of smoke and menace. The Viper’s Den is everything my bar isn’t—dark wood, darker intentions, and the kind of clientele that makes their living from other people’s misery. Conversations die as I walk through, replaced by the weight of predatory stares that follow my movement across the room.
I make my way to the bar, hyperaware of every eye tracking me, every whispered conversation that stops when I pass. The bartender—a thin man with prison tattoos crawling up his neck—barely glances at me.
“Whiskey,” I say. “Neat.”
He pours without comment, sliding the glass across the scarred wood. The whiskey burns going down, but it steadies my nerves enough to scan the room properly.
The booth in the far corner might as well have a flashing neon sign reading “DANGER.” Three men sit there like they own not just the table but the entire building, their tailored suits and watchful eyes marking them as a different species from the usual Viper’s Den clientele. One of them—dark hair, winter-pale eyes—feels my stare and looks up, pinning me in place with a gaze that makes my skin prickle.
Our gazes lock across the smoky room. He says something to his companions and stands, moving through the crowd with the fluid grace of someone accustomed to having people get out of his way. When he reaches the bar, he doesn’t sit—he claims the space beside me like he owns it.
“You’re lost, little bird,” he says, his voice carrying the faint trace of an accent that makes my skin prickle. “This cage isn’t meant for creatures like you.”
“What kind of creature do you think I am?” I turn to face him fully, letting him see that I’m not intimidated by his proximity or the dangerous energy radiating off him like heat.
His smile is sharp enough to cut. “The kind that flies too close to the flame and gets her pretty feathers burned.”
“Maybe I like the heat.”
“Do you?” He signals the bartender for two drinks without taking his eyes off me. “Most people who say that have never really been burned.”
The bartender slides two glasses of amber liquid across the bar—something expensive, older than I am. The man picks up both glasses, offering me one.
“I didn’t order this,” I say.
“No. I did.” His fingers brush mine as I take the glass, the contact sending electricity shooting up my arm. “What’s your name, little bird?”
“What’s yours?”
“I asked first.”
“Loriana,” I say after a moment. “And you are?”
“Cautious.” His eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. “What brings you to my territory, Loriana?”
His territory.
The words confirm what I already suspected—this man is connected, dangerous, exactly what I came here looking for.
“I’m looking for someone,” I say, taking a sip of the whiskey. It’s smooth as silk and probably costs more than I make in a week. “Someone with enough influence to solve a particular problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
I study his face, looking for any sign that this is a trap, that Flavio sent him to mess with my head. But all I see is genuine interest and something that might be amusement.
“The kind involving Flavio Codella.”
The change in his expression is subtle but immediate. The amusement vanishes, replaced by something harder, more calculating. He sets down his glass with deliberate precision.
“Flavio Codella,” he repeats slowly. “And what, exactly, is your connection to Simeone’s nephew?”
“He’s been stalking me. Harassing my business. The police won’t help, and I’m running out of options.”
“So you decided to walk into the Viper’s Den and see what kind of devil you could bargain with?” There’s something almost admiring in his voice. “That’s either very brave or very stupid.”
