Page 30 of His Nephew's Ex
“Protecting you,” he corrects, moving closer with that fluid grace that marks him as a predator. “And it’s a good thing I did, or you might be dead right now instead of just scared.”
The casual way he discusses my potential murder makes me want to scream. This is my life now—threats and surveillance and casual violence discussed like the weather forecast.
“The man on the fire escape,” I say, gesturing toward the broken window. “Your people saw him?”
“They saw him arrive. They would have stopped him, but he moved too fast—threw the brick and disappeared before they could intercept.” His jaw ticks with barely controlled rage. “He knew they were there. Planned around their positions.”
The implication scares me. “You’re saying this wasn’t random. Whoever did this knows about your security, knows how to evade it.”
“I’m saying this was a message meant for me as much as you.” He moves to the window, examining the damage with professional interest. “Someone wants me to know they can reach you despite my protection.”
A chill runs down my spine. “Your enemies.”
“Or someone who wants me to believe they’re my enemies.” His voice is thoughtful, calculating. “Someone who understands that the fastest way to hurt me is through you.”
“This is exactly what I was afraid of,” I whisper, sinking into my armchair as the full scope of my situation becomes clear. “By getting involved with you, I’ve made everything worse.”
“No.” He moves toward me, crouching beside the chair until we’re eye level. “By getting involved with me, you’ve ensured that anyone who threatens you will face consequences they can’t imagine.”
“At what cost? Living in fear? Having every moment of my life monitored? Wondering if the next brick will be followed by something worse?”
“At the cost of your independence,” he says quietly, and the honesty in his voice is more devastating than if he’d lied. “At the cost of the simple life you built for yourself. I won’t pretend otherwise.”
I stare at this man who’s turned my world upside down with his protection and his passion and his promise of safety that comes wrapped in chains of gold. He’s beautiful and dangerous and everything I should run from, but the alternative is facing these threats alone.
“What are you suggesting?”
“Move in with me. Tonight.” He doesn’t ask—the words drop between us like stones, heavy with certainty. “My estate has security that would make government facilities envious. You’ll be safe there.”
“Safe and trapped.”
“Safe and protected,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” I stand abruptly, pacing to the kitchen to put distance between us. “Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds like trading one cage for another. A prettier cage, maybe, but still a cage.”
He follows me, of course, backing me against the counter with slow, deliberate steps that make my pulse race despite the gravity of our conversation. “What’s the alternative,stellina? Stay here and wait for the next escalation? Hope that next time, it’s just another brick instead of something that can kill you?”
“I could leave town. Sell the bar, start over somewhere else—”
“Run.” The single word cuts through my protests like a blade. “You could run and spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder, wondering if you’re safe or if they’ve found you again.”
He’s right, and I hate him for it. Hate that my choices have been reduced to his protection or perpetual fear, that my independence has become a luxury I can’t afford.
“You planned this,” I accuse, though I’m not entirely sure what I mean. “The threats, the escalation—”
“I planned to keep you safe.” His voice is steel wrapped in silk. “I didn’t plan for someone to be clever enough to get this close to you despite my precautions.”
“Your precautions that I never asked for.”
“Your safety that you desperately needed.” He braces his hands against the counter on either side of me, caging me with solid muscle and expensive fabric. “Tell me,stellina—do you really think this masked figure tonight was here to deliver love letters?”
The sarcasm in his voice makes me want to slap him, but he’s right. The calculating patience of the attack, the way the figure studied me through the broken window before disappearing—there was nothing impulsive about tonight’s threat.
“I hate that you’re right,” I whisper.
“I hate that I have to be.” His thumb traces my lower lip with devastating gentleness. “Do you think I want to cage you? Do you think I don’t see how your independence is part of what makes you magnificent?”
The unexpected vulnerability in his voice catches me off guard. This isn’t the possessive mafia don or the predatory businessman—this is a man who understands exactly what he’s asking me to sacrifice.
