Page 38 of His Nephew's Ex
“You need to leave my house before I forget we share blood.” Simeone descends the stairs with predatory grace, his attention shifting between his nephew and me. “Now.”
“This is about family business,” Flavio protests, desperation creeping into his voice. “About my future—”
“Your future doesn’t include disrespecting my woman in my home.” Each word drops like a stone into still water, creating ripples of implication that make Flavio’s face go pale.
The possessive declaration should annoy me, should make me want to correct him about ownership and independence. Instead, it sends heat pooling low in my belly and makes something primal and satisfied purr in my chest.
“Your woman?” Flavio’s voice cracks. “She was mine first—”
“She was never yours.” Simeone reaches the bottom of the stairs, and suddenly the space feels too small to contain the violence radiating off him. “She chose to end whatever pathetic excuse for a relationship you had. She chose to come to me for protection. She chose to sleep in my bed.”
The reminder of our intimacy makes my cheeks burn, but I don’t protest. There’s something intoxicating about hearing him claim me so publicly, so absolutely.
“You stole her,” Flavio accuses. “You knew I wanted her, and you—”
“I claimed what was already mine.” Simeone’s smile is sharp enough to cut glass. “The question is why you’re still standing in my foyer instead of respecting my wishes.”
“Because this isn’t over,” Flavio snarls, and I see the exact moment he crosses from desperate to dangerous. “Because she’s destroying everything I’ve worked for, everything I deserve—”
“What you deserve,” Simeone interrupts softly, “is a lesson in respect. One I’m happy to provide if you don’t leave voluntarily.”
Those words hang over us like a storm cloud, pregnant with violence. Flavio studies his uncle, then me, his face twisting between murderous rage and careful calculation.
“This isn’t finished,” he says finally, his voice carrying the weight of absolute promise. “Not between us, and especially not between me and your little whore.”
The insult is the final straw. Simeone moves faster than I would have thought possible, crossing the space between them in three strides and grabbing Flavio by the throat with casual violence.
“Call her that again, I dare you,” he whispers, his voice carrying the kind of quiet that precedes earthquakes.
Flavio’s face turns red, then purple, his hands clawing uselessly at Simeone’s grip. For a moment, I think we’re about to witness a murder in the marble foyer of this elegant mansion.
Then Simeone lets go, withdrawing with the lethal elegance of a wolf that’s already tasted blood.
Flavio gasps for air, one hand massaging his throat while his eyes blaze with hatred and humiliation. “You’ll regret this,” he chokes out. “Both of you.”
“The only thing I regret,” Simeone says conversationally, “is not teaching you this lesson years ago. Tiziano will escort you out. If you return to my property without invitation, you won’t leave it breathing.”
Tiziano steps forward with professional efficiency, and Flavio has no choice but to allow himself to be guided toward the door. But as they reach the threshold, he turns back one final time.
“Enjoy her while you can,zio,” he calls out, his voice carrying across the foyer with venomous satisfaction. “Because when I’m done with both of you, there won’t be anything left to enjoy.”
The front door closes behind him with the finality of a coffin lid, leaving Simeone and me alone in the sudden, deafening silence.
“Well,” I say finally, my voice sounding unnaturally bright in the aftermath of violence. “That went well.”
Simeone turns to look at me, and the expression in his dark eyes makes my breath catch. There’s fury there, yes, but also something else—something possessive and hungry that makes my pulse spike with awareness.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, moving toward me with that fluid grace that never fails to make my mouth go dry.
“No. Angry, but not hurt.” I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how little the silk robe conceals. “Simeone, what he said about your brother—”
“Later.” He reaches me, his hands coming up to frame my face with surprising gentleness. “Right now, I need to know that you’re safe.”
“I’m safe.” The words come out breathless, affected by his proximity in ways I don’t want to acknowledge. “But he’s not going to give up. You heard him—”
“I heard a desperate boy making threats he can’t back up.” His thumbs stroke across my cheekbones, and I have to fight not to lean into the touch. “What I’m more concerned about is why you came downstairs to face him alone.”
“Because I’m tired of hiding. Tired of being afraid.” I meet his dark gaze steadily. “And tired of letting entitled assholes think they can intimidate me.”
