Page 40 of His Nephew's Ex
But this isn’t his decision to make. Not yet.
“I just need some air,” I manage, pushing myself up on shaky legs. “Maybe I’ll take a walk in the gardens.”
Simeone’s expression tightens, but he doesn’t press. “Don’t leave the estate grounds.”
“I know the rules.” The bite in my tone surprises even me. I watch something flicker across his face and wish I could take it back—his concern deserves better than my defensiveness, but terror makes me cruel when I should be grateful.
I retreat to the gardens, leaving his unspoken words behind as my bare soles find the wet grass. Grass tickles between my toes, dewdrops catching light like tiny promises while I navigate paths that wind through my beautiful cage. For these precious moments, I’m just a woman breathing in summer air—not someone whose world is about to fracture.
But even in the relative peace of the garden, I can’t escape the changes happening to my body. The way my breasts feel tender and full. The exhaustion that hits me like a freight train in the middle of the afternoon. The way certain smells—coffee, bacon, Simeone’s cologne—make my stomach lurch with nausea.
The bench cradles me while water dances its eternal performance, each splash a reminder that some things can’t be contained. I built my life like a fortress—walls of logic, moats of precaution. But Simeone found every weakness in my armor, and now I’m sheltering something that could bring down the entire structure.
But a part of me—a part I’m afraid to acknowledge—isn’t horrified by this development. Part of me is thrilled by the idea of being pregnant. I’ve always wanted children, always imagined myself as a mother someday.
I just never imagined the father would be a mafia don with enough blood on his hands to paint a small village.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, startling me from my spiraling thoughts. A text from Clay:
Bar’s doing well. Miss having you around though. When are you coming home?
Home. The word hits me harder than it should because I realize I don’t know where that is anymore. Is it my apartment above the bar, the life I built for myself brick by brick? Or is it here, in thisbeautiful fortress where I’m protected but trapped, cherished but caged?
And if I’m carrying Simeone’s child, where does that leave me? Where does that leave us?
Another wave of nausea hits me, and I double over on the bench, dry heaving while my mind races with all the ways this could go wrong. What if Simeone sees a baby as a liability? What if he thinks I’m trying to trap him, force him into a commitment he never wanted? What if—
“Miss Parlato?”
Movement draws my attention upward, and there’s Tiziano with that diplomatic mask he wears so well, except for the worry he can’t quite hide in his ice-blue gaze.
“The boss wants to see you in his office,” he says quietly. “When you’re ready.”
Of course he does. Simeone isn’t the kind of man who accepts evasive answers or deflection. He’ll want to know what’s wrong, and he’ll keep pressing until he gets the truth.
The truth I’m not ready to share.
“Tell him I’ll be there in a few minutes,” I say, standing on legs that feel distinctly unsteady.
Tiziano nods and disappears back toward the house, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts and the growing certainty that I can’t hide this much longer. Every day I wait makes it worse, makes the secret heavier to carry.
But how do you tell a man like Simeone that he’s going to be a father?
I find him in his office an hour later, after I’ve showered and dressed and practiced a dozen different ways to deflect his inevitable questions. He’s standing behind his massive desk, sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows and catching the silver in his hair like fire.
“Stellina.” His voice is warm, intimate, but I can see the worry lurking in his dark eyes. “Feeling better?”
“Much.” The lie comes easier this time, though I’m not sure either of us believes it. “Sorry for being so grumpy this morning. I think I’m just adjusting to... all of this.”
I gesture vaguely around the opulent office, letting him think I’m talking about living in his world instead of the very real changes happening to my body.
“Adjustment is normal,” he says, moving around the desk with that fluid grace that never fails to make my pulse spike. “But so is honest communication between us.”
“Are you saying I’m not being honest?”
“I’m saying you’re avoiding something.” He stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell his cologne—the scent that’s been making me nauseous for days now. “And I’m wondering what it is.”
His perceptiveness shouldn’t surprise me. Simeone didn’t build an empire by missing details or accepting surface explanations. Of course he’s noticed my evasions, my morning sickness, the way I’ve been putting distance between us.
