Page 54 of His Nephew's Ex
Fury transforms his face into something unrecognizable as his hand draws back. The air between us crackles with the promise of violence held in check by the thinnest thread of control.
Then the temperature in the room drops below freezing, and we both feel it. The change in the air that means something far more dangerous than either of us combined.
“Stellina.” Simeone’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade through silk. “Step away from my nephew.”
I turn toward the sound, and my breath catches at the sight of him. He’s standing in the doorway like an avenging angel carved from marble and malice, the silver threads in his hair catching the afternoon light, and his obsidian eyes promising violence so absolute it makes my knees weaken.
What he leaves unsaid carries more weight than any curse. His stillness is apocalyptic—not the chaos of storms but the terrible certainty of extinction.
Flavio’s grip on my arm loosens immediately, but he doesn’t let go completely. There’s something almost desperate in the way he holds onto me, like I’m his only shield against the predator who’s just entered the room.
“Zio,” he starts, his voice already taking on that wheedling tone I remember from our relationship. “I was just—”
“You were just leaving.” Simeone moves into the room with that fluid grace that marks him as an apex predator. He doesn’t look at me—all his attention is focused on his nephew with the intensity of a laser. “After you take your hands off what belongs to me.”
The possessive declaration should annoy me, should make me want to assert my independence and autonomy. Instead, it sends heat pooling low in my belly and makes something primal and satisfied purr in my chest. Because right now, belonging to Simeone means protection from the monster gripping my arm.
“She was being disrespectful,” Flavio protests, but his voice lacks conviction. “I was just reminding her about proper behavior—”
“Were you?” Simeone’s voice remains conversational, almost gentle. But there’s something underneath it that makes the hair on my arms stand up. “And what did that reminder entail?”
“Nothing serious. Just a conversation between family—”
“Family.” The word drops between them like a stone into still water. “Is that what you call putting your hands on a pregnant woman? Family conversation?”
Flavio’s grip on my arm finally loosens completely, and I step away from him so quickly I nearly stumble. The relief of being free from his touch is overwhelming, but the tension in the room only increases as Simeone continues his slow approach.
“I wasn’t hurting her,” Flavio lies, and we all know it’s a lie. My arm throbs where his fingers dug in, and I’m certain there will be fingerprint bruises by tomorrow.
“No?” Simeone’s gaze flicks to me for the first time since entering the room, and those dark eyes miss nothing—not the way I’m cradling my injured arm, not the defensive way I’m standing, not the lingering fear in my expression. “Show me your arm,stellina.”
“It’s fine,” I start to protest, but the look he gives me cuts off the lie before it can fully form.
“Show me.”
I roll up my sleeve reluctantly, revealing the angry red marks Flavio’s fingers left on my skin. In the afternoon light streaming through the windows, the bruises are already starting to form—dark patches that will be purple by tomorrow.
The silence that follows is absolute, suffocating, pregnant with violence so thick I can taste it on my tongue. When Simeone finally speaks, his voice is so quiet I have to strain to hear it.
“You put marks on my woman.”
“It was an accident,” Flavio babbles, backing toward the wall like a trapped animal. “I didn’t mean—she was being difficult, and I just—”
“You marked what belongs to me.” Simeone’s voice doesn’t rise, doesn’t change tone, doesn’t carry any obvious threat. But somehow it fills the room with menace so absolute that I find myself holding my breath.
“Zio, please, I can explain—”
“Explain what? How you came into my home uninvited again? How you threatened my woman in my absence? How you put your hands on the mother of my child?” Each question is delivered with surgical precision, stripping away Flavio’s excuses layer by layer.
“I’m family,” Flavio tries desperately. “I belong here—”
“No.” The single word cuts through his protests like a scythe. “You’re a mistake I’ve been too sentimental to correct. But sentiment has limits,nipote. And you’ve just reached mine.”
The endearment sounds like a curse in Simeone’s mouth, twisted into something sharp and ugly. Flavio seems to shrink with every word, the arrogant young man who gripped my arm dissolving into the frightened boy he’s always been underneath the expensive suits and entitled attitude.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and there are actual tears in his eyes now. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“You meant every word.” Simeone is close enough now that Flavio has to crane his neck to meet his eyes. “You meant every threat, every insult, every mark you left on her skin. The only thing you’re sorry about is being caught.”
