Page 59 of His Nephew's Ex
“Elaborate.”
“Accidents happen. Especially to women in delicate conditions.” His smile is poison wrapped in silk. “Falls down staircases. Car crashes. Sudden complications that even the best doctors can’t prevent.”
“Are you threatening my child?”
“I’m stating statistical realities.” But his eyes gleam with malicious satisfaction. “Pregnancy is inherently dangerous. The mortality rate for expectant mothers, even with modern medicine—”
The Beretta is in my hand and pressed against his temple before he can finish the sentence, the cold metal making him freeze mid-word like I’ve turned him to stone.
“Breathe one more threat against what’s mine,” I whisper, my voice carrying twenty years of accumulated violence, “and I’ll redecorate this booth with your brain matter.”
“Zio—” He starts to protest, but I increase the pressure until the barrel dents his skin.
“I raised you from childhood. Fed you, clothed you, protected you from every consequence of your stupidity for two decades.” Each word is delivered with lethal efficiency. “I’ve given you everything a son could want, and this is how you repay my generosity?”
“She’s changed everything!” The words explode from him with desperate fury. “The inheritance, the succession, my entire future—all of it hanging in the balance because you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants around some nobody bartender!”
I stand slowly, keeping the gun trained on his skull as I move around the table. The other patrons of the Viper’s Den have melted away like smoke, leaving us alone with the weight of family blood about to be spilled.
“Sit still,” I command softly. “Move, and you’ll be meeting your father sooner than planned.”
His face goes white at the mention of Ulrico, but something else flickers in his expression—something that looks almost like guilt mixed with triumph.
“My father,” he repeats slowly. “The brother you sent to die while you stayed safe at home. How does it feel,zio, knowing that you’re raising his son to replace the empire built on his blood?”
The familiar guilt twists in my chest, but I push it down. Twenty years of self-recrimination haven’t brought Ulrico back, and they won’t save his son from the consequences of his choices.
“Your father died serving the family. Honor his sacrifice by showing some respect.”
“Respect?” Flavio laughs, the sound sharp and bitter. “For the man who got him killed? For the uncle who’s now ready to throw away his legacy for some pregnant whore?”
The insult is the final thread holding my control in place. Without warning, I reverse the grip on my weapon and bring the butt down across his cheek with enough force to split the skin and send him sprawling across the floor.
“Stay down,” I snarl as he struggles to push himself upright, blood streaming from the gash on his face. “Unless you want the next blow to be permanent.”
But Flavio has never been smart enough to recognize when he’s beaten. He pulls himself to his knees, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Go ahead,” he taunts, his voice thick with pain and rage. “Kill your brother’s son. Complete the job you started twenty years ago.”
The accusation hits its mark, but instead of guilt, I feel something else—a cold, calculating clarity that’s been buildingfor weeks. Because there’s something in his voice when he mentions Ulrico, something that doesn’t ring true.
“You know what I realized today?” I ask conversationally, holstering my weapon as I reach for a different kind of tool. “I’ve been so focused on protecting you from the consequences of your actions that I never questioned the story of your birth.”
His face goes pale, and for the first time tonight, I see genuine fear in his eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“The timeline,nipote.Your mother claimed you were conceived during Ulrico’s last visit home, but I’ve been reviewing the operation reports.” I pull out my phone, scrolling to the photos my investigator sent earlier. “Interesting discrepancy—my brother was handling business in Montenegro for three months during the period you were conceived. No breaks. No trips home. And your reckless attitude over the years has shown you cannot be carrying the Codella blood in your veins.”
The color drains from his face completely, leaving him looking like a corpse.
“That’s impossible—”
“Is it?” I move closer, letting him see the cold calculation in my eyes. “Because nine and three weeks months before your birth, Ulrico was on the other side of Europe, bleeding for the family while someone else was warming your mother’s bed.”
“You’re lying.” But his voice lacks conviction, and his hands shake as he struggles to process what I’m telling him.
“DNA doesn’t lie, Flavio. And tomorrow, I’ll have the results that prove what I’ve suspected for weeks.” I crouch down until we’re eye level. “You’re not a Codella. You never were.”
