Page 74 of His Nephew's Ex
The question hits like a physical blow because I know the answer. Ulrico would have knocked me on my ass for wallowing in guilt instead of living the life his sacrifice made possible.
“He’d tell me to stop being a self-indulgentcoglioneand get back to work,” I admit.
“Smart man.” She slides from the chair arm into my lap, her weight settling against me like she belongs there. “What else would he tell you?”
I consider the question seriously, trying to hear my brother’s voice through guilt and whiskey-soaked regret. “He’d say the past is written in stone, but the future is still blank paper. That I can’t change what happened, but I can choose what happens next.”
“And what do you choose?”
The answer comes easier than it should, crystallizing out of the chaos like truth from lies. “I choose to stop letting dead ghosts and living lies control my decisions. I choose to protect what actually matters instead of what I think I owe.”
“Your family,” she says, and the possessive satisfaction in her voice makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
“My family.” I frame her face with hands that smell like whiskey and violence, noting how she doesn’t flinch from either. “You and our child. The only legacy that actually matters.”
“And Flavio?”
The name tastes like poison, but the rage has turned into something colder, more useful. “Flavio is no longer my problem to solve. Whatever claim he thought he had on my protection died with this report.”
“He won’t give up easily.”
“No. He’ll escalate, probably try to leverage whatever information he has about our operations. But he’s not family anymore—he’s just another threat to contain.” I lean closer, breathing in the jasmine scent that’s become my salvation. “And I’m very good at doing that.”
She doesn’t lecture me about violence or mercy, doesn’t try to appeal to sentiment I no longer feel. Instead, she studies my face with those intelligent eyes that see everything.
“What do you need from me?”
The simple question, offered without judgment or conditions, breaks something open inside me. Not the guilt—that will take time to heal. But the isolation, the sense that I’m carrying this burden alone.
“Stay exactly where you are,” I say, my arms tightening around her. “Remind me what I’m fighting for instead of what I’m fighting against.”
“I can do that.” She settles more comfortably against me, her head finding the hollow of my shoulder like it was designed to fit there. “For as long as you need.”
We sit in the gathering darkness, surrounded by the wreckage of my rage and the weight of lies finally exposed. But for the first time since I opened that DNA report, the fury feels manageable. Useful.
Because she’s right—the past is written in stone. Ulrico is dead, Flavio was never family, and I can’t change any of it. But the future is still blank paper, waiting for me to write our story.
The story that could have been ours—written in honesty instead of half-truths, in moments we wanted instead of moments we endured, in love that felt like freedom instead of a sentence.
The one where I stop being haunted by dead ghosts and start building something worth living for.
“Stellina?”
“Mmm?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not trying to fix me. For just... being here.”
Her laugh is soft, warm against my throat. “You don’t need fixing, Simeone. You just needed to remember who you really are underneath all that guilt.”
“And who am I?”
“You’re the Silver Devil,” she says simply. “The man who built an empire from nothing. The man who protects what’s his with absolute ruthlessness. The man who claimed me completely and gave me everything in return.”
“Even if that man has blood on his hands?”
