Page 76 of His Nephew's Ex
I hear him pace in the hallway—actual pacing, like he’s trying to figure out what I’ve been planning all day. The thought makes something warm and possessive unfurl in my chest. This man, who anticipates every threat, who sees three moves ahead of his enemies, has no idea what’s waiting for him downstairs.
“Loriana, if this is about the Flavio situation, we’ve already discussed—”
“It’s not about Flavio.” I open the door with deliberate ceremony, watching his expression transform from concern to something that looks like religious awakening. “It’s about us.”
The sound that escapes him isn’t quite a groan, isn’t quite a prayer, but it makes me hot all over. His dark eyes rake over me from head to toe, taking in every detail with the intensity of a man who’s just been presented with his deepest fantasy made flesh.
“Dio mio,” he breathes, reaching for me with hands that shake slightly. “What are you wearing?”
“A wedding dress.” I step closer, noting how his pupils dilate as he catches my jasmine scent that I know drives him wild. “The question is whether you’re ready to see me walk down the aisle in it.”
Understanding crashes over his features like dawn breaking. “You planned a wedding. Tonight.”
“I planned our wedding. Tonight.” I trace the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the way he leans into my touch. “Complete with security protocols that would make Fort Knox jealous and witnesses who understand they’re watching history being made.”
“Without asking me.”
“Without asking you.” I meet his gaze directly, unflinching. “Because I’m ready, Simeone. I’m ready to do this. I want to be your wife.”
“You magnificent, impossible woman.” His hands frame my face with infinite gentleness. “You organized a surprise wedding in my own home without me suspecting anything.”
“I learned from the best.” I rise on my toes, pressing a soft kiss to his lips that tastes like promises and forever. “Besides, someone had to make sure you didn’t talk yourself out of this.”
“I wouldn’t have—”
“I wasn’t willing to take that risk.”
His laugh is genuine, warm. “Fair point. Though I should mention that I’m not exactly dressed for a wedding ceremony.”
“Tiziano left appropriate attire in your office. Black tuxedo, family cufflinks, everything you need to look like the mafia don who’s about to claim his bride.” I step back, letting him see how the ivory silk clings to my body. “Unless you’re planning to keep me waiting at the altar?”
“Not a chance in hell.” His voice carries the weight of absolute promise. “Give me ten minutes to transform into a groom worthy of the most beautiful bride in history.”
“You have eight.” I check the delicate watch on my wrist—another gift from his extensive collection. “Father Respicio is waiting, our witnesses are in position, and I refuse to be late for my own wedding.”
He kisses me again, soft and reverent and full of promises that have nothing to do with the ceremony waiting downstairs and everything to do with the life we’re choosing to build together. When we break apart, he rests his forehead against mine.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“For what?”
“For choosing me. For planning this. For becoming exactly the kind of woman who surprises the Silver Devil in his own fortress.” His thumbs stroke across my cheekbones. “For making me believe that something this good can actually last.”
“It will last.” I lean into his touch, letting him see everything I feel reflected in my eyes. “Because we’re not just getting married tonight—we’re founding a dynasty that will make the Codellas legendary for all the right reasons.”
“A dynasty,” he repeats, like he’s testing the word on his tongue.
“A dynasty,” I confirm. “Built on choice instead of circumstance, love instead of convenience, partnership instead of possession. The kind of legacy worthy of the man who claimed me completely and gave me everything in return.”
Eight minutes later, he emerges from his office looking like something carved from marble and moonlight. Black tuxedo that emphasizes his silver hair, family cufflinks that catch the candlelight, an aura of power and possession that makes my knees weak with want.
“Ready?” he asks, offering me his arm with old-world courtesy.
“Ready.”
Side by side, we make our way down the hallway. I find myself oddly captivated by the way our steps seem to match without effort. At the staircase landing, I hesitate, caught off guard by what awaits below.
The foyer has been converted into something between a chapel and a fortress. White roses and ivory candles create beauty while strategically positioned guards ensure security. Father Respicio stands beside the windows in full ceremonial robes, and the eight witnesses Tiziano selected are arranged in precise formation.
