Page 7 of His Nephew's Ex
It’s not the answer I wanted, but it’s honest. And right now, honesty feels like the rarest commodity in my world.
“Lori?” Mia approaches hesitantly, carrying a manila envelope. “This was on the floor by the door. Must have come through with the brick.”
My blood turns to ice water as I take the envelope. My name is written across the front in familiar handwriting—Flavio’s careful script, the same one that used to pen love notes and birthday cards.
Inside is a single photograph.
It’s me, taken yesterday morning as I was opening the bar. I’m fumbling with my keys, coffee cup in one hand, completely unaware that someone was watching. The angle suggests it was shot from across the street, probably with a telephotolens. Professional quality. The kind of surveillance that takes planning.
On the back, in that same careful handwriting:You look so peaceful when you don’t know you’re being watched. It would be a shame if something happened to ruin that peace.
My hands shake as I show the photo to Detective Ory, whose expression darkens considerably.
“This changes things,” he says grimly. “This is stalking, harassment, and implied threats. I can bring him in for questioning.”
“And then what? He’ll post bail and be out in two hours.” I slide the photo back into the envelope, trying to ignore how violated I feel. “Meanwhile, he’ll know I involved the police, and things will get worse.”
But even as I say it, I know Ory is right about one thing—this is escalating. The brick through the window was vandalism. The photo is something else entirely. It’s a promise wrapped in menace, a preview of how close Flavio can get whenever he wants.
“At least let me assign a patrol car to do regular drive-bys,” Ory offers. “And I know you don’t want to hear this, but you really should consider talking to his uncle.”
“Getting him involved may only cause more damage.”
“I understand,” Ory says, his eyes shining with sympathy. “I’m just saying that sometimes family pressure works where legal pressure doesn’t.”
“I don’t even know how to contact him,” I say, which is the truth. “And even if I did, what makes you think he’d care about helping his nephew’s ex-girlfriend?”
“Because bad publicity isn’t good for business. And from what I hear, he doesn’t tolerate family members who create unnecessary problems.” Ory’s expression is carefully neutral. “But like I said, I can’t officially suggest anything, and if you do decide to go down that path, I won’t be able to protect you. You do understand that, right? You’ll be on your own.”
The implication hangs in the air between us. Even if I wanted to reach out to Simeone—which I don’t—I have no idea how to contact a man who lives in the shadows. It’s not like mafia dons are listed in the phone book.
“Either way, think about it. It might be your only way to fix this,” Ory says, handing me his card even though I already have three of them. “And call me if anything else happens. Anything at all.”
After he leaves, I help my staff finish closing procedures in tense silence. The remaining customers pay their tabs and hurry out into the night, leaving me alone with Clay, Mia, and Sofia in my damaged bar.
“You should go home,” I tell the girls. “Clay can help me board up the window.”
“Are you sure?” Sofia asks. Her eyes shift downward at the broken glass. “We could stay, help you—”
“No.” I force a smile I don’t feel. “You’ve both done enough tonight. Just... be careful walking to your cars, okay?”
They nod and gather their things, but the tension radiates off them like heat from asphalt. Sofia keeps glancing at the boarded window while Mia clutches her purse like a shield. They’re good employees who showed up to work, not to become casualties in someone else’s vendetta.
After they leave, Clay and I work in companionable silence to board up the window with plywood and nails. The sound of our hammering echoes through the empty bar like gunshots, and I can’t help but think that this is what defeat sounds like.
“You know,” Clay says as we finish the last nail, “that detective might have had a point about those… unofficial channels.”
“You mean Simeone Codella.” I don’t make it a question.
“I’ve lived in this neighborhood for forty years, Loriana. I’ve seen what happens when people try to fight the Codellas without backup.” He sets down his hammer and looks at me with serious eyes. “Pride won’t keep you safe.”
“Even if I wanted to reach out to him—which I don’t—I wouldn’t know how. It’s not like he advertises his services in the Yellow Pages.”
Clay is quiet for a moment, considering. “There are ways, if you really needed to find someone like that. But once you go down that road...”
“There’s no coming back,” I finish. “Yeah, I get it.”
I stare at our handiwork—the plywood barrier that turns my welcoming front window into something that looks like a war zone. In the reflection of the remaining glass, I can see my own face, pale and tired and older than my twenty-four years.
