Page 88 of His Nephew's Ex
“Promise me,” I whisper, clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing in a world gone liquid. “Promise me this is real. That’s what we have is worth fighting for.”
“Stellina.” His voice breaks slightly on the endearment. “You are everything worth fighting for. Everything is worth living for. Everything is worth becoming a better man for.”
I lift my head to meet his gaze, and what I see there steals the breath from my lungs. Not just love—though there’s plenty of that. Not just possession—though the hunger in his eyes makes my pulse spike. But something deeper, more fundamental. The look of a man who’s just realized that his entire world revolves around the woman in his arms and the unborn child I’m carrying.
“I love you,” I whisper against his mouth.
“Ti amo,” he whispers back, the Italian rolling off his tongue like a prayer. “I love you more than my own life.”
We don’t make love. We don’t tear at each other’s clothes. We don’t lose ourselves in the kind of passion that burns bright and leaves nothing but ashes.
Instead, we just hold each other. His fingers in my hair. Mine tracing his jaw. Our breathing matches until we’re sharing the same rhythm, the same unshakeable certainty that what we have is worth every risk.
“Are you my willing captive,stellina?” he asks quietly.
“Always,” I breathe against his skin. “In every way that matters.”
Now I understand. This is protection. Not prison. It’s devotion. Not control. Love so complete that losing me would destroy everything he is.
His willing captive. His willing prisoner. Just as he’s mine. Bound together by the truth that what we’ve built is worth everything.
In the golden lamplight of our bedroom, surrounded by the evidence of a life we’re choosing to build together, I finally understand what it means to be a Codella.
It means belonging to someone who would burn down the world before letting it take you.
It means being someone worth burning down the world for.
And as I fall asleep in the arms of the Silver Devil who fought hell to bring me home, I know with absolute certainty that I am exactly where I belong.
Epilogue
Loriana
The morning light filters through bulletproof glass as I cradle our son against my chest, his tiny fingers wrapped around mine with the kind of trust that makes my heart ache with fierce protectiveness. Seven months have passed since that terrible day in the warehouse, and Alessandro Codella has transformed our world into something softer, more precious, infinitely more worth protecting.
“Stellina,” Simeone’s voice carries from the doorway, rough with the kind of exhaustion that comes from checking the nursery every hour through the night. “How’s our little prince this morning?”
“Perfect,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to Alessandro’s dark hair. “Though I think he’s going to be as stubborn as both his parents.”
Simeone moves toward us with that fluid grace that never fails to make my pulse spike, despite the fact that we’ve been married for eight months and I’ve seen him in every state imaginable. The sight of him in rumpled pajama pants and nothing else, his hair mussed from sleep, makes me want to take him right here and now, even though my body is still recovering from childbirth.
“May I?” he asks, reaching for our son with the careful reverence he’s shown since the moment Alessandro entered the world.
I transfer our baby into his father’s arms, watching as Simeone’s entire posture shifts into something protective and tender. The Silver Devil disappears, replaced by a man who would do just about anything and everything to keep his family safe.
“Business meeting at ten,” he says quietly, settling into the rocking chair beside the window. “Legitimate investors interested in expanding the shipping operations. You could sit in if you’d like.”
The casual invitation makes me smile. This is how our life works now—I’m involved in everything that matters, consulted on every decision, included in every aspect of his empire that doesn’t involve violence. The bar I once managed alone now operates under remote supervision, with Clay handling day-to-day operations while I coordinate everything from the security of our estate.
“I might,” I say, curling up in the chair beside him. “Though I have to admit, I’m perfectly content staying here with him.”
“Are you?” Simeone’s dark eyes study my face. “You don’t miss it? The independence, the chaos of managing Crimson yourself?”
I consider the question seriously. Seven months ago, the thought of being confined to an estate—no matter how beautiful—would have made me feel trapped. Now, surrounded by gardens I helped design, in a home where every room reflects choices we made together, with a child who needs me completely, the answer surprises me with its honesty.
“I don’t miss the chaos,” I admit. “I miss the satisfaction of building something with my own hands, but we’re building something here too. Something bigger than a bar or a business.”
“What are we building?”
