Chapter 4
Loriana
I grab my baseball bat from beside the bed and creep toward the stairs, my bare feet silent on the hardwood. The alarm continues its deafening shriek as I peer down into my bar, expecting to see Flavio ransacking the place or spray-painting more obscenities on my walls.
Instead, I find something worse. A photograph of me is taped to my cash register.
It was taken from the fire escape. Looking at the image, I can tell it was taken two days ago.
I’m brushing my teeth in nothing but a tank top and underwear, completely unaware that someone was inches away from my glass, watching.
On the back, in Flavio’s careful script:
You should never close the curtains on me. I hate having my view obstructed, bambina.
My hands shake as I drop the photo, rage and terror warring in my chest. He was here. Right outside my window, close enough to touch the glass, close enough to break it if he wanted. The fire escape creaks in the wind, and every sound makes me flinch.
I grab my phone and scroll through my contacts, finger hovering over Detective Ory’s number. But what’s the point? Another report, another useless restraining order, another promise that they’ll “look into it” while Flavio escalates his campaign of threats and attacks.
No. I’m done being a victim. Done waiting for the system to save me when it’s already proven it can’t. If I’m going to survive this, I need to fight fire with fire.
And in this neighborhood, there’s only one fire hot enough to burn Flavio Codella.
The Viper’s Den squats on the corner of dark and dangerous like a festering wound, its neon sign flickering between red and darkness. At 11 PM, the kind of people who frequent this place are just getting started—the ones who do their business in shadows and settle their debts in blood.
I pause outside the heavy wooden door, my reflection wavering in its scratched surface. The black dress I chose is conservative but form-fitting, professional but not prudish. I need to look like someone worth listening to, not some scared little girl playing dress-up in the big leagues.
The bouncer is a mountain of muscle and scars, his dead eyes taking my measure as I approach. “This ain’t your kind of place, sweetheart.”
“You’d be surprised what kind of place is mine.” I keep my voice steady, even though my pulse is hammering in my throat. “I’m going in.”
He doesn’t move. “Turn around. Go find a nice wine bar in SoHo.”
“I said I’m going in.” I meet his stare without blinking, drawing on every ounce of authority I’ve learned from managing drunk customers and belligerent college kids. “Unless you’re planning to physically stop me, move.”
His expression changes in small ways, showing surprise or even grudging respect. After what seems like forever, he steps aside.
The interior hits me like a slap of smoke and menace.
The Viper’s Den is everything my bar isn’t—dark wood, darker intentions, and the kind of clientele that makes their living from other people’s misery.
Conversations die as I walk through, replaced by the weight of predatory stares that follow my movement across the room.
I make my way to the bar, hyperaware of every eye tracking me, every whispered conversation that stops when I pass. The bartender—a thin man with prison tattoos crawling up his neck—barely glances at me.
“Whiskey,” I say. “Neat.”
He pours without comment, sliding the glass across the scarred wood. The whiskey burns going down, but it steadies my nerves enough to scan the room properly.
The booth in the far corner might as well have a flashing neon sign reading “DANGER.” Three men sit there like they own not just the table but the entire building, their tailored suits and watchful eyes marking them as a different species from the usual Viper’s Den clientele.
One of them—dark hair, winter-pale eyes—feels my stare and looks up, pinning me in place with a gaze that makes my skin prickle.
Our gazes lock across the smoky room. He says something to his companions and stands, moving through the crowd with the fluid grace of someone accustomed to having people get out of his way. When he reaches the bar, he doesn’t sit—he claims the space beside me like he owns it.
“You’re lost, little bird,” he says, his voice carrying the faint trace of an accent that makes my skin prickle. “This cage isn’t meant for creatures like you.”
“What kind of creature do you think I am?” I turn to face him fully, letting him see that I’m not intimidated by his proximity or the dangerous energy radiating off him like heat.
His smile is sharp enough to cut. “The kind that flies too close to the flame and gets her pretty feathers burned.”
“Maybe I like the heat.”
“Do you?” He signals the bartender for two drinks without taking his eyes off me. “Most people who say that have never really been burned.”
The bartender slides two glasses of amber liquid across the bar—something expensive, older than I am. The man picks up both glasses, offering me one.
“I didn’t order this,” I say.
“No. I did.” His fingers brush mine as I take the glass, the contact sending electricity shooting up my arm. “What’s your name, little bird?”
“What’s yours?”
“I asked first.”
“Loriana,” I say after a moment. “And you are?”
“Cautious.” His eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. “What brings you to my territory, Loriana?”
His territory.
The words confirm what I already suspected—this man is connected, dangerous, exactly what I came here looking for.
“I’m looking for someone,” I say, taking a sip of the whiskey. It’s smooth as silk and probably costs more than I make in a week. “Someone with enough influence to solve a particular problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
I study his face, looking for any sign that this is a trap, that Flavio sent him to mess with my head. But all I see is genuine interest and something that might be amusement.
“The kind involving Flavio Codella.”
The change in his expression is subtle but immediate. The amusement vanishes, replaced by something harder, more calculating. He sets down his glass with deliberate precision.
“Flavio Codella,” he repeats slowly. “And what, exactly, is your connection to Simeone’s nephew?”
“He’s been stalking me. Harassing my business. The police won’t help, and I’m running out of options.”
“So you decided to walk into the Viper’s Den and see what kind of devil you could bargain with?” There’s something almost admiring in his voice. “That’s either very brave or very stupid.”
“Maybe both.” I drain the rest of my whiskey, letting the burn give me courage. “But I’m here, and I’m not leaving until I get what I came for.”
“Which is?”
“A meeting with Simeone Codella.”
The name hangs in the smoky air like a curse word in church.
Every muscle in his body tightens imperceptibly, and suddenly the dangerous energy I sensed about him crystallizes into something razor-sharp and focused.
He tilts his head slightly, studying me with the intensity of a scientist examining a particularly interesting specimen.
“You want a meeting with Simeone Codella,” he says finally, each word carefully measured. “Do you have any idea what you’re asking for?”
“I’m asking for help dealing with his nephew before things get worse.”
“Things can always get worse, little bird. Much worse.” He signals for another round, but neither of us touches the fresh glasses. “What makes you think Simeone would care about your problems with Flavio?”
“Because bad publicity isn’t good for business.
Because family members who create unnecessary problems are liabilities.
” I’m parroting Detective Ory’s words, hoping they sound smart and confident coming from me.
“Because maybe, just maybe, he’s the kind of man who doesn’t let his family terrorize innocent people. ”
The laugh that escapes him is rich and dark. “Innocent people. You think you’re innocent, Loriana?”
“I think I’m a woman trying to protect her business and her life from a spoiled psychopath who won’t take no for an answer.”
“And you think bringing Simeone into this equation will make you safer?”
There’s something in his tone that makes my skin crawl, a warning wrapped in silk. But I’ve come too far to back down now.
“I think it’s my only option left.”
He nods slowly, like I’ve passed some kind of test. “What’s your last name, little bird?”
“Parlato. Loriana Parlato.”
“And this business Flavio is threatening?”
“Crimson. It’s a bar on—”
“I know where it is.” His interruption is soft but definitive. “I know exactly where it is.”
The way he says it makes my blood chill. How does he know my bar? Has he been watching me too? Is this whole conversation some elaborate setup?
“You’re scared,” he observes, and it’s not a question.
“I’m cautious,” I echo his earlier words. “Just like you.”
Another smile, this one different from the others. More genuine, less predatory. “Smart girl. Fear keeps you alive in this world.”
“So does knowing when to take risks.”
“Is that what this is? A calculated risk?”
“Everything worth having requires risk.” I meet his gaze steadily. “The question is whether you’re going to help me get that meeting or if I need to find someone else who will.”
“Someone else.” He seems to find this amusing. “In the Viper’s Den, I am someone else. Everyone here answers to me, one way or another.”
The implication hits me like a physical blow. This isn’t just some connected guy I happened to strike up a conversation with. This is someone important, someone with real power in whatever organization runs this neighborhood.
“Then you can help me.”
“I can do a lot of things, little bird. The question is what you’re willing to give in return.”
“What do you want?”
His eyes rake over me slowly, not sexually but appraisingly, like he’s cataloging every detail. “That depends on what you’re offering.”
“The only thing I have to offer you is information about my misery with Flavio.”
“What information?”
“My problem with him started with vandalism, moved to stalking, and now he’s taking pictures through my bedroom window.” I pull out my phone and show him the latest photo, watching his expression darken as he takes in the implications.
“He’s coming into your house uninvited?”
“Yes.”
The glass in his hand cracks under the sudden pressure of his grip, whiskey leaking through his fingers onto the bar. The violence of his reaction should scare me, but instead, it fills me with savage satisfaction. Finally, someone who understands exactly how violated I feel.
“Go home, Loriana Parlato,” he says, his voice carrying an edge that makes everyone within earshot suddenly find their drinks very interesting. “Pack a bag. Stay with friends, family, anywhere but your apartment.”
“I’m not running away. That’s why I’m here—”
“You’re here because you’re brave and stupid in equal measure.” He stands abruptly, pulling a money clip from his pocket and throwing bills onto the bar. “But this conversation is over. Go and do as I say.”
“Wait.” I grab his arm before he can walk away, feeling the corded muscle tense under my fingers. “You still haven’t answered my question. Will you help me get a meeting with Simeone?”
He stares down at my hand on his arm, then slowly lifts his gaze to meet mine. There’s something dangerous in his eyes now.
“Tomorrow,” he says quietly. “We’ll send a car for you.”
“Who are you?” I whisper.
His smile returns, sharp and predatory. “Monacelli. Tiziano Monacelli.”
I pull my hand away. “I heard about you. The Silver Devil’s right-hand man. That’s you.”
“Among other things.” He tilts his hand to the side, studying me. “Are you sure you want to do this? There’s still time to back out.”
“I’m out of options.”
“No.” His eyes narrow ever so slightly, never leaving mine. “You always have options. You could run. You could hide. You could wait for Flavio to get bored and move on to easier prey.”
“That’s not who I am.”
“No,” he agrees, the corners of his mouth lifting. “It’s not. You’re the kind of woman who walks into the Viper’s Den and demands an audience with the devil himself.”
“So what happens now?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Now,” he says, nodding toward the door “you go home. And since you’re stupid enough to refuse to pack that bag, I suggest you stay awake and wait.”
“For what?”
“For your audience with the boss.”
I stare at him for a long moment, trying to read the subtext in his words, the promise and unspoken threat tangled together like barbed wire. Then I nod, grabbing my purse from the bar.
“At least this will soon be over,” I mutter.
“No,” he disagrees. “It’s just beginning.”
I walk away on unsteady legs, feeling his eyes track my movement across the room. Every step feels like walking through quicksand. At the door, I turn back once. He’s still watching me with that unreadable expression of his.
The bouncer nods as I pass, a gesture of respect that wasn’t there when I arrived. Word travels fast in places like this.
Outside, the night air feels like ice after the heat of his attention. I hail a cab with shaking hands, my mind reeling from everything that just happened.
I came looking for help dealing with Flavio, and instead I found something infinitely more dangerous. I found a man connected to the Silver Devil himself, a man who could probably destroy me with a phone call but instead, chose to hear my plea and send me home.
The cab pulls up to my building, and I stare up at my apartment windows, wondering if Flavio is watching from somewhere in the shadows. Wondering if the Silver Devil has already put his eyes on me, too.
Wondering what I’ve just set in motion by walking into the devil’s den and asking him to dance.
My phone buzzes as I climb the stairs to my apartment. A text from an unknown number: Still awake, little bird.
I stare at the message, my heart hammering against my ribs. Part of me wants to delete it, to pretend I never gave in to dating a psycho.
But as I unlock my apartment door and see one of the photos of me lying on the floor where I dropped it when I was on my way out, I know there’s no going back.
I’ve crossed a line tonight that can’t be uncrossed. I’ve asked the devil’s right-hand man for help, and now I have to live with whatever price his boss will demand in return.
But will I survive long enough to pay it?