Chapter 6 Loriana
Loriana
Ten days later…
Crimson’s last customer finally stumbles out, leaving behind empty drinks and the smell of cigarettes and spilled beer. Friday night was our best in months, every table occupied, the till stuffed with more cash than I’ve seen since before Flavio’s harassment campaign began.
“You want me to stay and help close?” Mia asks, already reaching for her jacket. The exhaustion in her voice tells me she’s hoping I’ll say no.
“I’ve got it covered.” I wave her toward the door, needing the solitude to process how dramatically my life has changed. “Go home, girls. You’ve earned your rest.”
“Thanks, boss.” Sofia follows Mia toward the exit, pausing only to grab her purse from behind the bar. “Great night, huh? Feels like old times.”
Old times. Before anonymous threats and broken windows. Before, there were restraining orders that meant nothing and police reports filed in vain. Before I walked into a mafia don’s office and emerged with protection that came at a price, I’m still not sure how to pay.
The door closes behind my staff with a soft chime, leaving me alone with the aftermath of success. I should feel triumphant, vindicated, proud of what I’ve rebuilt from the ashes of Flavio’s destruction.
Instead, I feel empty. Like I’m waiting for a storm that’s already brewing on the horizon.
I’m stacking chairs on tables when the front door opens again, the chime cutting through the silence like a blade. My heart lurches against my ribs because I know, without looking, who’s entered my domain at this ungodly hour.
Simeone Codella steps into my bar like he owns it, which he probably does in every way that matters. He’s traded his expensive suits for dark jeans and a charcoal Henley that clings to his broad chest, making him look less like a businessman and more like the predator he truly is.
“We’re closed,” I say without turning around, focusing on my task with mechanical precision. “Have been for twenty minutes.”
“I’m not here as a customer.”
His voice is rough silk that makes my skin prickle with unwanted awareness. I force myself to continue stacking chairs, to maintain the illusion that his presence doesn’t affect me like a match thrown into gasoline.
“Then what are you here as?”
“A man checking on his investment.”
The casual possessiveness in his tone makes my hands still on the chair I’m lifting. “Your investment?”
“My protection of you and this establishment.” He moves through the space with fluid grace, and I can feel his eyes cataloging every detail. “Making sure there are no lingering problems.”
“No problems.” I resume my closing routine, wiping down tables with more force than necessary. “Your nephew seems to have gotten the message.”
“Good.” The single word carries the weight of absolute authority. “Though that’s not the only reason why I’m here.”
Of course it isn’t. My pulse hammers against my throat as I risk a glance in his direction, immediately regretting the decision when I find him watching me with predatory intensity.
He’s beautiful in the way apex predators are beautiful. Full of controlled power and dangerous grace wrapped in a package designed to lure prey close enough to devour. Silver threads run through his dark hair like moonlight on water. His obsidian eyes hold secrets that could destroy kingdoms.
This man has killed people. Probably with his own hands. The thought should terrify me, should send me running for the nearest exit. But instead, for some reason that’s completely unknown to me, it sends heat pooling low in my belly, and I hate myself for the reaction.
“What’s the other reason?” I ask, proud that my voice remains steady.
“You know why I’m here, stellina.”
The endearment hits me like a physical caress, making my breath catch despite my best efforts to remain unaffected. He’s doing this deliberately, using that voice, that accent, those pet names to chip away at my defenses.
“No, actually I don’t,” I lie, continuing to clean tables that are already spotless.
“Don’t you?” He’s closer now, though I didn’t hear him move. “Then why does your pulse spike every time I speak? Why do your hands shake when you look at me?”
Because you’re dangerous, I want to scream. Because you’re everything I should run from, everything smart women avoid, everything that leads to heartbreak and destruction and headlines about missing persons.
Because despite knowing all of that, I can’t stop thinking about the way your mouth felt against mine.
“You’re imagining things,” I manage to say instead.
“Am I?” His laugh is dark honey, rich and intoxicating. “Look at me, Loriana.”
The command in his voice is soft but absolute. Against my better judgment, I turn to face him fully, immediately regretting the decision when I see the hunger blazing in his dark eyes.
“Tell me you haven’t thought about what happened in my office,” he says quietly. “Tell me you haven’t replayed that kiss in your mind every night for the last ten days.”
Heat floods my cheeks because he’s right. I have thought about it obsessively until the memory has carved grooves into my consciousness. The taste of whiskey on his tongue, the feel of his hands tangling in my hair, the way he kissed me like I was air and he was drowning.
“That was a mistake,” I whisper.
“Was it?” He takes a step closer, then another, backing me against the bar with slow, deliberate movements. “Because from where I stood, it felt like you were into it. Quite a lot if you don’t mind me saying so.”
My palms flatten against the mahogany surface behind me, seeking stability as he invades my space. This is dangerous territory, being alone with him in my closed bar, with no witnesses to whatever happens next.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” I breathe.
“I want you to stop lying to yourself.” His hands come up to brace against the bar on either side of me, caging me between solid muscle and wood.
“I want you to admit that you feel this thing between us, this connection that has nothing to do with logic or safety or smart choices. The attraction, if you will.”
“Feeling something doesn’t mean acting on it.” My voice is barely above a whisper, betraying how much his proximity affects me.
“Doesn’t it?” His face is inches from mine now, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something dark and expensive that makes my head spin. “When was the last time you wanted something just for the sake of wanting it?”
Never. The honest answer is never, because wanting things has always been a luxury I couldn’t afford. But I can’t tell him that, can’t reveal how his question cuts straight to the heart of everything I’ve denied myself.
“This isn’t about want,” I protest weakly.
“Isn’t it?” His thumb traces the rapid pulse in my throat with feather-light precision. “Then why is your heart racing? Why are you looking at my mouth like you’re remembering exactly how it tastes?”
Because I am remembering, God help me. And the memory is driving me slowly insane with a need I don’t understand and can’t control.
“You’re twenty years older than me,” I say desperately, grasping for reasons to maintain distance. “You’re dangerous. You’re—”
“I’m the man who’s been haunting your dreams,” he finishes, and his arrogance would be infuriating if it weren’t so accurate.
“Age is just a number, stellina. It comes with experience that will make you squirm. And danger...” His smile is sharp, predatory.
“Danger makes everything more interesting.”
“I don’t want interesting.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. “I want safe. Predictable. Normal.”
“No, you don’t.” His voice drops to that whisper that makes my toes curl in my boots. “If you wanted safe, you wouldn’t have walked into my office ten days ago. You wouldn’t have kissed me back like you were starving for my touch.”
The memory of that kiss crashes over me like a tidal wave, making my knees weak with remembered pleasure. I did kiss him back, desperately, hungrily, like I’d been waiting my entire life for the taste of his mouth.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” I whisper, but we both know I’m lying.
“Doesn’t it?” His other hand comes up to cup my face, tilting my chin until I’m forced to meet his intense stare. “Then prove it.”
“Prove what?”
“That you feel nothing when I touch you.” His thumb strokes across my lower lip with devastating gentleness. “Kiss me, and if you can walk away afterward, I’ll never bother you again.”
The challenge hangs between us like a loaded weapon from a fucking Russian roulette. He’s calling my bluff, daring me to test the connection that’s been crackling between us like live wire.
I should refuse. Should step away from his intoxicating proximity and demand that he leave my bar. Should remember that he’s everything I should fear, everything smart women avoid. Instead, I find myself rising on my tiptoes, closing the distance between us with trembling determination.
When our mouths meet, it’s with the force of a collision. Devastating and inescapable. He kisses me like he owns me, his tongue stroking deep while his teeth catch my lip with just enough bite to make me arch into him with a sound I’ve never made before.
He tastes like dark promises, like everything forbidden that I’ve ever craved. When his tongue sweeps past my lips, I moan into his mouth and fist my hands in his shirt, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between us.
Every rational thought screams that this is wrong, dangerous, catastrophic. But my body betrays every logical argument, arching into him like I was made for this moment, for the devastating expertise of a man who kisses like he conquers.
His fingers twist through my hair with possessive force, tilting my head back to give him deeper access.
The kiss turns brutal and all-consuming.
His tongue strokes against mine with burning passion that makes my entire body heat up with need and desire I’ve never experienced.
Lust—that’s the correct word to describe it, to describe him.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard, staring at each other with something that looks like shock. His pupils are dilated, his silver hair mussed from my desperate fingers, and there’s a possessive satisfaction in his expression that makes my stomach clench with anxiety.
Reality washes over me like ice water. What have I done? I’ve just kissed a criminal, a man who operates outside every moral boundary I’ve built my life around. And worse, I enjoyed it. Craved it. Wanted more.
“This too was a mistake,” I breathe, pressing my hands against his chest to create distance. “A huge mistake.”
“Was it?” His voice is rough with desire, and he makes no move to step away. “Because from where I’m standing, it felt like the beginning of something.”
“The beginning of what? My destruction?” I push harder, and this time he allows me to create space between us. “You’re a dangerous man, Simeone. The kind of man who ruins everything he touches.”
“And you’re a woman brave enough to touch me anyway.” His smile is sharp and satisfied, like a cat who’s caught a particularly elusive mouse. “What does that say about you, stellina?”
That I’m an idiot. That I’m self-destructive. That I have terrible judgment and worse impulse control.
“It says I need you to leave,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around myself like armor. “Now.”
For a moment, I think he might refuse. His dark eyes study my face with unsettling intensity. It’s like he’s reading each and every one of my secrets, including the ones I don’t even know exist.
Then he steps back, straightening his shirt with deliberate calm that makes my skin crawl with frustrated awareness.
“This isn’t over,” he says quietly. “What’s between us is not going away just because it scares you.”
“There’s nothing between us.”
“Keep telling yourself that, little star.” He moves toward the door with that fluid grace that marks him as an apex predator. “But we both know the truth now.”
“Which is what?”
He pauses in the doorway, turning back with a smile that’s equal parts promise and threat.
“That you want me just as much as I want you. And sooner or later, you’re going to stop fighting it. You belong to me now. Don’t forget that. Everything in life comes at a price. Even peace.”
The soft chime of the closing door sounds like a verdict being read. I slump down the mahogany surface until I hit the floor, burying my face against my knees while the taste of him lingers like a brand on my tongue—proof of how easily I’ve betrayed everything I thought I knew about myself.
I kissed him again, even though every logical reason opposed it, even though I knew exactly what kind of man he is, and even though I understood that getting involved with him would be like jumping into a volcano.
And the worst part? Some traitorous part of me is already craving the next time.
Outside, a car engine purrs to life, and I know he’s been waiting, watching, making sure I’m okay before disappearing back into whatever shadows powerful men like him call home.
The thought should disturb me. But understanding his motives scares me more than anything else because it makes me feel safe in a way I’ve never felt before.
Because if I’m already thinking of his surveillance as protection instead of stalking, how far have I already fallen into his web? Will I ever find the strength to climb back out? Is there even a way out of this, or am I too far gone?