Chapter 8 Loriana
Loriana
My phone buzzes against the mahogany bar top like a venomous snake, its screen lighting up with another unknown number.
I don’t need to read the message to know it’s another threat—the third one this week.
My hands shake as I reach for the device, even though every rational part of my brain screams at me to ignore it.
You smell like jasmine and betrayal. Sweet dreams, little whore.
The words hit me like ice water, making my blood freeze in my veins. I drop the phone so fast it skitters across the bar, coming to rest against a half-empty bottle of whiskey that suddenly looks very appealing despite the early hour.
“Everything alright, boss?” Clay’s voice cuts through the silence as he shoulders his way out of the storage room, a case of beer balanced against his hip. His weathered features tighten when he spots my ashen face and the way my hands won’t stop shaking.
“Fine,” I lie, shoving the phone into my apron pocket before he can see the screen. “Just tired. It’s been a long week.”
A long week since I let Simeone Codella claim my virginity with the expertise of a man who’s mastered the art of complete possession.
A long week of waking up with phantom touches burning across my skin and the memory of his voice promising that I belong to him now, whether I like it or not.
A long week of trying to convince myself that the anonymous threats are just a coincidence, not connected to the dangerous world I’ve willingly stepped into.
Clay sets down the beer with more force than necessary, the bottles clinking together like wind chimes in a storm. “Loriana, I’ve been working for you for three years. I know when you’re lying, and you’re doing a piss-poor job of it right now.”
I meet his gray eyes, seeing the paternal concern that’s become as familiar as my own reflection.
Clay lost his daughter in a car accident five years ago—drunk driver, wrong place, wrong time—and I know he’s transferred some of that protective energy onto me.
It’s both touching and terrifying, because if something happens to me, I’ll be putting him through that loss all over again.
“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” I say, but the words ring hollow even to my own ears.
“Is it those texts you keep getting? The ones that make you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”
My poker face crumbles completely. “How did you—”
“Because I pay attention.” He moves closer, lowering his voice even though we’re alone in the bar. “And because there’s been men watching this place. Different ones every day, but they’re there. Professional types who think they’re being subtle but stick out like sore thumbs in this neighborhood.”
Professional surveillance. The kind that comes with expensive suits and earpieces and orders from very powerful men. Either Simeone is having me watched for protection, or someone else is watching me for entirely different reasons.
“What kind of men?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want the answer.
“The kind who know how to hurt people without leaving evidence.” Clay’s expression darkens. “Loriana, whatever you’ve gotten yourself mixed up in, it’s bigger than harassment from a spoiled boyfriend. This is serious shit.”
You have no idea how serious, I think, but don’t say.
How can I explain that I’ve traded one nightmare for another? That in seeking protection from Flavio’s stalking, I might have painted a target on my back for his uncle’s enemies?
Or worse—what if Simeone lied to me? What if he never actually dealt with Flavio at all, and this is just the next stage of my ex’s escalating campaign of terror?
The thought makes my stomach churn with nausea and betrayal.
I gave myself to Simeone completely, trusted him with my body and my safety, believed him when he promised that Flavio wouldn’t be a problem anymore.
If he lied about that, what else did he lie about?
I know he’s dangerous, but is he just as unhinged as his nephew?
“I need to go somewhere,” I hear myself saying. “Can you handle the lunch rush alone?”
Clay nods without hesitation. “Where are you going?”
“To get some answers.”
Every stoplight, every curve on the way to Simeone’s estate feels like torture.
My hands are slick on the wheel, dread building with each mile marker.
The anonymous texts have escalated from generic threats to disturbingly specific details—my morning routine, the jasmine perfume I wear, the fact that I live alone above the bar.
Someone is watching me closely enough to know intimate details about my life, and I need to know if that someone is the man I trusted with my virginity or the psychopath I thought he’d handled.
The iron gates of his property loom before me like the entrance to another world—one where normal rules don’t apply and violence is just another business expense. I give my name to the intercom, half-expecting to be turned away, but the gates swing open immediately.
He’s expecting me, I realize with a chill. He’s been expecting me.
The mansion sprawls before me in all its intimidating glory, beautiful and dangerous in equal measure. Like its owner. I park my ancient Honda between two luxury vehicles that cost more than my bar earns in five years, feeling distinctly out of place in this world of marble and money.
Tiziano appears before I can even knock, his winter-pale eyes unreadable as he ushers me through hallways lined with priceless art and fresh flowers.
“He’s in his office,” Tiziano says, opening familiar double doors. “He’s waiting for you.”
The implication hangs heavy in the air. Simeone knew I would come. Knew I would eventually need answers badly enough to venture back into his domain, despite the way our last encounter ended with his possessive threats and my defiance.
He’s standing with his back to the door when I enter, silver hair catching the afternoon light as he stares out the floor-to-ceiling windows at his perfectly manicured grounds.
Even in profile, he’s devastating—all controlled power and dangerous grace wrapped in an expensive suit that’s been tailored to perfection.
“Stellina.” He turns as the door closes behind me, and the impact of his full attention hits me like a physical blow. Those obsidian eyes rake over me with possessive hunger that makes my skin flush with unwanted heat. “I wondered how long it would take you to come to me.”
“Don’t.” The word comes out sharper than I intended. “Don’t call me that, and don’t look at me like you own me.”
His smile is pure predator—sharp, knowing, absolutely devastating. “But I do own you, don’t I? Every time you close your eyes, you remember exactly how it felt to have my hands on your body, my name on your lips. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Heat floods my cheeks because he’s absolutely right, and we both know it. I’ve spent every night since our encounter reliving every touch, every whispered endearment, every moment of pleasure he wrung from my inexperienced body with the skill of a master musician.
“That’s not why I’m here,” I manage, though my voice lacks conviction.
“No?” He moves closer with that fluid grace of a lion on the hunt. “Then why are you here, stellina? What’s driven you back to my door despite all your protests about wanting nothing to do with dangerous men?”
I pull out my phone and show him the latest text, watching his expression darken as he reads the threatening words. “This. The messages never fully stopped, and they’re getting worse. More specific. More personal.”
He takes the phone from my trembling hands, his fingers brushing mine in a contact that sends electricity shooting up my arm despite the gravity of the situation.
As he scrolls through the messages, I watch his face transform from casual interest to cold fury that makes the temperature in the room drop several degrees.
“How many?” His voice is soft and deadly, the kind of quiet that precedes violence.
“Fifteen in the last three days alone. All from different numbers, but the tone is consistent. Someone’s watching me, Simeone. They know details about my life, my routine, things that...” I swallow hard. “Things that intimate partners would know.”
His jaw ticks with barely controlled rage. “You think it’s Flavio.”
“I don’t know what to think. You said you handled him, but someone is terrorizing me, and the messages reference things he would know. My perfume, the way I brush my teeth, details about my apartment.” I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warm afternoon. “If you lied to me—”
“I don’t lie, especially not to women I’ve fucked.” The crude language makes me flinch, but his expression remains deadly serious. “When I told you Flavio wouldn’t be a problem, I meant it. He’s been... educated about the consequences of continuing his harassment.”
“Then who—”
“Flavio has friends. Associates who might see your connection to me as an opportunity for revenge or leverage.” He sets my phone on his desk with careful precision, like he’s restraining himself from crushing it in his grip. “Or enemies of mine who’ve identified you as a potential weakness.”
Me. A weakness.
The description sits in my chest like a stone. I came to him for protection, and instead I’ve made myself a target for anyone who wants to hurt the Silver Devil. I’ve painted a bullseye on my back by association, and now I’m trapped between the monster I know and the ones I don’t.
“So what you’re saying is that by seeking your help, I’ve made everything worse.”
“What I’m saying is that you’re under my protection now, which makes threats against you very personal matters.” He moves behind his desk, reaching for something in the top drawer. “I’ll handle this the way I handle all challenges to my authority.”
“By killing people?” The question slips out before I can stop it, raw and honest in the quiet office.