Chapter 10 Loriana #2
I hunt for manipulation in the lines of his face and find only exhaustion. The kind that comes from making impossible choices. He hates this as much as I do—the necessity of it, the way danger has forced our hands. We’re both victims of circumstances that laugh at what we want.
“What about my bar? My life, my routine—”
“Clay can manage the Crimson with additional security. Your life continues, just from a different location.” He straightens, putting minimal distance between us while keeping me trapped against the counter. “It’s not permanent, Loriana. It’s practical.”
Practical. Like discussing the weather or choosing which restaurant to visit for dinner. Not like upending my entire existence to move into a mafia don’s mansion because faceless enemies are using me to hurt him.
“I need to pack,” I hear myself saying, though I’m not sure when I made the decision.
Relief floods his features so intensely that I wonder if he was more worried about my refusal than he let on. “We leave in twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes?” I stare at him incredulously. “I need more time than that to pack up my life.”
“You need less time than that to stay alive.” His voice hardens, all business now that I’ve agreed. “Pack essentials. Everything else can be retrieved later under proper security.”
“This is insane,” I mutter, but I’m already moving toward my bedroom to gather clothes. “A few weeks ago, I was a simple bar owner with simple problems. Now I’m fleeing my apartment in the middle of the night because mafia wars are being fought over my head.”
“A few weeks ago, you were a simple bar owner who caught the attention of a very complicated man.” He follows me, watching as I throw clothes into a suitcase with shaking hands. “Now you’re under his protection, for better or worse.”
The words hang between us like wedding vows, binding us together in ways that have nothing to do with love and everything to do with survival.
I grab essentials—clothes, toiletries, the few pieces of jewelry that belonged to my mother. Each item I pack feels like another step away from the life I built for myself and toward something I don’t understand but can’t escape.
“The bar will be okay?” I ask as I zip up the suitcase. “Clay and the girls—”
“Will be protected.” His promise is absolute. “Anyone who threatens what’s yours threatens what’s mine.”
The territorial edge to his words should set my teeth on edge, yet it doesn’t. Instead, there’s something almost soothing about his absolute conviction, the way he speaks of my world as if it’s already under his protection. Safety guaranteed, even if the price is distance.
“Ready?” he asks as I shoulder my overnight bag.
I look around my apartment—at the broken glass still scattered across my bedroom floor, the bloody footprints I left on the hardwood, the jagged hole where my window used to provide light and fresh air. This was my sanctuary, my refuge from the world, and now it feels more like a crime scene.
“No,” I answer honestly. “But let’s go anyway.”
His nod carries the weight of resignation—we move now or we don’t move at all. The phone buzzes against the silence like an unwelcome reminder that the outside world won’t wait for us to be ready.
“Si,” he answers curtly, switching to Italian as we step into the hallway.
The rapid-fire conversation is too fast for me to follow, but I learned enough Italian during my time with Flavio that I catch enough words to understand it’s about security, about threats, about the hunt for whoever violated my sanctuary tonight.
When he hangs up, his expression is grim.
“What is it?” I ask as we descend the stairs toward the street.
“They found the point of entry. The fire escape access was forced—professional tools, minimal damage, someone who knew exactly what they were doing.”
A chill runs down my spine. “Professional.”
“Or someone who’s learned professional techniques.” We reach the street level, where a black Bentley idles at the curb with Tiziano behind the wheel. “Either way, this isn’t over.”
As he helps me into the car, I catch a glimpse of two other vehicles—security details that will escort us to his estate. The reality of my new life hits me all at once: armed guards, bulletproof cars, a fortress mansion where every window is bulletproof and every door is monitored.
I’m trading my independence for protection, my freedom for safety, my simple life for survival in his dangerous world.
The car pulls away from my building, and I watch my neighborhood disappear through the tinted windows. Everything familiar and comfortable and mine grows smaller in the distance until it’s just another collection of lights in the city that never sleeps.
“Regrets?” Simeone asks quietly, noting my silence.
“Plenty.” I turn to look at him, this man whose protection comes with a price I’m still figuring out. “But not about staying alive.”
His smile is sharp, satisfied, absolutely devastating. “That’s all I need to hear.”
But as we drive through the empty streets toward his estate, his phone rings again. This time, the conversation is shorter, sharper, and when he hangs up, the temperature in the car seems to drop several degrees.
“What?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to know.
“They found something else at your apartment.” His voice is carefully controlled, which somehow makes it more frightening. “A surveillance device. Professional grade, military specification.”
My blood turns to ice. “How long has it been there?”
“No idea who’s behind it. But they’ve been watching you long enough to know everything—your schedule, your habits, your weak points.” He meets my eyes, both of us understanding the implications. “Whoever this is, they’ve done their homework.”
The implications crash over me like a tidal wave. Someone has been in my apartment, touched my things, watched me sleep and eat and live my life through electronic eyes. The violation feels worse than the broken window, more invasive than the threats.
“Who would do that?”
“Someone who’s been planning this for a while,” he says quietly. “Someone who wants more than just to scare you.”
The car turns through iron gates that close behind us with the finality of prison doors. As we approach his mansion—beautiful and imposing and nothing like the life I’m leaving behind—Simeone’s phone rings once more.
This time, when he answers, his entire body goes rigid.
“Cosa?” The word is sharp, dangerous.
The conversation that follows is rapid Italian, but I don’t need translation to understand that something has gone very, very wrong. When he hangs up, his expression is murderous.
“Simeone?” My voice comes out smaller than intended.
He turns to me, and in his eyes, I see something that makes my blood freeze in my veins.
“They weren’t just watching you, stellina.” His voice is soft, deadly. “They were studying you. Learning your patterns, your security, your vulnerabilities.”
“For what?”
His smile is sharp enough to cut glass, and suddenly I understand that I haven’t been rescued from danger—I’ve been dropped into the center of a war I have no business being a part of.
“For the perfect moment to take you.”