Chapter 15 Loriana
Loriana
The crash of shattering glass echoes through Crimson as another beer bottle hits the floor, and I know without looking that it’s the third one tonight. My hands shake as I reach for the broom, the familiar weight of it grounding me in a way that nothing else has for the past three days.
Three days since Simeone declared we’re getting married like he’s ordering dinner from a menu.
Three days since I’ve been a prisoner in paradise, pacing his estate like a caged animal while he conducts business and pretends my entire world hasn’t been turned upside down.
Three more days of morning sickness that makes me want to die, hormones that have me crying over television commercials, and the growing certainty that I’m losing myself in his beautiful, suffocating world.
“Careful there, boss,” Clay says, steadying my elbow as I sway slightly. “You sure you should be here tonight?”
I should be home—Simeone’s home, not mine—resting like the good little pregnant mafia wife-to-be he expects me to become. But I couldn’t stand another night of silk sheets and armed guards and the weight of his expectations pressing down on me like a physical force.
So I snuck out. Actually snuck out of a fortress like some teenager rebelling against her parents, using the service entrance while his security detail was occupied with shift changes.
“I’m exactly where I should be,” I tell Clay, sweeping up the glass with movements that are probably too aggressive for my condition. “This is my bar. My life. My choice.”
The words taste like defiance and desperation in equal measure. Because is this really my choice anymore? Or am I just fighting the inevitable, clinging to scraps of independence while the man who claims to own me tightens his golden chains?
The bell above the door chimes, and I look up expecting another regular looking for their usual Friday night escape. Instead, I find winter-pale eyes and an apologetic expression that makes my blood turn to ice.
Tiziano.
“Miss Parlato.” His voice carries that diplomatic tone that somehow makes everything sound like a threat wrapped in silk. “The boss would like you to come home now.”
“The boss can go fuck himself,” I snap, earning a surprised look from Clay and a raised eyebrow from Tiziano. “I’m working.”
“With respect, Miss Parlato, you’re pregnant and it’s past midnight. Mr. Codella is concerned about your health. And safety.”
“Mr. Codella’s concern is noted and rejected.” I turn back to the bar, aggressively wiping down surfaces that are already clean. “Tell him I’ll be home when I’m ready.”
“I’m afraid that’s not an option.”
The quiet authority in his voice makes me turn around, and I see two more men standing by the door—not threatening, exactly, but definitely not taking no for an answer. This isn’t a request. It’s a politely worded kidnapping.
“Are you serious right now?” I set down the bar towel with enough force to make the bottles rattle. “He sent you to drag me home like some runaway child?”
“He sent me to ensure your safety,” Tiziano corrects. “The streets aren’t safe at this hour, especially for someone in your... condition.”
My condition. Like pregnancy is some kind of disease that makes me incapable of functioning in the world I built for myself.
“Clay,” I call over my shoulder. “Can you close up?”
My bartender nods, but his gray eyes are worried as they track between me and Simeone’s men. “You sure about this, Loriana? I can call someone—”
“There’s no one to call.” The bitter truth of that statement hits me harder than it should. No family to rescue me, no friends who could stand against the Codella name, no one who can protect me from the man who’s decided I belong to him. “It’s fine. Just... lock up tight, okay?”
The car cuts through the night in suffocating silence, broken only by Tiziano’s eyes finding mine in the rearview mirror—brief, wary glances that confirm he can feel the rage radiating from the backseat.
When we finally sweep through the iron gates of the estate, my fury has hardened into something deadly and precise.
Simeone wants to control my life? Fine. But he’s going to hear exactly what I think about his high-handed methods.
I slam through the front door and stride straight to his office, throwing the doors open without ceremony—fury in denim and righteous indignation personified.
“We need to talk,” I announce, then stop dead in my tracks.
He’s behind his massive desk, sleeves rolled up to reveal powerful forearms, silver hair catching the lamplight like moon fire.
Those obsidian eyes lift from whatever document he was reviewing, and the way they drink me in—possessive, hungry, absolutely devastating—makes my breath catch despite my fury.
“Stellina.” His voice is silk over steel, and I hate how it makes my pulse spike with unwanted awareness. “I was wondering when you’d come home.”
“I was at work. You know, that thing people do to support themselves instead of relying on mafia dons to pay their bills?”
“Were you?” He sets down his pen with deliberate precision, the movement drawing my attention to his hands—hands that have touched every inch of my body, that know exactly how to make me fall apart.
“Because from what Tiziano tells me, you were endangering yourself and our child by sneaking out of a secure location to serve drinks to drunks.”
“Endangering myself?” I move closer to his desk, fury overriding the way his proximity always makes my skin prickle with electricity.
“By going to my own business? By trying to maintain some semblance of the life I had before your psychotic nephew started harassing me, and then you decided to rearrange it to suit your preferences?”
“The life you had before was a fantasy.” He stands slowly, and suddenly the desk feels like an inadequate barrier between predator and prey. “You were already living on borrowed time, already marked for violence by people who wanted to hurt me through you.”
“So this is my fault? For existing in your orbit?”
“This is biology, stellina.” His eyes drop to my stomach with possessive satisfaction that makes heat pool low in my belly despite my anger. “You’re carrying my child. That makes you the most important person in my world and the biggest target for my enemies.”
“I never asked to be important to you.”
“Didn’t you?” He rounds the desk with that fluid grace that never fails to make my mouth go dry. “When you asked for my protection? When you kissed me in your bar? When you pulled me into your bed and spread your legs for me?”
Each word lands like a physical blow, peeling away my defenses layer by layer until I’m completely exposed. The pull between us thrums under my skin—relentless and undeniable.
“That was different—”
“Was it?” He’s close enough now that I can smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his skin. “Because what I remember is you choosing me. Repeatedly. Even when you knew exactly what kind of man I am.”
“I chose to sleep with you. I didn’t choose to become your property.”
“No?” His smile is sharp. “Then why are you here, stellina? Why didn’t you keep running when you had the chance?”
“Because your men dragged me back!”
“Because you wanted to come back.” He moves closer, backing me against the bookshelf with slow, deliberate steps. “Because despite all your protests about independence and choice, you know exactly where you belong.”
“I belong to myself,” I protest, but the words lack conviction when his proximity is scrambling my thoughts and making my body hum with awareness.
“Do you?” His hands come up to brace against the shelf on either side of my head, caging me with solid muscle and expensive fabric. “Why are you looking at me like you want to either hit me or kiss me?”
“Maybe both,” I admit breathlessly.
“I can work with both.” His voice drops to that whisper that makes my toes curl in my boots.
“But first, you’re going to understand something, stellina.
You don’t get to risk yourself anymore. You don’t get to sneak out of my protection to prove a point.
You don’t get to endanger our child because you’re angry about losing your independence. ”
“Our child,” I repeat, and there’s something almost mocking in my tone. “Funny how it becomes ‘ours’ when you want to control my behavior, but it’s ‘mine’ when you’re talking about heirs and bloodlines.”
“It’s ours,” he corrects quietly. “Always. But that means I get a say in how you take care of yourself.”
“You don’t get a say in anything I do until I agree to marry you. Which, for the record, I haven’t.”
“Haven’t you?” His thumb traces the line of my jaw with devastating gentleness. “Because just the fact that you’re here seems like you’re saying yes. Your mouth might not be there yet, but your body definitely is.”
He’s right. My traitorous body is melting against him. Despite my fury, despite my protests about independence, despite every logical reason I should push him away, I’m drawn to him like a moth to flame.
“My body saying yes doesn’t mean my mind agrees.”
“Then convince me,” he murmurs, leaning closer until his breath ghosts across my lips. “Tell me you don’t want me. Tell me you don’t think about that night in your apartment every time I get close. Tell me you’d rather face the threats against you alone again than accept my protection.”
“I—” The protest dies in my throat because we both know I can’t make any of those claims honestly.
“You’ve been testing my patience, stellina.” His other hand moves to my waist, and I can feel the heat of his palm through my shirt. “Sneaking out, putting yourself in danger, fighting me at every turn when we both know how this ends.”
“How does it end?” The question comes out barely audible.
“With you surrendering to what you want.” His mouth hovers inches from mine, close enough that I can feel the electricity crackling between us. “With you admitting that you’re mine, that you’ve been mine since the moment you walked into my office.”