Chapter 17 Loriana #2
Flavio’s grip on my arm loosens immediately, but he doesn’t let go completely. There’s something almost desperate in the way he holds onto me, like I’m his only shield against the predator who’s just entered the room.
“Zio,” he starts, his voice already taking on that wheedling tone I remember from our relationship. “I was just—”
“You were just leaving.” Simeone moves into the room with that fluid grace that marks him as an apex predator. He doesn’t look at me—all his attention is focused on his nephew with the intensity of a laser. “After you take your hands off what belongs to me.”
The possessive declaration should annoy me, should make me want to assert my independence and autonomy.
Instead, it sends heat pooling low in my belly and makes something primal and satisfied purr in my chest. Because right now, belonging to Simeone means protection from the monster gripping my arm.
“She was being disrespectful,” Flavio protests, but his voice lacks conviction. “I was just reminding her about proper behavior—”
“Were you?” Simeone’s voice remains conversational, almost gentle. But there’s something underneath it that makes the hair on my arms stand up. “And what did that reminder entail?”
“Nothing serious. Just a conversation between family—”
“Family.” The word drops between them like a stone into still water. “Is that what you call putting your hands on a pregnant woman? Family conversation?”
Flavio’s grip on my arm finally loosens completely, and I step away from him so quickly I nearly stumble. The relief of being free from his touch is overwhelming, but the tension in the room only increases as Simeone continues his slow approach.
“I wasn’t hurting her,” Flavio lies, and we all know it’s a lie. My arm throbs where his fingers dug in, and I’m certain there will be fingerprint bruises by tomorrow.
“No?” Simeone’s gaze flicks to me for the first time since entering the room, and those dark eyes miss nothing—not the way I’m cradling my injured arm, not the defensive way I’m standing, not the lingering fear in my expression. “Show me your arm, stellina.”
“It’s fine,” I start to protest, but the look he gives me cuts off the lie before it can fully form.
“Show me.”
I roll up my sleeve reluctantly, revealing the angry red marks Flavio’s fingers left on my skin. In the afternoon light streaming through the windows, the bruises are already starting to form—dark patches that will be purple by tomorrow.
The silence that follows is absolute, suffocating, pregnant with violence so thick I can taste it on my tongue. When Simeone finally speaks, his voice is so quiet I have to strain to hear it.
“You put marks on my woman.”
“It was an accident,” Flavio babbles, backing toward the wall like a trapped animal. “I didn’t mean—she was being difficult, and I just—”
“You marked what belongs to me.” Simeone’s voice doesn’t rise, doesn’t change tone, doesn’t carry any obvious threat. But somehow it fills the room with menace so absolute that I find myself holding my breath.
“Zio, please, I can explain—”
“Explain what? How you came into my home uninvited again? How you threatened my woman in my absence? How you put your hands on the mother of my child?” Each question is delivered with surgical precision, stripping away Flavio’s excuses layer by layer.
“I’m family,” Flavio tries desperately. “I belong here—”
“No.” The single word cuts through his protests like a scythe. “You’re a mistake I’ve been too sentimental to correct. But sentiment has limits, nipote. And you’ve just reached mine.”
The endearment sounds like a curse in Simeone’s mouth, twisted into something sharp and ugly. Flavio seems to shrink with every word, the arrogant young man who gripped my arm dissolving into the frightened boy he’s always been underneath the expensive suits and entitled attitude.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and there are actual tears in his eyes now. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“You meant every word.” Simeone is close enough now that Flavio has to crane his neck to meet his eyes. “You meant every threat, every insult, every mark you left on her skin. The only thing you’re sorry about is being caught.”
“Please—”
“Get out.” The command is soft, almost conversational. “Get out of my house, off my property, out of my sight. And if I ever—ever—see you near her again, I’ll forget I have tolerated you this long because of the love and bond I shared with my brother.”
The threat settles over us like a burial shroud. Flavio all but runs for the exit, his dignity forgotten in his haste. But he can’t resist one last look—not at the man who broke him, but at me.
His face makes my stomach drop into free fall. I see the hate, but it’s the calculating gleam behind it that promises retribution.
The door bangs shut behind him. His threats hang in the silence, mixed with the betraying smell of fear beneath his costly cologne.
In the sudden silence, I become hyperaware of Simeone’s presence—the way he fills the space Flavio vacated, the heat radiating from his skin, the controlled violence simmering just beneath his expensive suit.
“Stellina.” His voice is gentler now, but I can hear the fury underneath it. “Come here.”
I move toward him on unsteady legs, and when I’m close enough, his hands frame my face with infinite care—such a contrast to his nephew’s bruising grip that tears spring to my eyes.
“Are you hurt? Besides your arm?”
“No.” The word comes out shaky, betraying how much Flavio’s visit has rattled me. “Just scared.”
“Good.” His thumbs stroke across my cheekbones. “Fear keeps you alive in this world. But you’ll never have to face him alone again.”
“How can you be sure? He’s family—”
“Even family needs to be kept in line.” His tone is absolute, final. “If he doesn’t stay in his place, he’ll be just another threat to eliminate.”
The casual way he discusses murdering his own nephew should horrify me. But for some reason, it sends a dark thrill through my veins.
“Simeone—”
“I should have made it clear to the guards that he’s not welcome here without my permission.” His voice hardens with self-recrimination. “I let my feelings for my family cloud my judgment. I’m sorry you had to pay the price of my mistake.”
“I can handle Flavio—”
“You shouldn’t have to.” His hands tighten on my face, not enough to hurt but enough to command my complete attention. “You’re under my protection, stellina. That means no one—no one—touches you without consequence.”
The possessive declaration makes heat pool between my thighs despite everything that just happened. There’s something primitively satisfying about his claim, about knowing that this dangerous, powerful man considers me his to protect.
“What are you going to do?” I whisper.
His smile is sharp and dangerous, beautiful and terrible in equal measure. “Whatever needs to be done.”
That vow pulses between us, dangerous as a live wire. Staring into his black eyes, I’m shaken to discover I don’t fear his offered violence—I want it.
I’m grateful for it.
The realization should probably scare me more than Flavio’s threats. But because the sentiment comes from Simeone, it makes me feel alive in a way I haven’t since this whole nightmare began.
Because for the first time since I walked into his world, I’m not just a victim to be protected.
I’m a queen whose king is ready to go to war for.