Chapter 18 Simeone
Simeone
The sound of Loriana’s bare feet slapping against marble echoes through the house in the pre-dawn darkness, followed by the crash of my office door slamming open hard enough to rattle the windows.
She stands in the doorway like an avenging angel wrapped in silk and fury, her dark hair wild from sleep and her brown eyes blazing with the kind of righteous anger that could topple governments.
Magnificent. Absolutely fucking magnificent.
“You son of a bitch,” she snarls, storming into my sanctuary with the grace of a wildcat and twice the lethality. “How dare you?”
I don’t look up from the intelligence reports spread across my desk—detailed surveillance on every known associate of Flavio’s, financial records that paint a picture of a young man drowning in debt and desperation. The kind of desperation that makes people do unforgivable things.
“Language, stellina.” I turn a page, noting Giuseppe Longino’s casino losses from last week. Fascinating how quickly money disappears when you’re trying to fill emotional voids with cards and dice. “What seems to be the problem?”
“The problem?” Her voice climbs an octave. “The problem is that you gutted my project like it was nothing. Like all the hours I put into planning meant less than dirt under your fingernails.”
Now I do look up, drinking in the sight of her rage like fine wine. The silk nightgown clings to curves I’ve memorized with my hands, and even furious, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever claimed.
“I made tactical adjustments—”
“You destroyed it.” She moves closer, and I catch the scent of jasmine and sleepless nights. “The contractors were dismissed. My materials vanished. The site was cleared like it never existed.”
“Security demanded—”
“Security demanded nothing.” Her palms slam against my desk hard enough to scatter papers. “Your paranoia demanded it. Your need to control every breath I take demanded it.”
I set down the file slowly, rising from my chair with the kind of deliberate calm that’s made grown men weep. “Careful, Loriana. You’re treading on dangerous ground.”
“Am I?” Fire dances in her eyes, beautiful and reckless. “What are you going to do? Lock me in a tower? Hire more guards? Maybe chain me to the bed so I can’t inconvenience you with my humanity?”
The images her words conjure make my cock twitch behind the confines of my pants, but I push down the hunger. There are more pressing matters than the way her fury makes me want to devour her.
“Flavio’s gambling debts have reached critical mass,” I say instead, gesturing to the reports. “Three separate families are circling like vultures, and word has leaked about your condition. The threat level has escalated beyond acceptable parameters.”
“My condition?” She laughs, sharp and bitter. “You mean my pregnancy? The child you put inside when you conveniently forgot to put on a fucking condom?”
“The child that makes you the perfect target for anyone wanting leverage against me.” I walk around the desk, noticing how she doesn’t step back despite the threatening energy I’m giving off. “Every enemy I’ve made in twenty years sees you as a chance for revenge now.”
“So, I become a prisoner in a maximum security prison because other people are fighting the monster called Silver devil?”
“You become protected because I refuse to lose what’s mine.” The possessive declaration rolls off my tongue like a prayer. “And you are mine, stellina. Completely, irrevocably, eternally mine.”
“I’m my own person—”
“You’re the mother of my child. You’re under my protection. You’re sleeping in my bed.” I stop close enough to see the pulse hammering in her throat. “The semantics of ownership can be debated later.”
“There won’t be a later if you suffocate me with your protection.” Her chin lifts with that defiance that never fails to make my cock harder than steel. “I can’t breathe in this place anymore, Simeone. Can’t think. Can’t create. Can’t exist as anything more than a vessel for your heir.”
The pain in her voice cuts deeper than it should, but safety trumps comfort in my world. Always.
“Better a living vessel than a dead martyr,” I say quietly.
“Is it?” She takes a step closer, her heat bleeding through the expensive fabric of my shirt. “Because I’m starting to wonder what the difference is.”
Rage explodes through my chest like napalm. In two strides, I have her backed against the bookshelf, my hands braced on either side of her head, caging her between mahogany and muscle.
“Don’t.” The word is a growl, barely human. “Don’t you ever suggest that living under my protection is equivalent to death.”
“Then stop treating me like I’m already buried.” Her breath comes in quick pants, but she doesn’t cower. Never cowers. “Stop deciding my fate without consulting the person actually living it.”
“I decide everything that affects your safety. That’s not negotiable.”
“Everything is negotiable—”
“Nothing is negotiable when it comes to keeping you alive.” My voice drops to that whisper that’s ended more lives than bullets. “You will accept my protection. You will follow my security protocols. You will stop fighting measures designed to preserve your existence.”
“Or what?” The challenge burns between us like electricity.
“There is no ‘or what.’ There’s only compliance.” I lean closer, until my breath ghosts across her lips. “Your feelings about it are irrelevant.”
Something dangerous flickers in her eyes. “Irrelevant?”
“Secondary to your survival.” My hands slide down to frame her face, feeling the angry heat radiating from her skin. “I’d rather have you furious and breathing than content and buried.”
“How generous.” Sarcasm drips from every syllable. “The great Simeone Codella will tolerate my emotional inconvenience as long as I stay alive to serve his purposes.”
“My purposes?” I stroke my thumbs across her cheekbones, feeling her pulse spike despite her anger. “You think this is about me?”
“Isn’t it? Your heir, your legacy, your empire?” Her eyes search mine for something I’m not sure she’ll find. “When do I factor into this equation as more than a means to an end?”
The question hits like a physical blow because I don’t have an answer that doesn’t expose too much. She factors into everything now—every decision, every plan, every moment of every day. But admitting that level of... attachment... feels like handing her a loaded weapon.
“You factor in as the most important asset I’ve ever acquired,” I say instead.
“Asset.” She tastes the word like poison. “Not a person. Not a partner. Asset.”
“The most valuable asset,” I correct, as if that distinction matters.
“Fuck your assets.” The crude language sounds strange from her cultured lips, but the fury behind it is genuine. “I’m not some prize you won in a poker game, Simeone. I’m a human being with thoughts and feelings and dreams that extend beyond your convenience.”
“Dreams that will get you killed if pursued recklessly.”
“Then help me pursue them safely instead of just shuttering them completely.” She presses closer, and suddenly there’s no space between us, only heat and want and the magnetic pull that’s been burning since we met. “Work with me instead of just controlling me.”
“I am working with you—”
“You’re managing me like a business problem.” Her hands come up to rest against my chest, and the simple touch makes my heart stutter. “There’s a difference between protection and imprisonment, and if you can’t see it, you’re not the man I thought you were.”
The disappointment is worse than anger, cutting through my defenses like a blade through silk. She’s not just fighting my restrictions—she’s questioning my character, my methods, my fundamental approach to keeping her safe.
And maybe she should be.
“What do you want from me?” The question comes out rougher than intended.
“Partnership.” Her voice softens, becomes almost pleading. “Real partnership. Not just the illusion of choice while you puppet my life from behind the scenes.”
“Partnership requires trust—”
“Which you’ve never given me the chance to earn.” Her eyes search mine, looking for something I’m afraid to show her. “You’ve wrapped me in so much protection that I can’t prove I’m worthy of your confidence.”
“You’re worthy of everything I have to give.” The admission slips out before I can stop it, raw and honest. “That’s not the issue.”
“Then what is?”
In the dim light, her face is all shadows and secrets, beautiful in a way that makes my chest tight. This is the woman who walked into my structured world and set it on fire—and I’m finally ready to acknowledge what that means.
“Losing you would hurt,” I whisper.
The truth I’ve just spoken fills the space around us, thick and suffocating. Her face goes pale, eyes searching mine as if looking for an escape route.
“Simeone—”
“So yes,” I continue, my voice gaining strength. “I will err on the side of caution. I will choose your safety over your happiness. I will lock you away from every possible threat because the alternative is unthinkable.”
“Even if it breaks me?”
“Even then.” I lean down until our foreheads touch. “Because a broken you is still you. A dead you is nothing.”
The silence drags on, loaded with danger. She clears her throat, then speaks so quietly I almost miss it.
“I need something that’s mine. Something I can control, even if it’s small.”
“Like what?”
“Let me in on the estate security protocols.” The request catches me off guard. “Not field operations—planning. Analysis. Threat assessment. Let me understand the dangers instead of just hiding from them.”
I pull back to study her face, noting the intelligence blazing in her brown eyes, the way her mind is already working through possibilities.
“You want to help plan your own protection?”
“I want to be part of the solution instead of just the problem being solved.” Her hands fist in my shirt. “I have a brain, Simeone. Let me use it for something that matters.”
The request is logical, strategic, completely manageable within my control parameters. And it gives her the intellectual engagement she craves while keeping her exactly where I can monitor her.
“Full disclosure of threat assessments?”
“Full disclosure of anything that doesn’t compromise operational security.”
“Direct involvement in security planning?”
“Advisory role with real influence.” Her grip tightens. “Not just a token consultation to make me feel important.”
I consider the offer, already seeing how it could work. She gets purpose, I get compliance, and her brilliant mind gets applied to the very real problem of keeping her alive.
“Done.” The word comes out decisive, final. “But you follow my lead on implementation. No unauthorized initiatives, no cowboy operations.”
Relief floods her features so completely that I realize how close I came to losing her in an entirely different way—not to violence, but to the slow psychological erosion of feeling useless.
“Thank you.” She rises on her toes, pressing a soft kiss to my jaw that makes my blood sing. “You won’t regret this.”