Chapter 20
Loriana
The sound of crystal shattering against marble jolts me awake from my afternoon nap, followed by Simeone’s voice cutting through the house like a blade through silk. It is sharp, commanding, and absolutely furious.
“Cazzo! Not the Baccarat!”
I bolt upright in our bed, my heart hammering against my ribs as I try to process what’s happening.
Through our bedroom windows, I can see staff members scurrying across the grounds like ants whose hill has been disturbed, all moving with the urgent efficiency that comes when the Silver Devil is displeased.
Something crashes again—heavier this time, followed by rapid Italian that makes my skin prickle with awareness even though I can’t understand half the words. Whatever’s happening downstairs, it’s significant enough to turn my usually composed mafia don into something volatile and dangerous.
I tear myself from the sheets, silk whispering against my skin as I race toward the commotion. The marble staircase bites at my bare soles, but I hardly notice—whatever’s shattered Simeone’s pristine control demands my attention.
The foyer has been transformed. What were once elegant crystal pieces now lie in brilliant fragments across the floor.
Two figures hover at the edges—staff turned statues by shock.
Simeone remains at the center, disheveled but weirdly pristine and somewhat in control.
He looks like he's standing in the eye of his very own storm.
He’s magnificent in his fury—all controlled violence and predatory grace, like a classical statue brought to life and given the power to destroy everything in its path.
“Stellina.” His voice immediately gentles when he spots me on the staircase, but I can see the effort it takes him to rein in whatever rage is driving him. “Go back upstairs. This will be cleaned up shortly.”
“What happened?” I descend the rest of the steps despite his order, noting how the staff melts away like smoke the moment they see me approaching. “It sounded like the house was coming down.”
“Nothing that concerns you.” But the tension radiating from his shoulders tells a different story. “Just some unfortunate clumsiness that cost me a very expensive vase.”
I study the wreckage, noting the way the crystal caught the light, the intricate patterns now reduced to dangerous beauty. “That was your grandmother’s Baccarat, wasn’t it?”
His jaw ticks with barely controlled emotion. “Among other things, yes.”
“Simeone.” I move closer, careful to avoid the glass shards. “What really happened?”
For a moment, he looks like he might deflect again, might retreat behind the walls of careful control he’s built around everything that matters to him. Then his shoulders drop slightly, and I see the exhaustion beneath his fury.
“The DNA results came back,” he says quietly.
Understanding crashes over me like ice water. Flavio. The suspicions Simeone’s been harboring about his nephew’s parentage.
“And?”
“Twenty years,” he says, his voice carrying the weight of absolute betrayal. “Twenty years of guilt over my brother’s death. Twenty years of raising another man’s bastard. Twenty years of making excuses for his behavior because I thought blood meant something.”
The bitterness in his voice makes my chest tight with sympathy. All this time, he’s been torturing himself over decisions that cost his brother’s life, carrying responsibility for a nephew who apparently isn’t even family.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, because what else can you say when someone’s entire foundation crumbles?
“Are you?” He moves toward me with that fluid grace that never fails to make my pulse spike. “Because this means everything changes, stellina. Everything.”
There’s something in his tone that makes alarm bells ring in my head. “Changes how?”
“Flavio has no legitimate claim to the Codella name or inheritance. He’s not family—never was family.” His hands come up to frame my face with surprising gentleness. “Which means our child becomes my sole heir. The only legitimate continuation of my bloodline.”
The possessive satisfaction in his voice sends heat pooling low in my belly despite the gravity of what he’s telling me. “Simeone—”
“Which means we’re getting married. Tomorrow.”
The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs. “Tomorrow? But we agreed on two weeks—”
“Two weeks was when I thought I had time to plan properly, to arrange everything the way you deserve.” His thumbs stroke across my cheekbones.
“But Flavio’s desperation changes the timeline.
He knows I’m getting close to the truth, knows his position is threatened.
That makes him more dangerous than ever. ”
“So you want to rush into marriage because your psychotic maybe-not-nephew might do something stupid?”
“I want to make sure that if something happens to me, you and our child are legally protected.” His voice hardens with authority I recognize.
“I want my name on the birth certificate. I want inheritance laws on our side. I want every possible protection in place before Flavio realizes he has nothing left to lose.”
The logic is sound, but something in me rebels against the rushed timeline. “This feels like another decision you’re making for me instead of with me.”
“This is a decision I’m making for our family.” He leans closer, until his breath ghosts across my lips. “But I’m hoping you’ll choose to be part of it willingly.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll spend whatever time I have left convincing you that willing participation is more enjoyable for both of us.” His smile is sharp, predatory, absolutely devastating. “But either way, when morning comes, you’ll be my wife.”
The challenge in his voice makes my skin prickle with awareness and something that might be fear or excitement—I can’t tell which anymore. This is the man I fell for: dangerous, dominant, absolutely certain of what he wants and how to get it.
“You can’t just decide we’re getting married and expect me to fall in line—”
“Can’t I?” He backs me against the wall beside the grand staircase, his hands bracing on either side of my head. “Because from where I’m standing, your body is already saying yes even if your mouth hasn’t caught up yet.”
He’s right, and I hate him for it. Despite every logical argument against rushed timelines and high-handed decisions, my pulse is racing with anticipation rather than protest.
“My body saying yes doesn’t mean my mind agrees,” I protest weakly.
“Doesn’t it?” His mouth is right there, almost touching. “Then tell me no. Tell me you don’t need what I’m offering. Tell me you don’t want our kid to be a Codella. Tell me you don’t want to be tied to me forever.”
Each challenge strips away another layer of my defenses until I’m trembling against the wall, caught between reason and the magnetic pull he’s always exerted. “That’s not the point—”
“That’s exactly the point.” He pulls back slightly, studying my face with those obsidian eyes that see everything I’m trying to hide. “But I’m not going to force this decision on you, stellina. Not this one.”
The unexpected concession catches me off guard. “You’re not?”
“I’m going to seduce you into it instead.”
Before I can process what he means, he’s stepping back and offering me his arm with old-world courtesy that makes my heart skip. “Will you have dinner with me tonight? Just dinner. No pressure, no ultimatums. Just you, me, and a conversation about our future.”
The formal request is so different from his usual commands that I find myself nodding before I can think better of it. “Just dinner?”
“Just dinner.” But the heat in his dark eyes suggests the evening will be anything but simple. “Though I should warn you—I can be very persuasive when properly motivated.”
“And what’s your motivation tonight?”
“Making sure the most magnificent woman I’ve ever known understands exactly what kind of future I’m offering her.” He lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to my palm that makes electricity shoot up my arm. “Making sure she knows that choosing me means choosing everything I have to give.”
Warmth spreads through me at his tone, fighting against my better judgment. “What if I choose something else entirely?
“Then I’ll accept your decision and find other ways to protect what’s mine.” His smile is sharp enough to cut glass. “But I don’t think that’s going to be necessary.”
“You’re very sure of yourself.”
“I’m sure of us.” He steps back, straightening his tie with practiced elegance. “Dinner is at eight. Wear something that makes you feel beautiful—though honestly, you could wear a burlap sack and still be the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen.”
The compliment makes heat flood my cheeks, but I try to maintain some dignity. “This doesn’t mean I’m agreeing to anything.”
“Of course not.” But his expression suggests he’s already planning our wedding night. “It just means you’re willing to listen. That’s all I need.”
As he walks away, leaving me alone with the crystal fragments and the echo of promises I’m not sure I should trust, I realize my hands are shaking. Not with fear—with anticipation.
Because despite every logical argument against rushed marriages and high-handed mafia dons, some traitorous part of me is already wondering what dress would be appropriate for accepting a proposal I know is coming.
And whether I’m strong enough to say no when he asks.