Chapter 9 Livia
As Enzo leaves, shutting the door behind him, I'm left alone in one of the largest personal libraries I've ever been in. The room itself is larger than some of the classrooms at UCLA.
The scent of old leather, aged paper, and a hint of wood polish mingles in the air. Months ago, I remember how tired my eyes were writing in my favorite corner in Young Research Library. The scent here of old books brings me right back to that spot.
Oh, how I miss my friends and classmates.
I feel my body tense up. How dare he think he can just gift me with this beautiful library with mahogany shelves and beautifully embossed books.
Okay, sure they're nice and it’s a library of my dreams but these Persian rugs under my feet are not going to make me forget that I do not want to be here.
I look around as see what I assume are replicas of some famous paintings hanging on the walls, some I know, others I don't.
I run my fingers along the spines of the books, feeling the different textures—smooth leather, rough cloth, embossed titles. Some of these volumes must be first editions, priceless treasures of literature.
A lump forms in my throat as conflicting emotions swirl within me. Part of me wants to lose myself in this room, to dive into these books and forget everything else. But another part screams that this is just another controlling cage.
I turn away from the books, and my gaze land on a painting.
It's a self-portrait by Rembrandt. His eyes are locked onto mine.
"What are you looking at?" I snap at the painted face.
"You think this makes it okay? That I should just roll over and accept this because he gave me a pretty room full of books? "
My voice echoes in the quiet library, and I feel slightly ridiculous talking to a painting, but the anger is real, I feel it burning in my chest.
I turn away from Rembrandt's piercing scrutiny, and something else catches my eye. A bright yellow post-it note hangs off a shelf across the room. Curious, I walk over and grab it.
The handwriting is distinctly masculine, a hurried scrawl that speaks of impatience when writing:
"Maybe you'll find these useful."
I turn the note over to see if there's more, but nothing is written on the back.
Confusion mingles with a reluctant spark of interest. I scan the row of books before me, and my confusion is lost to my overwhelming interest. These aren't just any books—they're Victorian lit books. My area of focus. My passion.
As I start to look over them, one, in particular, stands out, a red hardcover with gold embossing.
Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights.
I reach for it, my heart pounding.
It can't be. It simply can't.
The weight of the book in my hands feels significant. I open it carefully, the scent of aged paper wafting up to me. My eyes widen as I take in the title page, and I whisper without thinking, "Holy fuck."
It's a first edition. An actual, honest-to-god first edition of Wuthering Heights. My mind reels, unable to comprehend the value—both monetary and academic—of what I'm holding.
After a few moments, I place it back on the shelf, as gently as possible. My fingers brush against the spines of the other books, and I feel a surge of excitement coursing through my veins. I can't help but wonder what other treasures this library holds.
I next spot a familiar name—Charles Dickens. My heart leaps as I gently pull out the first of three volumes of Great Expectations.
I open it with shaking hands and see the publication date: 1861.
Another first edition.
"Fucking hell," I say out loud.
I clutch the book to my chest. It's as if I'm holding a piece of history, a tangible connection to the literary world I've devoted my life to studying.
My gaze continues to roam the shelves, and I spot more familiar names: Mary Shelley, Robert Louis Stevenson, and Oscar Wilde.
I reach for the slim black and gold book, recognizing it as The Picture of Dorian Gray, the very novel I was reading earlier today.
As I open it, I see something I've never seen in person before.
'Of this edition, only 250 copies have been printed, of which this is No. 2.'
And below, it makes my heart stop.
"To my dearest friend, may this tale of beauty and corruption serve as a reminder of our own fleeting youth.
Yours always,
Oscar Wilde
P.S. No.1 belongs to me."
Oh my fucking god, Wilde's own handwriting. The academic in me is screaming with joy, while another part of me is trying to comprehend the value of what I'm holding.
As my initial shock subsides, a nagging thought creeps into my mind. Why does Enzo have these books? Does he truly appreciate their value, or are they just status symbols to him?
I think back to our conversation at dinner, his insistence that he respects intelligence and achievement. Is this his way of proving that? Or is it just another manipulation, another way to try and win me over?
I close the book gently, placing it back in its spot. My eyes roam over the shelves again, wondering what other treasures they might hold. There's more, but I'm just too overwhelmed.
Despite my best efforts, I feel my resolve weakening. "Damn you, Enzo," I mutter, rubbing my forehead. "Damn you for knowing exactly how to get to me."
Because he does know, doesn't he?
My brain turns into researcher mode, analyzing everything.
He's done his homework, figured out exactly what would appeal to me most. It's a calculated move, designed to soften my resistance, maybe? Or to make me more flexible to his will.
And the worst part?
It's working.
"Reel it in, Livia," I tell myself sternly. "Don't let him manipulate you like this. Don't lose control."
When I get like this, I know what I need, a book.
I reach for Bram Stoker's Dracula and walk over to one of the comfy-looking leather chairs and take a seat.
I open to read, and of course, it's another first edition.
Clearly, he's a collector or something. I mean, come on—how many first editions does one have?
A few hours go by, and when I look up at the clock, it reads 12:15 a.m. I close the book and set it on the side table.
I stretch, feeling the stiffness in my muscles from sitting for so long. As I stand, my eyes wander around the room. That's when I notice it—a small, antique desk tucked away in the corner. As always, my curiosity gets the better of me, and I walk over to get a closer look.
It's beautiful.
A 1900s writing desk, its wooden surface worn in spots from continuous use over the past 100 years.
I run my fingers along the smooth surface, admiring the craftsmanship.
I remember that these desks are known for their hidden compartments, designed to conceal important documents.
Part of me itches to explore, to see if I can uncover any secrets.
But before I can begin my investigation, something else catches my eye. A framed photograph sits on the desk, and I lean in for a closer look.
It's Enzo, but not the Enzo I know. This is a younger version, his face unlined, eyes bright with an emotion I've never seen in them before—joy. He stands between two other men, both bearing a striking resemblance to him.
Brothers.
I didn't realize or even know he had siblings.
There are other people in the background, all smiling and laughing, but it's the relationship between Enzo and his brothers that draws my attention.
They have their arms around each other, their postures relaxed and familiar.
There's a genuine warmth in their smiles, a sense of camaraderie that feels real.
I can't tear my eyes away from Enzo's face. He looks so different here—open, unguarded, happy. So different than the calculating man I've come to know.
The image stirs something in me, a memory of my own. I think of the few photos I have of Gabriel and me from when we were younger. Before everything changed. Before his life became entangled in this dark, dangerous world.
For the first time since I arrived here, I find myself growing curious about Enzo Bonventi. Not just as the man I'm being forced to marry, but as a person. What shaped him? What experiences molded him into the man he is today?
It's easier to hate Enzo when I see him as nothing more than a cold-hearted monster. This glimpse into his past—it complicates things. Makes him more human. And that's dangerous.
Because if I start seeing Enzo as a person—a real, complex human being with a history and relationships and emotions—it becomes harder to maintain my anger. Harder to resist. And I can't afford that. I can't let my guard down, not even for a moment.
But as I stare at that photo, I can't help but wonder about the story behind it. What happened to those brothers? Are they still close? Do they still share that easy camaraderie I see captured in this moment?
I shake my head, trying to dispel these thoughts. It doesn't matter who Enzo used to be. What matters is who he is now—the man who's taken away my freedom, who's trying to force me into a life I never wanted.
I turn away from the desk, but I can't quite shake the image of that younger Enzo from my mind, and despite my best efforts, I find myself wondering about the path that led from that version to the one I know.
I need to be careful, I remind myself.
He's still dangerous. Still my enemy. I can't let this moment of humanity weaken my resolve.
But as I make my way out of the library, heading toward the suite, I can't help but feel that something has shifted. The world has become a little more complicated, a little less black and white.
And I'm not sure how I feel about that.
I step out into the hallway, and as the library doors shut behind me, I realize how eerily quiet it is.
I try to walk as gently as I can, the marble flooring making each step audible.
Since it's past midnight, darkness is all around, save for the occasional dim wall sconces or some type of floor lighting Enzo has in certain areas of the house.