Chapter 9 Livvie
LIVVIE
The water scalds my skin, but I don’t move out from under it.
Instead, I close my eyes, brace my palms against the cold tile wall, and let the heat blur everything—the evening spent next to Kingston, the gunshots, the way my heart still hasn’t stopped pounding.
It all swirls down the drain at my feet, almost comforting, but not quite. Not enough to change the fact we were shot at again.
At a gala full of mob royalty, someone pulled a trigger as a reminder that no amount of glitter and tailored suits can keep us safe.
The Red Tribunal could have killed us but chose not to as a show of mercy.
I tip my head back and let the water cascade over my face. However, nothing can dull the lingering adrenaline, the sick weight of knowing I’m part of a game with rules I was never taught, on a board that’s already been rigged.
And then there's the envelope.
The one I tucked into my clutch, from a woman who never said a word. She appeared at my side in the washroom, her expression blank, her presence almost forgettable—almost—until she pressed it into my hand and slipped away before I could ask a single question.
No words. No reason. Just a gesture so smooth, so intentional, I didn’t realize I was being marked until much later.
I hadn’t dared to open it at the gala, not with eyes everywhere and the walls humming with threat.
But the weight of it burned into my mind all night.
And when I finally tore it open before jumping into the shower, I found a plain white card inside, its edges stiff, its surface oddly satiny slick.
No name. No signature. Just a single line, each letter scratched with dark, rust-colored ink.
You married a dead man.
The words had blurred as my heart pounded, each letter violent in how they’d been carved into the card with something sharp.
The ink had a faint but unmistakable metallic scent. A coppery stench like… blood.
Drenched in soapy water, I suck in a breath through my teeth and reach blindly for the shampoo, needing something to focus on. My fingers tremble as I lather and scrub my scalp to erase the past few hours.
But no amount of water can cleanse what’s already been written. And no matter how well I clean myself, I can’t escape reality.
Someone out there wanted me to read that note. They wanted me to understand that my wedding vows were the start of a countdown because my new husband is living on borrowed time.
The bathroom door swings open without warning, dress shoes clipping on tile as Kingston strides inside, full of confidence.
“Ever heard of knocking?” I snap, turning my back to him, even though the glass is foggy. “Or is privacy another thing I surrendered when I married a Viacava?”
His voice is cool, controlled. “You’ve been in the shower for ages, princess.”
“Scared I’ll use all the hot water?” I shoot back, tilting my chin just enough to show I’m not intimidated. “Or do ya need me dressed and obedient at all times?”
His shadow moves closer, the heat of him palpable even through glass. This man generates raw magnetism and somehow, I’m a victim to its hateful pull.
“I don’t care if you’re naked, princess,” he says smoothly, voice dipping into that low, dangerous register that makes my pulse forget whose side it’s on. “But I do care if you’re reckless. You disappeared into a locked room for nearly an hour, with no word, no sound… after the night we’ve had?”
I smirk, even as my chest tightens. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize taking a shower in your fortress of security guards and marble qualified as high-risk behavior. I’ll remember to moan louder the next time I’m getting myself off.”
His hand lifts, palm pressing flat against the fogged glass near my shoulder, the outline of his body dark and commanding through the steam.
“You think this is a joke?” he growls, his voice rougher now, more threat than question.
I tilt my chin, meeting his shadowed gaze without flinching. “No. I think you think you own me. And to be honest, it’s wearing thin.”
There’s a beat of silence. Tension coils tighter.
“I do own you. That ring on your finger says so.”
I laugh, bitter and breathless. “All that ring says is that our fathers know how to play at being gods.”
“Maybe,” he says, unbothered. “But I’m the one who’ll protect you from now on. And I’m the only one who’ll touch you. Period.”
My breath catches, just for a second.
I roll my eyes. “Whatever.”
After I twist off the faucet, the silence highlights my heavy breaths. Droplets roll down my spine, warm trails against flushed skin, and my hair hangs heavy, plastered to my shoulders in soaked waves.
I don’t reach for a towel because they’re rolled up on a shelf behind him.
Instead, I open the glass door and step out, steam curling around my ankles as I face him bare, dripping, defiant.
Kingston takes a single step back, not out of shock, but to give me a fraction of space. His arms remain crossed over his chest, jaw carved from stone, tension radiating off him in tightly leashed waves.
He hasn’t undressed yet, still wearing a crisp white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up his forearms, the fabric stretched slightly across shoulders built to intimidate.
His dark hair is slightly mussed, like he’s been running a hand through it since the moment I locked the bathroom door.
The tailored black pants he wears hang low on his hips, the belt loosened just enough to make my pulse skip. And those eyes, dark and impossible to ignore, are locked right on my wet, shivery skin.
“You done?” he asks, voice rough, deep, and dangerous.
I arch a brow, unbothered. “With the shower or with your stalker vibes?”
He prowls forward like a lion closing in. The temperature rises instantly and my pulse spikes. Drops of water slide from my collarbone to the swell of my breasts. His gaze cuts to them for a second as his jaw clenches.
“You’re lucky I like a challenge,” he murmurs.
And just like that, my breath falters.
“Out.” I stab my finger in the direction of the door. “Turn around and give me some privacy like a normal, functioning psychopath.”
Kingston’s dark eyes rake over me, unhurried and unapologetic.
“Why would I leave?” he asks. “You’ve already added my name to yours, have my ring on your finger, and my cum in your cunt. What’s a little nakedness between newlyweds?”
I narrow my eyes. “Kingston, get out. Leave me alone. We’re not actual newlyweds. Not behind closed doors.”
His smirk curves with pure male arrogance. Slow, taunting, and utterly infuriating.
“You sure?” he asks, a gorgeous grin on his handsome face. “And here I was… just about to help out by rubbing moisturizer into your creamy Irish skin. You know, like a caring functioning psychopath would.”
My lips part in disbelief. “I swear to God—”
“Relax, princess.” He chuckles, backing up a single step. “Your bratty attitude is safe for now. But you keep talking like that, and I’ll have to take matters into my own hands.”
“And do what?” I snap, chin high.
He winks. “Teach you manners, princess.”
With that, he does a one-eighty, not in retreat, but in victory, giving me space because he decided to. His hands slip into his pockets as he heads for the door.
Before he steps out, he glances over his shoulder. “Dry off, Livvie. You’ve got ten minutes before I make you choose between a silk nightgown or nothing at all.”
Then he’s gone.
The bathroom door clicks shut behind him, but the echo of his presence clings to the air like smoke.
I stand there for a moment, still dripping, still breathless. Steam curls around my ankles, fogs the mirror, clouds my thoughts.
I hate how he tilts the gravity around him, like everything and everyone is meant to orbit Kingston Viacava.
Grabbing a towel from the shelf, I wrap it tight around my chest, tucking it with more force than necessary. Then I swipe a hand across the fogged mirror and stare at the woman looking back at me, confused by the shameless ache pulsating between my thighs.
The overstimulation gets out of control when that man looks at me.
When my phone buzzes from the counter, I exhale the burning urges growing louder within me and check the screen.
Roman.
I tap open the message and read.
We need to meet. First thing in the morning. I have proof you need to watch your back around Kingston. I’ll send directions.
My stomach clenches as I read the message again. Then a third time, my pulse tapping at the base of my throat, not sure how to react.
I lock the screen and set the phone down, the air around me suddenly colder than it was a minute ago.
A tremor of panic siphons through me, not knowing the truth behind the man I have to sleep beside.
I’m out the door just after six in the morning.
A black hoodie zipped over my chest, charcoal-gray leggings hugging my legs, sneakers laced tight. My hair’s pulled into a messy ponytail, no makeup, no jewelry—just the uniform of every Manhattan woman trying to be healthy while hiding something.
I step into the corridor and head toward the elevator doors, playing it cool when I approach one of Kingston’s men whose arms are folded, expression curious.
“Morning,” I say, all breezy confidence as I press the button.
“Need a car, Mrs. Viacava?”
I flash a quick smile, just enough to sell the lie. “Nope. Just a short stroll to the yoga studio.”
The big guy doesn’t question it. He just nods and steps aside, giving me space to enter the elevator when the doors slide open.
Downstairs, the guards out front watch quietly as I pass by, my movements cleared by the guy from outside our apartment door.
I disappear into the city’s early morning rush, my hood up and my footfalls determined.
Roman chose the meeting spot as always. A tucked-away coffee shop in the West Village, the kind that doesn’t advertise itself but always coaxes customers with espresso and warm cinnamon buns. A tiny bell chimes overhead when I push the door inward.
Inside, it’s all exposed brick and mismatched chairs, filled with a few early risers hunched over laptops and a barista humming along to a tune playing low through the speakers.
Roman’s already there, waiting in a corner booth beneath a silver wall sconce, a black coffee in front of him and his posture tense. Though, as always, he blends into the background without ever really disappearing. Exactly the way he likes it.
He doesn’t stand when I approach, just watches me over the rim of his coffee cup.
“Morning,” I say, sliding into the booth across from him.
“You’re late.”
“You’re lucky I showed up at all, Roman. I’m married now, remember?”
“How could I forget, Liv.”
His lips twitch. Maybe he wants to say something else, something personal. But instead, he reaches into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and pulls out a flash drive.
He slides it across the table. “Check this out in private.”
“What is it?” I ask, though I suspect it’s evidence of something dangerous.
“It's everything you need to know about Kingston’s past dealings. Including one tied directly to your father.”
My stomach tightens, but I keep my expression composed. I reach for the drive and slide it into my hoodie pocket.
Roman leans back, eyes lingering on me before he speaks again.
“You think you know what the Viacavas are really capable of?” Roman’s voice is rough. “You don’t. But I do.”
I meet his eyes, and for once, he doesn’t hide a damn thing.
“You shouldn’t be wearing his ring, Liv,” he says through gritted teeth. “You didn’t choose him. We both know it should’ve been me standing at the altar.”
My exhale isn’t defeat, it’s from reluctant acceptance. I was born an Irish mafia princess and no matter what I do or how much distance I try to put between me and my family, they control every aspect of my life.
“And we both know that was never the path I could walk. My da made that very clear to both of us. Marrying Kingston is punishment alone.”
I tear my gaze from his and let out a short breath. “Did he put you up to this? Does my da think he can use me to ruin Kingston?”
Roman’s jaw ticks once. “He doesn’t know I’m here. This is me, protecting you whatever way I can. This is open warfare, Liv, and you know me, I won’t let that bastard make you collateral damage.”
There’s something fierce in his tone now. It’s possessive, dangerous maybe. But he reins it in just enough to keep it from boiling over.
I nod once, even though my pulse is a mess and I can barely hold my expression steady.
Then I stand. “I have to go.”
Roman doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t reach for my hand or ask me to stay for a coffee. And I don’t look back.
The city’s still half-asleep when I step out onto the sidewalk, the early morning light pale and cold as it hits my face.
I tug the hood of my sweatshirt up again and keep my head down, blending in to become just another girl heading home from a yoga session.
However, a chill scatters my spine. The street seems to be quieter than usual. Awareness prickles the base of my neck like a warning. I glance over my shoulder, seeing the street empty. But that doesn’t stop the nagging unease.
I pick up my pace, ducking into narrower streets, sticking to familiar shortcuts through the West Village until a dull thud of footsteps comes from behind me.
My heart thumps as the cold seeps through my hoodie. I slip a hand into my pocket to grab my phone. Just as I wrap my fingers around it, a gloved hand clamps over my mouth.
I’m dragged into the shadows of a narrow alley, my feet skidding over concrete.
Panic explodes through me. My scream is muffled and my fight is subdued by the strength hijacking my body. An arm grips around my middle, securing me against a solid wall of muscle, and then gunfire explodes. The first shot whizzes past me, the second coming even closer.
My attacker jerks, curses, and lets go.
I scramble toward a dumpster, knees scraping the cold pavement, heart pounding out of my chest. Then their footsteps echo, fading fast as they disappear as quickly as they came.
Panting, I push myself upright and lock eyes with Kingston who approaches from the other end of the alley, gun in hand, black T-shirt tight around flexing muscles with every furious stride he takes.
Even though his dark hair is wind-tousled and his expression tight, his movements are precise in the way only a dangerous man can be.
“You really don’t listen, do you, Livvie?” he growls. “You could have been fucking killed.”
And despite the cold, despite the fear still thundering in my veins… treacherous heat pools low in my belly. Because he showed up when it mattered. Not Roman or the security men he pays big bucks.
My husband protected me like he swore he would.
And no doubt he’s going to make me answer for it.