Chapter 15 Livvie
LIVVIE
I couldn’t sleep after leafing through the faces from my father’s past. So I spent the night alone in my new sanctuary.
The file of evil deeds sits on the music stand like a wound that refuses to close, bleeding his actions into every dark corner of my mind.
My father climbed to the top by betraying the people close to him. Men who followed him into danger and ended up murdered by his hand.
It's no surprise he pimped out his eldest daughter to the Viacavas to save his own neck.
Raising me in a mansion with financial privilege and a string of nannies didn’t earn my love.
And Kingston?
The man I swore to hate, who kissed me like I was actually his, suddenly appears less like the gangster I imagined him to be.
In a weird twist of reality, he might actually be more trustworthy than the darkness I was born into.
Although it would be easier if he was a monster. Because being around him has switched up my emotions and played havoc with my libido.
Deep down, I know this marriage of ours will end in divorce or a burial.
There’s no happily ever after for the two of us.
By the time the peachy blush of sun warms the city skyline, I’m rolling off a bloodred chaise lounge, leaving my music room behind and padding toward the aroma of coffee.
I make my way through the quiet penthouse, barefoot and dressed in the same baggy T-shirt I’d taken from his closet when I first arrived.
It’s super comfy, that’s all. That’s what I tell myself each time I pull it over my head.
When I reach the kitchen, the sight I find is fucking criminal for this early hour.
Christ, I married a god.
Kingston stands at the marble counter, bare-chested and infuriatingly composed, as if he doesn’t notice the morning light highlighting every abdomen dip of a masterpiece designed to ruin women’s morals.
Moisture glistens on muscles sculpted and defined, his build earned through regimental discipline and constant danger.
A black towel hangs around his neck, damp where it clings to the curve of his collarbone.
He’s wearing low-slung black athletic shorts that ride the line between comfort and sin, resting just below the cut of his hips.
A black cap sits backward on his head, pushing dark hair away from his handsome face, a few strands poking out at his temple.
But it’s his tanned arms that nearly undo me.
They flex with every movement as he works the coffee machine, ink spreading along his skin. Black-and-gray tattoos climb from his wrists to his elbows, disappearing beneath the towel like secrets I’m not allowed to know.
One piece catches the light just enough for me to make it out. A snake winding through roses. Beautiful. Dangerous. Just like him.
He doesn’t look at me when I wander deeper into the room and stop at the counter beside him.
“Hey,” I say, doing my best not to stare at his chest.
Kingston pulls a second espresso shot, eyes fixed on the crema.
I lean against the island, folding my arms, letting the silence stretch.
“Ah, the silent treatment.” I flick my hair over my shoulder. “Are we married or in high school?”
Rather than take the bait, he picks up the tiny cup and takes a slow sip, the towel slipping slightly across his shoulder.
I straighten. “So that’s it? We kissed and almost set the room on fire, then you tell me my father is the devil, and now I get an ice wall?”
His eyes flick toward me, just for a second, then back to the counter.
“Just enjoying my morning routine,” he says, voice husky like he hasn’t used it yet this morning.
“Yeah… whatever. Move over and let me make myself an espresso.”
I expect him to ignore me again. Or step aside with that infuriating indifference he’s been wearing like armor since last night.
Instead, without a word, Kingston reaches for a second cup, resets the portafilter, measuring out the grind and tamping it down with quiet precision.
Steam curls upward as he works, the hiss and churn of the machine the only sound between us.
Kingston doesn't make eye contact with me or ask how I take it.
But when he slides the cup toward me, the crema is perfect. The temperature is just right and it’s made exactly how I like it.
I take it in my fingers, glancing at the cup, then at him, but he’s already taken a step back, towel now slung over one shoulder, his broad chest rising and falling as he breathes.
“Thanks,” I say, the word catching slightly in my throat.
He shrugs, turning away to sip from his own cup again, but there’s a tightness in his jaw that wasn’t there before. Something buried like restraint.
And despite his standoffish mood, the act speaks louder than anything he’s said this morning. Because he remembered how I like my coffee. And somehow, that little detail cuts deeper than any kiss.
“You’re quiet,” I press, taking a sip. “Which is weird, considering how much you love hearing yourself talk.”
He takes another sip of espresso, sets the cup on the counter, and finally meets my eyes. “I don’t talk when I’m thinking.”
“Thinking about what?” I hold his gaze. “My father? Or the way you kissed me?”
“You kissed me,” he counters.
I force a groan, light and careless, even though my pulse kicks hard in my throat.
“Does everything have to be a competition? Fine. We kissed each other in equal measure. Don’t worry, Kingston, I won’t cry or throw another glass because you want to pretend it didn’t happen.”
“I’m not pretending,” he says, his eyes snapping to mine. “I’m processing a few things.”
The words hang in the space between us like a wire stretched taut.
I stare at him, thrown off-balance for the second time in twelve hours, because he just told me the truth. And coming from this guy, that’s rarer than unicorns.
Something twists low in my stomach. A curl of curiosity. Maybe something worse.
Kingston lifts his espresso again but doesn’t drink. He just watches me over the rim, gaze steady and dark.
“I don’t do distractions, Livvie. Or complications. And you, wife, are both.”
His voice is low, his tone neutral, but there’s something buried in the way he says it, like maybe it’s a confession.
“And yet,” I murmur, “you kissed me anyway.”
“We kissed each other,” he counters, his voice darker now.
“Sure,” I say, lips curling into a smirk. “But you started it. And we both know if Bronx hadn’t interrupted, you would have taken it further.”
His jaw flexes, the tension rippling across his cheek like a current.
“And you would have let me,” he points out.
“Maybe.” I shrug. “Guess we’ll never find out. Although this whole post-kiss grumpy espresso goblin vibe makes me glad I didn’t suck your dick.”
That earns a flicker of amusement in his eyes, a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it dies as fast as it sparks.
“And you’re like sunshine and sin,” he murmurs, his voice a slow drag of gravel over silk. “All that bite, and you’re thinking about gagging on my dick. That mouth’s gonna get you in trouble.”
I roll my eyes, turning back to the espresso cup like it matters, trying to chase away the heat pooling low in my stomach. “Thanks for the espresso, husband. I’ll leave you to your morning routine.”
Leaning back, I slide off the barstool, ready to leave, but before I can take two steps, his deep voice slips over my shoulder. “My silence isn’t distance.”
I freeze, then glance back at him.
“I see you, Livvie,” he adds. “All of you.”
His eyes drag down my body, checking out my bare legs, like he’s imagining every reaction he knows he could pull from me if he wanted to.
We stand there, the kitchen quiet except for the occasional hiss of the espresso machine cooling down. He kills the distance, prowling so close that I can smell the mix of fresh coffee and the faintest trace of cologne clinging to his skin.
“If I kissed you again,” he says, “you’d burn for me. And you know it.”
I lift my chin. “You sound awfully sure of yourself.”
His mouth curves, forming a devastating grin. “I’ve had the evidence on my dick, wife.”
The heat rushes to my face, but I refuse to look away.
“You wanted the truth and you got it,” he says. “Can you live with what your father did?”
I hold his gaze, pulse unsteady, and something inside me curls tight with defiance.
“Can you live with what yours did?”
His expression doesn’t change as he crowds my personal space, like he’s crossing into enemy territory even when he shouldn’t.
His fingers brush the inside of my wrist, the contact featherlight, testing if I’ll let him continue.
I don’t move. And that’s all the invitation he needs.
Those wicked fingers of his trail up my forearm, grazing the skin inside my elbow, then continue lower, finding the hem of my T-shirt.
His touch slips beneath the fabric, the warmth of exploration drawing a quiet gasp from deep in my chest. The pads of his fingers skate across my stomach, teasing a line of heat that ignites fire in my veins.
He keeps going, brushing higher until he finds the swell of my breast and the hard peak of my nipple. The slightest flick of his thumb sends sparks dancing along my spine, a whimper escaping my throat before I can trap it.
That little sound has his nostrils flaring. His touch changes, drifting lower now, tracing my belly button maddeningly slow. My body hums, every nerve stretched tight between anticipation and restraint.
When his hand settles between my thighs, just a whisper of pressure on my throbbing clit, I nearly come undone from the promise in that touch alone.
My breath stutters and my knees threaten to give.
Still, he doesn't push further. He just rests his hand there, the pressure warm, steady, electric.
I meet his gaze, and what I find there isn’t hunger. It’s control. He’s doing this to show me just how much I’ve already given away without even realizing it.
I shouldn’t want this. Not when he knows secrets that could destroy my family and bring me down with them.
However, my body is already betraying me, hips tilting slightly into the pressure, breath coming faster even though I tell myself to stay still.
Kingston leans in, his lips grazing the shell of my ear, his voice a thick whisper that tingles down my spine like warm rain. “Do you think your cum would taste like my morning espresso?” he asks, so quietly I almost think I imagined it. “Or better?”
A wave of heat crashes over me so fast I nearly sway. My breath stutters, my pulse pounds, but I keep my chin high and my smirk sweet.
Two can play this game.
I lean in, my lips hovering near his, close enough that he can taste the boldness beneath the sugar.
“If you’re so curious,” I purr, “I’ve been told I taste like a smooth caramel latte. Candied. Rich. Addictive.”
His eyes darken, the muscle in his jaw flexing hard.
“But I don’t beg any man to taste me.” I smile against his cheek. “And I sure as hell don’t offer free samples.”
Kingston chuckles, the rumble deep and sonorous, and then the moment shatters when his phone buzzes against the counter. I groan before I can stop myself.
He stiffens immediately, glancing over at the screen.
“Fucking Bronx,” he mutters as he pulls away and answers in that clipped, businesslike tone that makes the air around him go cold. “What.”
He listens, and whatever softness had lingered in his expression disappears like smoke.
He curses in Italian, the words sounding sexy even though his tone is glacial. Ending the call with a swipe of his thumb, he turns to me, every trace of dark desire snuffed out.
His shoulders are squared, his expression tight, the man before me once again the heir to a bloody empire, not the one who just touched me like I was worth his time.
“What happened?” I ask, already knowing I won’t like the answer.
“Someone leaked internal Viacava records,” he grits out. “Files that weren’t meant to exist outside my family home. Financials, locations, personnel. Names.”
A chill skates down my spine, settling at the base of my neck.
“How bad is it?”
“We’ll know soon,” he replies, already reaching for his phone and the towel slung around his neck, the shift in him so abrupt it’s like whiplash.
He moves toward the hallway without looking back, but then, as if something drags at him, he pauses just before disappearing from view.
His eyes meet mine one last time, and whatever’s behind them is shuttered.
But his voice, when it comes, is colder than I expect.
“Looks like we’re out of time, princess.”