6. Niccolò
Niccolò
The twelfth precinct smells like cheap floor wax, stale coffee, and desperation, and here I am, standing in the observation room, my hands buried in the pockets of my tailored trousers, staring through the two-way glass.
On the other side of the mirror is a sterile, freezing interrogation room.
And in the center of it, handcuffed to a metal ring bolted to the table, is Livia.
A dark possessiveness coils tight in my chest, squeezing my ribs until my breath goes shallow.
She is wearing nothing but an oversized, faded grey t-shirt and cotton underwear.
Her bare legs are bruised from where the tactical unit dragged her across her own floor.
Her dark hair is a tangled mess around her pale, exhausted face.
She is shivering, her lips carrying a faint, bluish tint from the aggressive air conditioning the cops use to break suspects down.
She looks so incredibly fragile. A stiff breeze could knock her over.
But she isn’t breaking.
Detective Miller is leaning over the metal table, his thick face flushed red.
He slams a heavy manila folder down onto the surface, shouting something about distribution charges and mandatory minimums. The sound is muffled through the thick glass, but the aggression is obvious.
He is trying to terrify her. He is trying to force a confession she doesn’t have to give.
Livia’s shoulders are drawn tight, her bare feet tucked behind the legs of her metal chair. She is terrified. I can see the rapid, frantic rise and fall of her chest beneath the thin cotton.
But her eyes are entirely dry.
She refuses to shed a single tear. She stares blankly at the wall just over Miller’s shoulder, locking herself away in some deep, inaccessible part of her mind where the dirty cop cannot reach her.
She is using the same survival mechanism I am sure she used when her father tore her childhood home apart. She is making herself a ghost.
"She’s a stubborn bitch," the precinct captain mutters nervously from the shadows beside me. He shifts his weight, the leather of his holster creaking. "Miller has been at her for two hours. She hasn't said a word. Hasn't asked for a lawyer or a phone call. Just sits there staring at the wall."
I don't look at the captain. If I look at him, I will unholster my weapon and put a hollow-point bullet right between his eyes for calling her a bitch.
I keep my gaze locked on Livia.
This was the plan. This was how I hoped Marco’s scheming would end.
I needed her to fall. I needed the world to strip away her hard-earned independence and burn her bakery fund to the ground, so I could be the one to pull her from the ashes.
I wanted her to realize she could not survive this life without me.
But watching her sit in that freezing room, treated like absolute garbage by men who aren't worthy of breathing her expelled air, ignites a violent, homicidal rage in my blood.
Miller leans closer to her, his hand slamming onto the table again. He points a thick, stubby finger an inch from her face.
Livia flinches, turning her head away.
That is enough.
"Playtime is over," I say.
"Of course, Don Niccolò," the captain stammers, stepping back quickly to clear my path.
I walk out of the observation room and push through the heavy metal door of the interrogation room.
Miller snaps his head up, annoyed by the interruption. The annoyance instantly vanishes, draining the color completely from his flushed face. He straightens up so fast he nearly knocks his own chair over.
"Leave us," I command.
"Yes, sir," Miller chokes out. He doesn't grab his files. He doesn't say another word. He practically scrambles past me, pulling the heavy metal door shut behind him.
Livia slowly turns her head.
Her wide, exhausted eyes travel up the length of my dark, custom wool suit, past my broad shoulders, until they lock onto my face.
The recognition is instant. The air completely leaves her lungs.
"It’s you," she whispers.
I don't speak immediately. I take my time. I walk slowly around the edge of the metal table, her eyes track my every movement, wide and frantic like a cornered animal.
She pulls her arms against her chest, the heavy metal handcuffs rattling sharply against the bolt anchoring them to the table. It is a pathetic, desperate attempt to shield herself from my gaze.
I stop right in front of her.
I want her to feel my authority. I want her to understand exactly who holds the keys to her cage. I reach out, grab the edge of the cold metal table, and hoist myself up, sitting casually on the edge of it.
I am directly in her space. My heavy thighs are inches from her bare, bruised knees. The physical difference between us is staggering. I am six-foot-four of unrestrained muscle. She is tied to a desk in a thin t-shirt.
I lean forward, intending to inspect the red, angry welts the handcuffs have dug into her delicate wrists.
The moment my hand moves toward her, Livia violently recoils.
She throws herself backward with such sudden, desperate force that the metal chair scrapes loudly against the concrete. Her breath catches in a sharp, panicked gasp. Her eyes squeeze shut, her shoulders hunching inward as she turns her face away.
She is bracing for the hit.
She thinks I am going to fucking strike her.
My hand freezes in mid-air. The dark, possessive triumph inside my chest shatters, instantly replaced by a sickening plunge in my gut.
She doesn't see me as a savior. She doesn't see me as human.
In this moment, with my shadow eclipsing her, she sees only a massive, violent monster preparing to hurt her.
A rare, unfamiliar crack forms in my control.
I hate it. I hate it with a violent, visceral hatred that she places me in the same category as the monster who ruined her childhood.
I slowly lower my hand.
I don't force the contact. Against every possessive, dominating instinct roaring in my blood, I respect the boundary. I slide off the edge of the metal table, taking a step backward to give her oxygen.
"Open your eyes, Livia," I say. My voice is low, stripped of its usual harsh command. "I am not going to hit you."
She doesn't open them immediately. Her chest heaves with rapid, jagged breaths.
Slowly, her dark lashes flutter apart. She looks at my hands, resting safely in the pockets of my trousers, before looking up at my face.
The terror is still there, swimming in the depths of her irises, but the immediate panic begins to recede.
"What are you doing here?" she breathes, her voice shaking. "Are you a cop?"
A dark, humorless laugh escapes my chest. "A cop? No."
"Then why did they let you in here?" she asks, her brow furrowing in desperate confusion. "Why did that detective run away from you?"
"Because he knows exactly who I am," I answer, holding her gaze.
I step to the side, leaning my shoulder against the cinderblock wall.
"My name is Niccolò Severato," I state, the syllables rolling smoothly off my tongue.
I watch her face, waiting for the weight of the name to hit her. At first, there is nothing but exhausted confusion. She has spent her life buried in double shifts and cheap apartments, she doesn't read the financial papers, and she doesn't follow the underworld gossip.
"You say your name like it means something, I don't know what that means," she whispers defiantly.
"It means I own the ground you are sitting on," I explain with a small shrug. "My family built the foundations of this city. We own the shipping ports. We own the real estate. I pay the salaries of the judges who sign the warrants, and I own the badge of every cop standing outside that door."
Her eyes widen.
"I am not just a man in a suit, Livia," I continue softly. "I am the current that runs beneath the streets. I can make a man disappear without a trace, or I can make him the mayor. I control the board."
She stares at me, her mind racing, connecting the dots. She thinks back to the alley.
"I can only think of two people who would enjoy this twisted game," she breathes. "You and…Marco."
Smart girl.
She looks at me, her eyes searching my blank, unreadable expression. "Did you do this?" she demands, her voice rising, a spark of the old fire returning to her eyes. "Did the both of you connive to do this? Did you tell him to frame me?"
"I didn't order Marco to plant the cocaine," I answer smoothly. It is the truth, though it omits the fact that I allowed it to happen. "Marco is a spoiled, arrogant liability who thought he could use my product to play God with your life."
"Then tell them!" Livia practically screams, rattling the cuffs against the table. "If you own them, tell them to let me go! Tell them it wasn't mine! They took my money. They took everything I saved. You have to tell them to give it back!"
I don't move. I let her panic ring off the concrete walls.
"I could," I say quietly. "But I won't."
The desperate hope in her eyes shatters, replaced by a devastating, hollow disbelief. "Why?"
"Because you need a reality check," I state, pushing off the wall and walking back to the edge of the table.
I lean over her, placing my hands flat on the metal surface.
"Let’s look at your current situation, Livia.
You are sitting in a federal holding cell with two kilos of pure cocaine attached to your name.
The DA will charge you with trafficking.
The mandatory minimum is twenty years in a maximum-security prison. "
She shakes her head frantically, tears finally threatening to spill over her lashes. "No. No, I'll fight it. I'll get a public defender."
"A public defender will take one look at the evidence and tell you to take a plea deal for fifteen," I counter ruthlessly, crushing her delusions.
"You have no money. The civil forfeiture order drained your bakery fund down to zero.
The state swallowed it. It is gone. You cannot buy your way out of this city anymore.
You are completely, hopelessly trapped."
A single tear escapes, tracking a hot, wet line down her pale cheek. She bites her lower lip, trying to hold back a sob. It is a beautiful, tragic display of a broken spirit.
"You have absolutely nothing," I murmur, my eyes dropping to her trembling mouth. "Except me."
She looks up at me, the hatred burning through the tears. "What do you want from me? Why are you doing this?"
I reach inside the breast pocket of my suit jacket. I pull out a folded, thick piece of legal parchment and a heavy gold pen. I drop them onto the metal table in front of her tied hands.
"I am offering you a way out," I say.
Livia stares at the paper as if it is a loaded gun. "What is that?"
"A contract," I answer smoothly. "You sign your name on the dotted line, and the charges completely vanish. The two kilos of cocaine disappear from the evidence locker. The dirty cops forget your name. You walk out of the front doors of this precinct a free woman, with no criminal record."
She doesn't reach for the pen. She knows better. "And the price?"
"One year," I state with a wolfish smirk. "Three hundred and sixty-five days. You will come live at my estate. You will serve as my personal maid. You will live behind my walls, sleep under my roof, and answer only to me."
Livia’s breath hitches. Her eyes dart from the contract to my face, reading the heavy, possessive intent in my gaze. She remembers the alley. You belong on your knees for me.
"You want to own me," she whispers, the disgust evident in her tone. "You want a slave."
"I want compliance," I correct her coldly. "I want you to learn that your fierce, untouchable independence is an illusion. You cannot survive this world alone, Livia. You need protection."
"I don't want your protection," she spits. "I would rather rot in a cell."
"Would you?" I challenge, leaning closer. "You think you are tough because you survived a drunk father and a rough neighborhood? Prison will break you in a week. You will be locked in a cage surrounded by real demons, and nobody will be coming to save you."
I tap my index finger against the heavy parchment.
"Or, you sign the paper. You spend a year dusting my books and pouring my drinks in a mansion. You are fed, you are clothed, and nobody ever lays a hand on you." I pause for the hook. "At the end of the year, your debt is paid. You walk away."
It is a lie. She will never walk away. She will die wearing my name. But she doesn't need to know that yet. I need this one year to make her want me. I will offer her a job and protection, but she will find her wat into my bed.
Livia stares at the contract. Her chest rises and falls in rapid, panicked breaths. She is running the calculus in her head, searching frantically for a third option, a loophole, an escape hatch.
There isn't one. I meticulously sealed every exit.
She looks at her wrists, red and bruised by the heavy steel cuffs. She looks at the cold concrete walls of the interrogation room. And finally, she looks at me.
She hates me. I can feel the venom radiating off her small frame. But beneath the hatred, the survival instinct is stronger. She wants to live. She wants the bakery. She thinks she can endure twelve months of my presence if it means getting her life back.
"If I sign it," she whispers, her voice completely hoarse. "You swear I won't go to prison?"
"I swear it on my life."
She squeezes her eyes shut. A ragged, defeated sigh tears its way out of her throat.
She reaches out with trembling, handcuffed hands. Her fingers curl clumsily around the heavy gold pen. She drags the contract toward her.
She doesn't read the fine print. She doesn't need to. She just presses the tip of the pen against the thick parchment and signs her name in jagged, shaking script.
Livia Marino.
The ink dries. The trap snaps completely shut.
I reach out, sliding the paper and the pen out from under her fingers. I fold the contract precisely in half and tuck it back into the breast pocket of my suit jacket, right over my heart.
I pull a small, silver key from my pocket. I reach across the table, grab the chain connecting her cuffs, and unlock the heavy steel bands. They fall away from her bruised wrists with a loud clatter.
Livia immediately pulls her arms to her chest, rubbing the raw skin, her eyes glued to the floor.
I step back, adjusting the lapels of my jacket. The possessive triumph roars back to life in my veins.
"Get up, Livia," I command softly. "We are going home."