7. Livia
Livia
The leather seat of the Maybach is cold against my bare thighs.
I stare blankly out the tinted window. The city lights blur into long, meaningless streaks of yellow and red against the pitch-black sky. We’ve made a brief stop at my apartment to collect some things that I needed.
I had to practically beg because I wanted the last thing I had of my mother.
It’s an old framed photo of her and me. Now we are crossing the bridge over the Charles River, leaving the gritty, suffocating streets of the South Side behind. We are heading into the sprawling, untouchable wealth of the Boston elite.
I am leaving my entire life behind.
It feels like I am attending my own funeral. The ghost of the girl I was a few hours ago is dead. She was slaughtered by a dirty cop and a signature on a piece of legal parchment.
Now, there is only this. The suffocating silence of the luxury car. The faint, intoxicating smell of bergamot and gunpowder radiating from the massive man sitting too close to me.
Niccolò hasn't spoken a word since he put me in the car. He sits with his long legs spread, his elbow resting on the center console, taking up all the oxygen in the space. He is a black hole, and I am already caught past the event horizon.
The car slows.
Through the tinted glass, I see towering stone walls rising from the darkness, easily twelve feet high and topped with wrought-iron spikes. The Maybach turns onto a long, sweeping driveway. Heavy, gothic iron gates loom ahead, flanked by stone pillars and armed guards carrying tactical rifles.
The guards step back. The gates groan, parting just enough to let the car glide through.
I twist around, looking over my shoulder through the rear window. The second the back bumper clears the threshold, the heavy iron gates swing shut. The metallic clang of the lock engaging echoes through the quiet night.
That is it. The final nail in the coffin. I am locked in. My freedom, my autonomy, the fortress I spent twenty-two years building, it is all on the other side of that iron.
The car stops in front of a massive, imposing estate. It looks less like a home and more like a fortress. Stone columns, heavy mahogany doors, and rows of dark windows staring down at the circular driveway like empty eyes.
A guard pulls my door open. The freezing night air bites at my bare legs. I am still wearing nothing but the oversized grey t-shirt and my cotton underwear.
I step out, wrapping my arms tightly around my chest.
Niccolò rounds the back of the car. He doesn't offer me his jacket.
He doesn't offer comfort. He steps behind me, his large hand settling firmly at the base of my spine.
The heat of his palm burns right through the thin cotton of my shirt.
It is a brand. It is a physical claim broadcasting to every armed man in the courtyard exactly who I belong to.
He pushes me forward.
We walk up the wide stone steps and through the front doors.
The foyer is a sprawling expanse of imported white marble and dark wood. A massive crystal chandelier hangs from the vaulted ceiling, casting a cold, brilliant light over the space. It is beautiful, and it is terrifying.
There are people waiting.
Two men stand near the base of the grand, sweeping staircase. I recognize them instantly. They are the same men who flanked Niccolò at the bar.
"Brother," the younger one says. He has a smirk playing on his lips, his suit jacket discarded to reveal a dark dress shirt. His eyes slide to me, roaming over my bare legs and my messy hair with amusement.
"Eyes on the floor, Alessio," Niccolò says. The command is soft, but the threat laced through the syllables is unmistakable.
Alessio’s smirk falters. He immediately shifts his gaze to the marble tiles, though the tension in his frame tells me he is a man who loves to push boundaries.
"This is Alessio," Niccolò says to me, his hand still resting heavily on my lower back. He doesn't look at his brother. "And the man beside him is Enzo. My Consigliere."
Enzo is staring at me with a flat, icy calculation. There is no amusement in his gaze, he doesn't look at my body. He looks right into my eyes.
"They are my inner circle," Niccolò continues, the deep timbre of his voice echoing off the marble. "They are the only men in this house permitted to speak to you. If any of the guards or the soldiers look at you for too long, you tell me. Do you understand?"
"I don't want to speak to anyone," I mutter hoarsely.
Niccolò ignores my defiance. His hand guides me forward, steering me toward a group of women standing in a rigid line near the hallway archway.
There are four of them. They wear crisp, tailored black uniforms with white collars.
The woman at the head of the line is older, her dark hair pulled back into a severe, tight bun. Her posture is ramrod straight, her expression entirely unreadable.
"This is Marta," Niccolò says. "She is the head housekeeper. She runs the staff."
Marta gives a stiff, perfunctory nod. "Don Niccolò. We prepared the guest suite, as requested."
"She will not be using the guest suite," Niccolò corrects her smoothly. "She will be staying on my floor."
A ripple of tension passes through the line of maids.
My eyes catch on a younger maid standing directly beside Marta. She is beautiful, with sharp features and dark, heavily lined eyes. Her nametag reads Gia.
Gia is staring at me. She doesn't have Marta’s rigid discipline. Her eyes rake over my oversized, wrinkled t-shirt, dropping to my bare, bruised knees. Her lip curls in a faint, unmistakable sneer, she is disgusted.
I don't need to be a mind reader to know exactly what she is thinking. I am a half-naked girl brought in from the streets in the middle of the night by the boss. To her, I am a cheap whore. I am trash who traded her body to stay out of a prison cell.
Great, I am walking into a hateful viper nest.
"Marta, have a uniform brought to my quarters," Niccolò orders.
"Right away, sir," Marta replies.
Niccolò doesn't introduce me to them. He doesn't tell them my name. He simply nudges my spine again, steering me away from the staff and toward the grand staircase.
Every step I take up the mahogany stairs feels like climbing the steps to the gallows. The higher we go, the further away I get from the front doors.
We reach the second floor. It is a long corridor lined with heavy oak doors. It is completely isolated from the rest of the house.
Panic begins to claw its way back up my throat.
"Wait," I say, stopping in the middle of the hallway. I turn to face him. I cross my arms tightly over my chest, trying to maintain some shred of dignity. "I need a phone."
Niccolò stops and looks down at me. "You don't need a phone."
"I do," I argue, my voice rising in desperation. "Sofia is expecting me to cover her shift tomorrow. When I don't show up, when I don't answer my door, she is going to panic. She will call the police."
"The police won't care," Niccolò states coldly. "The twelfth precinct already processed your paperwork. As far as the system is concerned, you skipped town to avoid a trafficking charge."
The breath leaves my lungs. He really did seal every single exit.
"I just need to tell her I am alive," I beg. "I won't tell her where I am. I won't say your name. Just let me send her one text."
Niccolò steps into my space. He towers over me, his broad shoulders blocking out the ambient light of the hallway.
"No."
"Why?" I demand, a hot tear of frustration burning the corner of my eye.
"Because you are mine now," he says softly, the possessive edge in his voice making my skin prickle. "And liberties in this house are not a right, Livia. They are earned. Right now, you haven't earned anything."
He reaches past me, turning the brass handle of a massive double door. He pushes it open and steps aside.
"Inside," he commands.
I swallow the argument sitting bitter on my tongue. I have no leverage. I have no power.
I walk through the doors into his private quarters.
The master suite is enormous. It smells strongly of his bergamot cologne and woodsmoke.
There is a massive, king-sized bed dominating the center of the room, covered in dark silk sheets.
A stone fireplace spans an entire wall, the embers currently glowing a dull orange.
To the left is an open archway leading into a sprawling private study, lined with books and a heavy mahogany desk.
I stand awkwardly in the center of the Persian rug, my bare feet sinking into the plush material.
Niccolò walks past me. He sheds his suit jacket, tossing it carelessly over the back of a leather armchair. He rolls up the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt, exposing thick forearms corded with muscle and completely covered in dark, chaotic tattoos.
He walks into the study and stops in front of a crystal liquor cabinet.
"Come here," he says, his back to me.
I hesitate, but my bare feet move across the rug. I stop at the edge of the study.
"Pour me a drink," he orders, gesturing to a heavy crystal decanter filled with amber liquid. "Bourbon. Neat."
I stare at his broad back. I look at the thick, brutal muscle shifting beneath his shirt.
He wants compliance. He wants to strip my independence down to the bone and turn me into an obedient servant. He expects me to pour his drinks, to clean his house, to lower my eyes.
A dark, intrusive thought suddenly poisons my mind.
Is he just like him?
My father demanded the exact same things.
He wanted a hot meal on the table when he walked through the door.
He wanted silence when he was watching television.
And when my mother didn't move fast enough, when she accidentally dropped a plate or burnt the roast, the violence was instantaneous. The backhand was always waiting.
Niccolò wears a nicer suit, but he uses the same tools. Fear. Intimidation. Control.
My heart starts hammering a frantic, violent rhythm against my ribs. The adrenaline spikes, making my hands tremble.
I step up to the liquor cabinet. I reach out with shaking fingers and wrap my hand around the neck of the heavy crystal decanter. Niccolò is watching me out of the corner of his eye.
I lift the decanter off the silver tray. It is heavy. I hold it suspended in the air for one agonizing second.
And then, I deliberately loosen my grip.
I let it slip through my fingers.
The heavy crystal hits the hardwood floor with a deafening, explosive crash.
Glass shatters everywhere. The amber bourbon splashes across the polished wood, soaking into the edges of the expensive rug. Sharp, jagged shards of crystal scatter in every direction, pinging against the legs of the mahogany desk.
My trauma instantly takes the wheel.
I don't even think about it. The reaction is hardwired into my nervous system. I violently flinch, taking a sharp step backward. My bare heel catches the edge of the rug, and I stumble, my shoulders hunching inward.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I turn my face away, burying my chin into my collarbone, and I brace for the hit.
I wait for the roar of anger. I wait for the heavy, calloused hand to crack across my jaw. I wait for the physical punishment of disobedience. I tense every muscle in my body, my breath locked in my throat, ready for the pain.
One second. Two seconds.
"Livia. Don't move."
His voice isn't a roar. It isn't a shout. It is a sharp, urgent command.
I open my eyes.
Niccolò hasn't raised a hand to me. He hasn't pulled his arm back to strike.
Instead, the six-foot-four beast is dropping to his knees.
He falls to his knees right in front of me, completely disregarding the puddle of spilled bourbon soaking into the expensive fabric of his tailored trousers. He doesn't look at my face. He looks directly at the floor.
I am frozen. My brain entirely short-circuits.
He reaches out with his large, heavily tattooed hands. He doesn't grab my ankles. He carefully, meticulously begins sweeping the jagged shards of broken crystal away from my bare toes.
He picks up a massive, razor-sharp piece of glass that had landed a fraction of an inch from my foot and tosses it aside.
"Are you cut?" he asks tightly.
"N-no," I stammer. My voice sounds like it belongs to a stranger.
He sweeps the last of the fine glass dust away with the side of his hand. He doesn't care that the sharp edges bite into his own skin. He clears a completely safe, clean path for my bare feet on the hardwood.
Only then does he look up at me.
He is still on his knees. His dark, obsidian eyes lock onto mine. He sees the way my shoulders are hunched. He sees the way I am still bracing for a physical blow. He reads the paralyzing terror radiating off my body.
His jaw clenches so hard a muscle jumps beneath the stubble on his cheek.
He realizes exactly what I just did. He knows it wasn't an accident.
"I am not him," Niccolò says.
The words are spoken with softness.
He slowly stands up, his towering frame casting a long shadow over me. He steps closer, stopping when the toes of his expensive shoes brush against my bare feet.
"Listen to me very carefully," he murmurs, his eyes burning into mine with an intensity that steals the oxygen from the room. "I will burn this entire city to ash before I ever raise a hand to you. I will cut my own hands off before they ever leave a bruise that you don’t want on your skin."
I am shaken.
The certainty that all powerful men are exactly like my father fracture. He is a monster to the rest of the world. He pins men to bar floors and presses blades to their skin. He uses his wealth to obliterate lives.
But right now, standing in the ruins of a thousand-dollar crystal decanter, he is looking at me like I am something sacred.
A soft knock sounds at the double doors of the suite.
Niccolò breaks our eye contact, the harsh, violent lines of his face snapping back into place. He turns toward the door.
"Come in," he barks.
The door opens. Marta stands in the threshold, her eyes dropping to the shattered glass and spilled liquor on the floor. She doesn't react. She simply extends her arm, holding a neatly folded stack of black and white fabric.
"The uniform, Don Niccolò," she says evenly.
Niccolò walks over, takes the clothes from her hands, and kicks the door shut in her face.
He walks back to me and presses the folded uniform against my chest. My numb hands automatically come up to grip the fabric.
"The bathroom is through that door," he says, gesturing toward the far side of the room. His voice is back to its cold, commanding pitch, the vulnerability from seconds ago is completely gone. "Put it on, Livia. And then come back out here. We have rules to discuss."