8. Niccolò
Niccolò
The lock on the bathroom door clicks.
I am standing by the stone fireplace, a fresh glass of bourbon in my hand, watching the heavy oak door swing inward.
Livia steps out.
The air in my lungs evaporates.
Marta is an efficient woman. She pulled the smallest uniform she could find from the staff quarters, but it still hangs slightly loose on Livia’s delicate frame.
It is a standard issue black dress that hits just above her knees, with a crisp white apron tied around her waist and a high white collar.
It is modest. It is designed to make the wearer invisible.
On her, it is a fucking sin.
The stark black-and-white fabric contrasts sharply with her pale skin.
Her dark hair is pulled back, exposing the elegant, vulnerable line of her neck.
She stands frozen by the doorframe, her bare feet sinking into the rug, her arms wrapped defensively around her middle.
She looks like a captive. She looks exactly like what she is.
Mine.
She refuses to look at my face. Her eyes are glued to the floorboards, her jaw clamped so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath her skin. The humiliation radiates from her in waves.
"Look at me," I command.
She doesn't move. Her fingers dig into the white fabric of her apron.
"Livia. Look at me." The warning is heavier this time.
Slowly, her chin lifts. Her eyes meet mine, and the hatred burning in her irises is a physical strike to my chest. Good. I prefer her hatred to her terror. Hatred means she is still fighting.
"Come here," I say.
She hesitates, weighing her options, before her bare feet carry her across the Persian rug. She stops six feet away, keeping a safe distance between us.
I take a slow sip of my bourbon, letting the burn coat the back of my throat. I lower the glass.
"We are going to establish the boundaries of your new life," I state, my voice dropping into a cadence that leaves no room for negotiation.
"Rule number one. You do not step foot outside the perimeter of this estate.
If you cross the iron gates, the guards have orders to drag you back inside, and the consequences will be severe. "
She swallows hard, her throat bobbing.
"Rule number two. You do not speak to my soldiers. You do not speak to the perimeter guards. You do not look at them, and they will not look at you. The only men you acknowledge in this house are myself, my brother, and Enzo."
"I am a maid," she says, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "How am I supposed to do my job if I can't look at anyone?"
"You are not their maid," I correct her smoothly. "You are my maid. You will clean my floor. You will organize my study. You will serve my meals personally. You do not lift a finger for another man under this roof."
Her chest rises and falls in sharp, jagged breaths. She is smart. She realizes exactly what this is. This isn't employment to pay off a debt. It is isolation.
"Are we clear?" I ask.
"Yes," she bites out.
"Yes, what?"
Her eyes flare. She knows what I am waiting for. I want the verbal submission. I want her to acknowledge the hierarchy.
"Yes, Don Niccolò," she whispers, the title tasting like poison on her tongue.
I step forward, closing the distance between us. She flinches, but she doesn't step back. I reach out, hooking a single finger under her chin to tilt her face up. Her skin is impossibly soft against my callous.
"Your shift begins at 6:00 AM," I murmur, staring down at her mouth. "Marta will show you to your room. It is down the hall. Two doors away from mine."
I drop my hand. I turn my back to her, dismissing her entirely, and stare into the dying embers of the fireplace. I hear the quiet, rapid sound of her bare feet retreating toward the door, followed by the heavy click of the latch.
The moment she is gone, I drain the rest of the bourbon. My blood is a roaring, volatile mess.
Three days pass.
Seventy-two hours of living with a ghost.
Livia is a silent phantom in my house. I gave Marta strict instructions regarding her schedule, but I did not instruct Marta on how to treat her. I let the natural hierarchy of the estate take over, and the result is exactly what I anticipated.
It is brutal.
I am standing on the second-floor balcony, looking down into the sprawling main kitchen. It is early morning. The house is waking up.
Livia is standing by the industrial sink, scrubbing a heavy cast-iron pan. She is wearing the uniform, her hair tied back, her hands raw and pink from the hot water.
Gia walks past her. The older maid doesn't just bump her shoulder; she aggressively slams into Livia, sending the heavy pan slipping from Livia’s wet grip. It clatters loudly against the stainless-steel sink. Soap and dirty water splash across the front of Livia’s white apron.
"Watch where you’re standing, street trash," Gia sneers.
Livia grips the edge of the sink. Her knuckles turn white. I can see the tension vibrating through her spine. The Livia who stood in the dive bar would have broken a glass over Gia’s head.
But this Livia does nothing. She takes a breath, lowers her head, and picks the pan back up.
Marta walks into the kitchen, carrying a clipboard. She looks at Livia’s soaked apron.
"Change your apron, Livia. You look sloppy," Marta says coldly, completely ignoring Gia’s instigation. "And scrub the baseboards in the east hallway before noon."
Livia nods mutely.
Up on the balcony, my hand grips the mahogany railing so hard the wood groans. An urge claws at the back of my skull. I want to walk down those stairs, grab Gia by the throat, and throw her out of the front gates. I want to fire Marta. I want to burn the kitchen down.
I force my fingers to uncurl. I force my feet to stay planted on the marble.
I do nothing.
I watch Livia untie her wet apron, her face completely blank, entirely devoid of the fire that usually burns in her eyes.
I am a selfish, sadistic bastard. I know exactly what I am doing.
I am letting them tear her down. I am letting the staff isolate her, demean her, and make her feel entirely alone in a house full of people.
I want her to freeze in their hostility so that when I finally offer her warmth, she has no choice but to take it.
I want to be her only sanctuary.
I turn away from the balcony and walk back to my study.
This thing I have for her is mutating. It is no longer just a physical urge to dominate her.
It is an addiction. I find myself tracking her movements through the estate cameras when I should be reviewing shipping manifests.
I know exactly how many sugars she puts in her coffee.
I know she limps slightly on her left foot by the end of a twelve-hour shift.
I am losing my fucking mind over a maid.
I am sitting behind my desk in the study, a stack of contracts spread out in front of me. The only light in the room comes from the heavy brass lamp on my desk and the glow of the fireplace.
The double doors are open. Livia walks into the study.
She has a feather duster in her hand. She stops in the doorway when she sees me behind the desk. She thought the room was empty. Her posture instantly goes rigid, her eyes darting to the floor.
"I'm sorry," she murmurs. "I can come back."
"Stay," I say.
I don't look up from my paperwork. I can feel her hesitation before she slowly moves toward the towering bookshelves lining the far wall.
She begins to dust the leather-bound spines. She moves quietly, efficiently, her back to me.
I stop reading.
I sit in the leather chair and just watch her. I watch the way the black uniform hugs the curve of her waist. I watch the soft sway of her hips as she reaches for a higher shelf. She stretches, the hem of the dress riding up an inch, exposing the smooth, pale skin of her upper thighs.
A heavy, aching heat pools in my groin.
"Livia," I say.
She freezes. The duster stops moving.
"Yes?" she asks, not turning around.
"Come here."
She lowers her arm. She turns, her face carefully blank, and walks across the Persian rug. She stops at the edge of my desk, exactly where I told her to stand three days ago.
I close the file in front of me, push my chair back and stand up.
I walk around the side of the desk. I don't stop. I step directly into her space, crowding her, forcing her to tilt her head up to keep me in her line of sight.
"A new decanter arrived today," I state. I gesture to the crystal liquor cabinet against the wall. "Try again."
Her eyes widen. She looks at the cabinet, then back at me. "I..." She swallows. "I might drop it."
"Then don't drop it," I reply softly.
She turns and walks the few steps to the cabinet. I follow her.
As she reaches out to grab the heavy crystal neck of the decanter, I step in right behind her.
I don't touch her with my hands, but I don't leave an inch of space between us. My chest brushes against her shoulder blades. My hips align perfectly with the curve of her backside. The mass of my body entirely cages her against the wooden cabinet.
Livia gasps, her hand jerking slightly. The glass stopper clinks against the rim of the decanter.
"Steady," I murmur.
I lower my head, my face hovering right next to her neck. She smells like cheap vanilla soap and adrenaline-laced terror. It is the most intoxicating scent I have ever breathed in. I inhale deeply, letting the heat of my breath wash over the sensitive skin beneath her ear.
She shivers violently.
"Pour the drink, Livia," I command softly.
Her hand is shaking. She lifts the decanter, her knuckles white. She picks up a heavy crystal tumbler with her other hand.
I press my chest firmer against her back. I want her to feel exactly how much she affects me. I want her to feel the rigid, aching ridge of my erection pressing against her spine through the fabric of my trousers.
Her breath hitches, a sharp, ragged sound that echoes in the quiet study.
She tips the decanter. The amber liquid spills into the glass, splashing slightly over the rim onto the silver tray because her hands are trembling so badly.
"You're shaking," I observe, my lips brushing the shell of her ear.
"I'm not," she lies, her voice barely a whisper.
"Liar."
She sets the decanter down with a sharp clank. She tries to turn around, to step away from the suffocating heat of my body, but she is trapped between me and the cabinet.
She turns her head, looking over her shoulder. Her face is inches from mine. Her eyes are wide, dark, and swimming with a chaotic mix of fear and a desperate, undeniable heat.
I lift my hand. I don't grab her wrists this time. I brush the loose strands of dark hair away from her neck. My knuckles drag down the soft column of her throat.
I feel it.
Right beneath the surface of her skin, her pulse is hammering. It is frantic. It is a wild, racing beat that betrays the rigid mask of indifference she tries to wear.
My thumb presses gently over the jumping vein.
"You hate me," I state quietly, holding her gaze.
"Yes," she breathes.
"You think I'm a monster."
"Yes."
I lean in closer, until our mouths are separated by a fraction of an inch. "Then why is your heart beating so fast?"
She doesn't have an answer. Her lips part, a soft, stuttering exhale ghosting across my mouth. The sexual tension is heavy enough to crush the breath out of both of us. She wants me to kiss her. I can see it in the dark, dilated pupils of her eyes. She wants me to take the choice away from her.
I won't.
I want her to surrender. I want her to break her own rules.
I drag my thumb over her racing pulse one last time, committing the rhythm to memory. Then, I step back.
I take the cold glass of bourbon from her trembling hand.
"You missed a spot on the top shelf," I say, my voice stripped of the heavy lust from a second ago.
I turn my back on her and walk to my desk. I sit down in the leather chair, taking a slow sip of the liquor, and open my file.
I don't look up as she practically runs out of the study. I take another a sip of my drink and then realize that my hand is shaking.