11. Livia
Livia
The main kitchen of the Severato estate is a war zone of clattering copper pots, hissing steam, and shouted Italian.
I stand perfectly still near the swinging doors, a heavy silver tray balanced on my palms. My black uniform is perfectly pressed. My white apron is tied tight enough to restrict my breathing. My hair is scraped back into a severe bun that pulls at my scalp.
"Posture, Livia," Marta snaps, walking past me with a critical glare. "You will serve the wine from the right. You will clear from the left. You will not make eye contact with the guests. You are a shadow. Understand?"
"Yes, Marta," I say emptily.
I am a shadow. I have been practicing for this all week.
Ever since the conversation I overheard in the hallway, I have been fortifying the walls inside my head.
I have poured cement over every chaotic, terrifying emotion Niccolò Severato woke up inside me.
I am a maid. Nothing more. Not even washing him would change that.
"They are seated," a guard barks, stepping into the kitchen.
Marta points a sharp finger at me. "Go."
I push through the swinging doors, stepping out of the chaos of the kitchen and into the suffocating, opulent silence of the formal dining room.
The room is a cavern of dark mahogany, blood-red velvet drapes, and gold accents. A massive crystal chandelier hangs over a dining table long enough to seat twenty people. Tonight, there are only six.
Don Roberto sits at the head of the table. He is an older, terrifyingly still man with cold eyes and a cruel mouth. Enzo sits to his right, Alessio is slumped casually in his chair, swirling a glass of scotch, looking bored by the entire affair.
And at the opposite end of the table sits Niccolò.
He is wearing a tailored black tuxedo that fits his massive frame with perfection. The white of his dress shirt emphasizes the angles of his jaw and the obsidian black of his eyes. He looks exactly like what he is, a king holding court.
But it isn't Niccolò who steals the air from my lungs. It is the woman sitting directly beside him.
Caterina Falco.
She is breathtaking. She is a creature carved from old money, ruthless breeding, and untouchable privilege.
Her dark hair falls in perfect, glossy waves over her shoulders.
She wears a slip of emerald-green silk that clings to every flawless curve of her body.
Diamonds glitter at her throat, catching the light of the chandelier.
As I walk silently around the perimeter of the room, Caterina leans into Niccolò’s space. She murmurs something close to his ear, her manicured hand resting possessively, on the dark fabric of his thigh.
A sharp, violent pain tears through my chest. I force my eyes away. I look at the crystal wine glasses. I look at the folded linen napkins. I look at anything but the way his arm rests behind her chair.
I step up to Don Roberto first, pouring the dark red wine into his glass. My hands do not shake. I do not spill a single drop.
"The shipping routes through the harbor belong to us," Don Roberto is saying. "With the Falco territory secured to the north, the Irish are effectively suffocated."
"My father agrees," Caterina says smoothly. Her voice is like velvet. "The union secures the borders. It’s good business."
A union. A marriage. A business transaction worth millions of dollars and countless human lives.
I move down the table, pouring the wine for Enzo, then Alessio.
I am completely invisible to them. Caterina doesn't even glance at my face as I reach past her shoulder to fill her glass. To her, I am not a woman. I am a piece of moving furniture. I am the help.
I move to Niccolò.
I stand at his right side. I keep my chin lowered, my eyes fixed firmly on the stem of his empty crystal glass. I lift the heavy bottle.
I can feel him looking at me. The rest of the table fades into a dull buzz. I feel the tension radiating off his large frame. He is waiting for me to look up. He is waiting for my eyes to flick to his, to show him the hurt, the anger, the jealousy he knows should be there.
I don't.
I pour the wine. I step back. I turn on my heel and walk away, my face is a perfect, unreadable mask of blank indifference.
I retreat to the corner of the dining room, folding my hands over my white apron, and stand perfectly still.
The dinner lasts for two agonizing hours.
I stand in the shadows, forced to watch the reality of the class difference play out in front of me.
I watch Caterina sip expensive wine, laughing lightly at something Alessio says.
I watch her touch Niccolò’s arm. I watch the confidence she wears.
She doesn't have to fight for her autonomy.
She doesn't have to count crumpled dollar bills or scrub blood out of a bathtub.
She was born to rule this world alongside a monster.
And me? I am the girl the monster bought out of a holding cell.
The realization cements my absolute disgust. Men with power do not save girls like me.
They use us. They lock us in their houses, they strip our independence, and they use our bodies until they are bored, and then they discard us.
My father used his fists. Niccolò uses his wealth.
It is the exact same game, just played on a more expensive board.
I am nothing to him. A temporary plaything. A warm body to pass the time until the wedding invitations are sent.
"Clear the plates," Marta whispers harshly as she passes me.
I step forward. I gather the heavy porcelain plates, stacking them carefully onto the large silver tray. When I reach Niccolò’s place setting, I reach for his plate.
His hand shoots out, his large fingers clamping down on my wrist.
The contact sends a violent jolt of electricity straight up my arm. I freeze.
The conversation at the table doesn't stop. Don Roberto and Enzo are deep into a discussion about the docks. Caterina is looking at her phone. No one notices the Underboss gripping the maid’s wrist under the edge of the mahogany table.
His grip is bruising. I look at his hand, but I refuse to look at his face.
"Sir," I say quietly, my voice is devoid of emotion. "Your plate."
His fingers tighten for one fraction of a second, and then, he lets me go.
I pick up the plate, balance the heavy tray on my palms, and walk quickly out of the dining room.
I push through the heavy doors, bypassing the chaotic main kitchen, and take the service corridor that leads back toward the staff wing. I need a second. I need to put this tray down before my hands start shaking and I shatter thousands of dollars’ worth of porcelain.
The corridor is silent, lit only by small wall sconces.
I make it halfway down the hall when the heavy oak door connecting the service corridor to the main dining room swings open behind me.
I hear the heavy, unmistakable thud of his shoes on the runner rug.
My heart kicks violently against my ribs, but I don't stop walking. I quicken my pace.
He is faster.
A large hand grabs my shoulder, spinning me around with brutal force.
The silver tray tips, the plates sliding. Niccolò’s other hand catches the edge of the tray before it can crash to the floor. He yanks it out of my grip entirely and tosses it onto a nearby wooden credenza. The porcelain clatters loudly, but nothing breaks.
Before I can even draw a breath, he crowds me into the wall.
He hits me with the force of a tidal wave. He slams his palms against the wall on either side of my head. His massive body presses flush against mine, caging me in. He steps into my space, driving his heavy, muscular thigh directly between my legs, pinning me to the expensive wallpaper.
"You haven't looked at me once," he snarls. His chest is heaving against mine, the crisp white fabric of his tuxedo shirt feels hot against the cotton of my uniform.
I flatten my hands against the wall behind me. I refuse to push against his chest. I refuse to touch him.
"I am doing my job, Don Niccolò," I say. My voice is steady. It is the most impressive lie I have ever told. "Marta instructed me to keep my eyes on the floor."
"Fuck Marta," he growls, leaning his face so close to mine I can feel the heat of his breath on my lips. "Look at me."
I tilt my chin up, meeting his eyes with a blank, dead stare.
His jaw clenches. The muscle feathers violently beneath his skin. He hates it. He hates the titanium wall I have built between us. He is used to the fire. He is used to my defiance. This cold, mechanical obedience is driving him absolutely out of his mind.
"Where did you go?" he demands, his voice dropping into a harsh, desperate rasp. "You were in my study. You were in my bathroom. I know you felt what happened between us. And tonight, you treat me like a stranger."
"You are a stranger," I whisper. "You are my employer. I am your maid."
"I am the man who owns you," he corrects ruthlessly.
He shifts his weight. His thigh presses higher, firmer, right against the apex of my thighs.
A sharp, humiliating gasp rips out of my throat. A treacherous heat pools instantly in my core, an involuntary physical reaction to the hard friction of his body against mine.
His eyes darken instantly, the pupils expanding until they swallow the black irises. He feels my reaction. He feels the way my body betrays my mind.
"You're a liar," he murmurs, his tone is laced with dark triumph. He lowers his head, his nose brushing against my jawline. He breathes in the scent of my skin like a starving man. "You aren't a ghost, Livia. You're burning alive under this uniform."
He is right. I am burning. My skin is hypersensitive, my pulse is hammering so fast I feel dizzy. I want to grab the lapels of his tuxedo. I want to pull his mouth down to mine and let the monster consume me.
But then, woven beneath the scent of his bergamot cologne and the sharp tang of his aggression, I smell the expensive, floral perfume Caterina Falco was wearing at the table.
The scent is a bucket of ice water dumped directly over my head.
The fog of lust shatters.
I bring my hands up. I plant them flat against his chest, and I push with every ounce of strength I possess in my exhausted body.
"Get off me," I hiss with venom.
He doesn't budge, but the sheer hatred in my tone makes him freeze. He lifts his head, his eyes searching my face.
"Go back to your fiancée," I say. My voice is no longer blank. It is shaking with an intensity that matches his own. "Go back to the woman sitting at your table wearing your diamonds. You want a whore you can press against the wall in the dark? Buy one. But do not touch me."
The dark lust in his eyes fractures, replaced by a sudden, jarring shock. For the first time since I met him, Niccolò Severato is speechless.
I don't wait for him to recover. I use his momentary paralysis to duck under his arm.
I slide along the wall, escaping the suffocating heat of his body.
I don't look back. I practically run down the service corridor, my shoes making no sound on the runner rug.
I burst through the door leading to the staff quarters.
I rush down the hall to my small room, throw the door open, and slam it shut behind me.
I turn the lock with a loud, definitive click.
I stumble backward until my knees hit the edge of my narrow mattress. I collapse onto the bed. I grip the collar of my black uniform, pulling at the fabric because I suddenly cannot pull enough oxygen into my lungs.
I curl into a tight ball, burying my face into the thin pillow, and I finally shatter. The tears come hot, fast, and silent. My shoulders shake with the force of my suppressed sobs.
I am disgusted.
I am so deeply, profoundly disgusted with myself.
When he pinned me against that wall, when he drove his thigh between my legs, my first instinct wasn't to scream.
It wasn't to fight. My first instinct was to surrender.
My body ached for a man who is actively engaged to someone else.
A man who orchestrates violence for a living.
A man who ruined my entire life just to lock me in his house.
I am betraying everything I ever stood for.
I swore I would never be my mother. I swore I would be independent. I swore I would never let a violent, controlling man hold power over my body or my mind. And yet, here I am. Crying in a dark room over a mafia boss who belongs to a woman born in a castle.
"I'm sorry," I whisper into the dark, the apology meant for the ghost of the little girl who watched the rain hit the porch. "I'm so sorry.