12. Niccolò
Niccolò
Caterina Falco is a noose tightening around my neck.
I sit behind my mahogany desk, staring at the locked safe in the corner of the room. The engagement ring sits inside it. Three carats. Flawless cut. It cost more than most men make in a decade. It means absolutely nothing to me.
Every time I close my eyes, I don't see Caterina’s perfect, aristocratic smile. I see Livia.
I see her pinned against the wall in the service corridor, her chest heaving, her eyes burning with a hatred so deep it hollowed me out. Go back to your fiancée. You want a whore you can press against the wall in the dark? Buy one. But do not touch me.
Her words gnaw at my sanity, driving me feral.
She hasn't spoken a word to me since that night.
Three days. She brings my coffee. She dusts my shelves.
She moves through my private quarters with her eyes fixed firmly on the floorboards, treating me like a ghost. I built a cage to trap her, but she locked herself inside her own mind, and she swallowed the key.
The frustration is tearing my operations apart just to find an outlet for the rage.
The heavy oak doors to my office open.
Enzo walks in, followed by Alessio and two of my Capos, Dante and Silvio.
Between them, they drag a man. It is Salvo, one of my lieutenants from the harbor.
He is bleeding from a split eyebrow, his clothes rumpled and stained with grease.
Dante and Silvio throw him onto the center of the Persian rug.
Salvo hits the floor hard, groaning as he clutches his ribs.
"Explain," I hum.
"The shipment from the Greeks," Enzo states, stepping to the side. "It didn't make it to the warehouse. Salvo was in charge of the transport. He took a detour through the narrows. The Irish ambushed the trucks."
I lean forward, resting my forearms on the desk. "You lost the guns."
Salvo scrambles to his knees. He is shaking. He looks at my face and knows he is already a dead man.
"Don Niccolò, listen to me," Salvo begs, his words tripping over each other. "I had a tip. They said the main route was being watched by the feds. I made a judgment call to protect the cargo. I didn't know the Irish had the narrows blocked off."
"A judgment call," I repeat.
"I can fix it," Salvo gasps, wiping blood from his eye. "Give me two days. I know where they stash their stolen cargo. I'll get a crew together. I'll get it back."
Alessio scoffs, leaning against the doorframe. "You lost two million dollars’ worth of automatic weapons because you got spooked by a rumor, Salvo. You don't get two days."
I stand up. Salvo flinches, sinking back on his heels. Dante and Silvio stiffen, their hands dropping closer to their holstered weapons. They know my moods. They know the violent, unpredictable edge I have been walking all week.
I walk around the desk.
I don't pull my gun. I don't need it. I step up to Salvo, grab him by the lapels of his jacket, and haul him off the rug.
He cries out as I slam him backward into the heavy wooden bookshelves. The impact shakes the room. Books tumble from the shelves, hitting the floor around us.
"You made a judgment call with my property," I growl, my forearm pressing hard against his windpipe.
Salvo’s face turns an ugly shade of red. He claws at my arm, his boots kicking uselessly against the baseboards.
"Please," he chokes out.
The rage blinds me. It isn't just about the guns. It is about the lack of control. It is about the ring in the safe. It is about a maid in a black uniform who looks right through me. Everything in my life feels fractured, and this pathetic, bleeding man is standing right in the blast zone.
I pull my fist back. I drive it into his ribs.
The sickening crack of bone echoes in the quiet office. Salvo screams, a wet, agonizing sound, and sags against the bookshelf.
I hit him again. A sharp, brutal strike to his jaw. Blood splatters against the spines of the leather-bound books.
"Niccolò," Enzo says sharply.
I ignore him. I grab Salvo by the throat with both hands. I am going to crush his windpipe. I am going to snap his neck and let him drop to the floor. The violent urge is a roar in my ears, drowning out the room, drowning out logic.
The heavy oak doors open.
The soft click of the latch barely registers over the rush of blood in my head. But the scent hits me.
Vanilla soap.
I freeze. My hands are still locked around Salvo’s throat. His face is turning purple, his eyes rolling back.
I turn my head.
Livia stands in the doorway. She holds a silver tray bearing a crystal decanter of bourbon and a single glass. She wears her black uniform, the white apron spotless.
She stops just inside the room. Her dark eyes sweep over the scene. She looks at Alessio leaning against the wall. She looks at the heavily armed Capos. She looks at the blood smeared across the bookshelves, and finally, she looks at my hands wrapped around a dying man’s throat.
My Capos stare at her. They expect her to scream. They expect her to drop the tray and run.
She does neither.
Her face remains completely blank. She steps further into the office, the door clicking shut behind her.
She walks across the room, her sensible black shoes making no sound on the hardwood.
She bypasses Dante and Silvio. She ignores Alessio.
She walks straight to my desk and sets the silver tray down with a soft, metallic clink.
Then, she turns to look at my men.
"I need you guys to excuse us," she says.
Her voice is calm. It doesn't shake. It holds no fear.
The silence in the office is deafening. Dante looks at her, his brow furrowing in disbelief. He looks at Enzo, then at me. A maid just ordered two Capos, a Consigliere, and the brother of the Don out of a room.
Alessio lets out a low, disbelieving whistle. "Are you out of your mind, sweetheart?"
Livia doesn't look at him. She keeps her eyes fixed on Dante. "Leave the room. All of you."
Dante scowls, taking a step toward her. "What the—"
"Do what she says."
My voice is a harsh rasp.
The men freeze. Dante’s mouth snaps shut. Even Enzo looks surprised, his icy mask slipping for a fraction of a second.
I release Salvo. He collapses to the floor, gasping frantically for air, coughing up blood onto the Persian rug.
I step away from the bookshelf. I look at Enzo. "Take him to the basement. Get out."
Enzo nods. He gestures to Dante and Silvio. They grab Salvo by the arms, dragging his limp body across the floor. Alessio pushes off the doorframe, shooting a lingering, fascinated look at Livia before following them out. The doors shut, and we are alone.
I stand in the center of the room. My chest is heaving. The feral rage is still buzzing under my skin.
Livia turns to face me. She looks at my bruised knuckles. She looks at the wild, unhinged darkness in my eyes. She doesn't back away. She doesn't cower.
She closes the distance between us.
She stops right in front of me. She raises her small, pale hands. She doesn't hesitate. She presses her palms flat against my chest, right over my racing heart.
"Breathe," she instructs softly.
I stare down at her. "He lost a shipment. He betrayed the family."
"I don't care," she replies. Her hands slide up my chest, the heat of her palms seeping through the fabric of my shirt. "Breathe, Niccolò."
She uses my name. Not my title. My name.
The sound of it on her tongue breaks me. The homicidal rage drains out of my blood, replaced instantly by a blinding, overwhelming rush of lust.
I wrap my bloodstained hands around her waist. I lift her off the floor.
Livia gasps, her hands gripping my shoulders as I carry her toward the desk. I sweep my arm across the mahogany wood, sending ledgers, pens, and files crashing to the floor. I set her down on the edge of the desk.
I step between her legs.
Her black uniform rides up her thighs. I crowd her into the edge of the wood, pressing my body flush against hers.
"You shouldn't have stayed," I murmur roughly. "You should have run."
"I'm not running," she breathes.
Her dark eyes are wide, dilated, and swimming with the same desperate need clawing at my insides.
I slide my hands up her waist, gripping her ribs. I pull her forward, right to the edge of the desk. My mouth crashes down onto hers.
It isn't a gentle kiss.
Livia opens her mouth for me instantly. She doesn't fight. She tangles her fingers into my hair, pulling me closer. I devour her. I taste the vanilla on her skin, the tang of adrenaline, the underlying sweetness that belongs only to her. My tongue sweeps into her mouth, claiming every inch of it.
She meets my rhythm. Her small hands grip my shoulders, her nails digging through my shirt. She kisses me back with a fierce, hungry desperation that matches my own.
I groan against her mouth. I slide my hands down to the back of her thighs, gripping the soft, bare skin just above her dark stockings. I pull her legs apart, stepping deeper into her space. The hard ridge of my erection presses directly against her core through our clothes.
Livia arches her back, a soft, high moan vibrating into my mouth.
The sound drives me completely insane.
I break the kiss, trailing open-mouthed kisses down her jaw, down the long column of her throat. I bite down gently on the sensitive skin right above her collarbone. She shivers violently, her head falling back, exposing her neck to me.
"You drive me crazy," I rasp against her skin. "I can't think. I can't sleep. You are all I see."
"Niccolò," she whimpers.
I slide my hand up the back of her thigh, pushing the fabric of her black dress higher. I find the edge of her cotton underwear. My fingers slip beneath the band, mapping the curve of her hip, sliding lower.
She is incredibly wet.
The realization makes my vision go dark. I stroke her, my thumb finding the swollen center of her heat.
Livia jolts. Her hands grip my biceps tight enough to bruise. "Wait. Wait."
I stop moving my hand, but I don't remove it. I look up at her face. Her eyes are glazed with lust, her lips swollen and red from my mouth. She is breathing fast, her chest rising and falling in sharp, erratic bursts.
"You're engaged," she whispers. The words are painful.
"No," I say fiercely.
"She was at the dinner."
"I don't want her. I want you."
I lean in, capturing her mouth again. I kiss her deep and hard, swallowing her arguments. I move my fingers against her in a slow friction.
Livia whimpers into the kiss. She tries to hold onto her resolve, but her body betrays her. Her hips roll forward automatically, chasing the pressure of my hand. She grinds against my fingers, her nails biting into my shoulders.
I wrap my other arm securely around her waist, holding her in place. I increase the pace.
She breaks the kiss, throwing her head back, a ragged, breathless sound escaping her throat. "Please."
"Let it go," I command softly, watching her face. "Give it to me, Livia."
She falls apart.
Her body bows off the desk. Her inner muscles clench tight around my fingers as she crashes over the edge. A muffled, desperate cry leaves her lips. She slumps forward, burying her face in the crook of my neck, her breathing jagged and completely out of control.
I hold her. I keep my arm wrapped tight around her waist, letting her tremble against my chest.
The blood on my knuckles stains the crisp white fabric of her apron. The files are scattered across the floor. The office smells like iron, bourbon, and sex.
She slowly pulls back. She looks at my face, her dark eyes filled with a terrifying mix of realization and vulnerability. We crossed a line. We shattered the boundaries, and there is no going back.
I brush a loose strand of hair from her cheek.
"You are mine," I tell her. The words are no longer a threat. They are a vow.
She looks at me, her chest still heaving. She doesn't agree, but she doesn't argue.
She slides off the desk. Her legs are shaking so badly she has to grip the edge of the wood to steady herself. She smooths down the front of her uniform, refusing to meet my eyes now that the adrenaline has faded.
She turns and walks toward the door.
"Livia," I call out.
She pauses with her hand on the brass handle.
"I am breaking the engagement," I state.
She looks over her shoulder. Her expression is unreadable, guarded once again. She doesn't say a word. She pushes the heavy oak door open and disappears into the hallway.