15. Livia
Livia
"Because I refuse to put a ring on another woman's finger when my obsession belongs to you." The words feel like a death sentence.
I look at the dark, bruised exhaustion around his eyes, and then I look down. My hands are coated in his blood. His bare chest is smeared with it. The metallic, cloying scent of copper fills my nose, mixing with the sharp sting of the antiseptic I used to clean his skin.
My chest seizes. The air in the room thins out, choking me.
I shove my hands against his uninjured shoulder. I push hard, scrambling backward, sliding off his lap. My bare feet hit the floorboards, and I stumble, my back hitting the edge of my dresser.
Niccolò winces, his hand flying to his bandaged side. "Livia—"
"Don't," I gasp. I hold my bloody hands up in front of me like they belong to a stranger. "Don't say my name."
He sits on the edge of the mattress. The vulnerability vanishes. A hard, cold mask slides over his features, but his dark eyes stay locked on mine. "You need to calm down."
"Calm down?" My voice cracks. It rises into a frantic, broken shout. "You killed people! You broke a treaty, and you did it because you think you own me!"
"I’m keeping what is mine," he growls.
"I am not yours!" I scream, the sound tearing at my throat.
Hot tears spill over my lashes, tracking fast down my cheeks.
"You think this makes you a protector? You think coming in here, bleeding on my floor, makes you different from the rest of them?
You are a monster, Niccolò. You are a violent, pathetic thug. "
His jaw tightens. I want to hurt him. I need to push him away before he swallows me whole.
"You are exactly like the man who ruined my childhood," I sob, pointing a shaking finger at him.
"You solve your problems with your fists and your guns, and you expect me to sit here and be grateful.
You expect me to be your willing whore while you burn the city down. I won't do it. I will never do it."
Niccolò’s face is unreadable, but the darkness in his eyes fractures. I compared him to my father. Again. It is the only weapon I have that actually cuts him.
He doesn't yell. He doesn't threaten me.
He stands up. He moves slowly, favoring his stitched side. He picks up his ruined, blood-soaked shirt from the floor.
He walks to the door, pulls it open, and steps out into the hallway.
He leaves me alone with the blood on my floor.
Four days pass. Ninety-six hours of silence.
The estate is on absolute lockdown. Armed guards patrol the hallways. The heavy iron gates remain shut. The air inside the house is heavy with the promise of retaliation from the Falco family.
I do not see Niccolò.
He isolates himself in his wing. Marta gives me my assignments, keeping me confined to the lower floors. I scrub the baseboards. I polish the silver. I try to lose myself in the physical labor, but my mind is a relentless, agonizing trap.
I cannot stop thinking about his mouth on mine. I cannot stop feeling the hard ridge of his arousal against my core.
The confusion is rotting me from the inside out.
I hate him. I hate the cage he put me in. I hate the violence he represents. But when I close my eyes, I ache for him. My body remembers the weight of his hands, the possessive claim in his voice. I am terrified of him, yet I am terrified of never feeling his touch again.
It is a sickness. I am becoming my mother. I am finding comfort in the shadow of a monster.
I wipe a rag across the kitchen counter with shaky hands.
If I stay here, I lose. I lose my soul. I lose my identity. The contract was for one year, but I won't survive a year. He will break me down, piece by piece, until I am nothing but a compliant shadow warming his bed. I will forget the bakery. I will forget the ocean.
I drop the rag.
I have to leave.
It doesn't matter that he owns the cops. It doesn't matter that I will go to prison. A federal cell is a physical cage. This house is a mental one. I would rather wear an orange jumpsuit for twenty years with my soul intact than wear silk dresses as a mafia boss’s plaything.
I wait for the clock to strike two in the morning.
The house is silent.
I pull my small, cheap canvas bag from the back of the closet. I pack my few belongings. Two faded t-shirts. A pair of jeans. My worn sneakers. I leave the black maid uniform folded on the mattress. I leave the expensive soaps and lotions untouched in the bathroom.
I sling the bag over my shoulder.
I crack the door open. The hallway is empty.
The guards stick to the perimeter and the main entrances.
There is a side door near the kitchens, a service exit that leads to the delivery driveway.
If I can slip past the cameras and climb the stone wall near the north corner, I can disappear into the city.
I step out into the corridor. My sneakers make no sound on the runner rug.
My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I move through the shadows, bypassing the grand staircase, taking the narrow servant stairs down to the first floor.
I reach the kitchens. The stainless steel appliances gleam in the pale moonlight filtering through the windows.
I walk toward the heavy metal service door.
I reach out, my hand closing around the deadbolt.
"Going somewhere?"
The voice comes from the shadows.
I gasp, spinning around, my back hitting the cold metal door.
Niccolò sits in a dark corner of the kitchen. He is seated at the small wooden prep table. A glass of amber liquor rests in front of him. He is wearing dark trousers and a black shirt. He looks exhausted, the harsh angles of his face hollowed out by the lack of sleep.
I brace myself. I wait for the wrath. I wait for him to cross the room, rip the bag from my hands, and drag me down to the basement. I wait for the dictator to punish his prisoner for trying to escape.
He doesn't move.
He just looks at me.
"I'm leaving," I say. My voice shakes, but I force my chin up. "You can call your dirty cops. You can send me to a cell. I don't care anymore. I won't stay here."
Niccolò picks up his glass. He takes a slow sip then sets the glass down.
He stands up. He walks slowly across the kitchen tiles, favoring his left side where the stitches pull at his skin. He stops three feet away from me.
He looks down at my face.
The darkness in his eyes is gone. He looks wrecked. He looks like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, watching the ground crumble beneath his boots.
He reaches out.
I flinch, squeezing my eyes shut.
He doesn't grab me. He reaches past my head. His hand wraps around the deadbolt of the service door.
With a loud, metallic clack, he unlocks it.
He pulls the heavy handle down and pulls the door open. The freezing night air rushes into the kitchen, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine.
I open my eyes, staring at the open doorway in shock.
He steps back, clearing the path.
"Go," he says softly.
I blink. My mind struggles to process the open door, the cold air, his lack of violence. "What?"
"You want to leave," he murmurs. "The door is open, Livia. There are no guards on the north wall. I cleared the cameras. You can walk out right now."
My hands grip the strap of my bag. I look at the dark driveway outside. It is freedom. It is the escape I have been plotting for days.
But I don't move.
I look back at Niccolò.
He isn't wearing his armor. His shoulders are slumped. The violent, untouchable mafia boss is gone, leaving behind a man who looks completely, devastatingly broken.
"Why are you doing this?" I whisper. "You bought me. You trapped me."
"Because I thought I could protect you," he answers. He doesn't step closer. He keeps his distance, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides. "I thought I could pull you out of the mud and keep you safe. But you look at me, and you see the man who hurt your mother."
He swallows.
"I am a violent man, Livia. I do bad things. But the thought of you cowering in my house, looking at me with that terror in your eyes..." He shakes his head, a bitter, self-deprecating smirk touching his lips. "It guts me. It strips me down to nothing."
I stare at him, the breath trapped in my lungs.
"You are free," he tells me. He looks at the open doorway, refusing to meet my eyes anymore. "I will handle the cops. The charges are gone. You won't see the inside of a cell. Walk out that door, and you will never see my face again."
My heart slams against my ribs. I take a step toward the open door. The night air kisses my cheeks. I am one step away from reclaiming my life.
Niccolò doesn't stop me. He watches me step onto the threshold.
"But know this," he whispers into the space between us.
I pause, my hand resting on the metal frame. I look over my shoulder.
He finally meets my gaze. "If you walk out that door," he rasps, his voice breaking on the final word, "you take my heart with you."
The world stops. He is a man handing me the knife and bearing his chest. He is giving me the power to completely destroy him.
I look at the dark driveway. I look at the empty city beyond the gates.
It means nothing. It is cold, and it is empty.
The strap of the canvas bag slips from my shoulder.
It hits the kitchen floor with a soft thud.
I turn away from the open door. I step back inside, the warmth of the kitchen wrapping around me. I walk toward him, the distance closing until my chest brushes against his dark shirt.
Niccolò exhales a ragged, desperate breath. He reaches out, wrapping his arms around my waist, and buries his face in the crook of my neck.
He holds me like I am the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. And as my arms wrap around his broad shoulders, holding him back, I finally accept the truth.
I don't want to run anymore.