16. Niccolò
Niccolò
I crush her to me.
I bury my face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin, the damp earth from the open door, the faint trace of vanilla.
My hands lock around her waist, holding her so tight my stitched ribs throb with a sharp, blinding ache.
I don't care about the pain. I welcome it.
It proves I am awake. It proves she is actually here, standing in my arms, choosing the cage over the open sky.
The comparison she made days ago shattered my ego. It made me question the violent foundation of my own existence. But holding her now, feeling the surrender in her exhausted sigh, something shifts inside my chest.
She is submitting to me.
"I have you," I murmur against her collarbone.
I pull back just enough to look at her face. Her dark eyes are wet, her eyelashes clumped together. I reach down, wrap my arm behind her knees, and lift her off the floor.
She gasps, her hands automatically clutching my shoulders to steady herself. She doesn't fight the hold. She rests her head against my chest, tucking her face beneath my jaw as I carry her out of the kitchen.
I bypass the servant stairs. I carry her up the grand mahogany staircase, and into my private quarters. I don't take her to the cold, small room down the hall. I walk straight into my bedroom and lay her down on the center of my mattress.
The dark silk sheets contrast sharply with her pale skin and the soft, faded cotton of her clothes. She watches me as I walk back to the heavy oak double doors and turn the brass lock.
I walk back to the bed. I shrug off my shirt, dropping it to the floor. The bandage wrapped around my ribs is stained with a faint ring of red, but the bleeding has stopped.
I climb onto the mattress beside her.
I don't reach for the hem of her shirt. I don't push her legs apart. The feral, consuming lust that usually drives me is eclipsed by a need to simply possess her space. To know she is breathing my air.
I lie on my back, pulling her flush against my side.
Livia goes willingly. She rests her cheek on my bare chest, her hand flattening over the erratic beat of my heart. Her fingers curl lightly against my skin, avoiding the thick white bandage.
I wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling the heavy duvet over us.
The room is pitch black, silent except for the sound of our breathing.
I stare up at the ceiling. My hand moves down her spine to stroke her. I feel the knots of strain in her back slowly unraveling.
"Sleep," I whisper into the dark.
She shifts, pressing her lips softly against my collarbone. It is a tiny, unconscious movement, but the softness of it strips me bare. I stay awake for hours, stroking her hair, mapping the rhythm of her breathing, until the dawn bleeds a pale, grey light through the window panes.
When I open my eyes, the space beside me is cold.
I sit up, the muscles in my abdomen screaming in protest. The sheets are tangled. The indent of her head remains on the pillow next to mine, but she is gone.
A flash of panic spikes in my blood. I throw the duvet off and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. I walk out of the bedroom and scan the suite.
Empty.
I walk into the hallway and throw open the door to her small assigned room.
The canvas bag is sitting on the floor by the closet, right where I left it. But the black maid uniform is missing from the mattress.
I run a hand over my jaw, the rough stubble scratching my palm.
She went to work.
I understand it. I hate it, but I understand it.
The reality of what she chose last night is different.
She needs the structure of her routine to process the shift in our dynamic.
She needs to feel like she still has a job, a purpose, something concrete to hold onto while her world tilts on its axis.
I won't drag her out of the kitchen. I will give her the day.
I walk to my bathroom, turn the shower on cold, and wash the sleep from my bones. I dress in a dark suit, conceal my weapon at the small of my back, and leave the estate.
Alessio and Enzo are waiting for me at the harbor.
We spend the morning tracking the fallout of the Falco ambush.
The docks are bleeding money, the Irish are pushing their boundaries, and the streets are restless.
I handle the logistics with a cold efficiency.
I break a man’s fingers for lying about a shipment.
I authorize two hits on Falco lieutenants.
You know, the normal day to day business.
But through it all, my mind remains locked on the girl in the black uniform. By one in the afternoon, my patience runs dry. I leave Alessio to supervise the cargo transfers and order my driver to take me home.
The estate is quiet when I walk through the front doors. I want to find her, so I walk down the ground-floor corridor, moving past the kitchens and heading toward the service wing.
As I approach the intersecting hallway near the laundry rooms, the sound of a sharp, muffled thud breaks the silence.
I stop walking. I step into the shadow of a large stone column, my eyes narrowing as I look down the corridor.
Livia is backed against the wall.
She holds a small, cheap wooden picture frame clutched tightly to her chest. Her knuckles are white. Her posture is rigid, and defensive.
Standing directly in front of her, blocking her path, is Gia.
"You think you’re so untouchable today, don't you?" Gia sneers in a venomous hiss. She takes a step forward, crowding Livia against the floral wallpaper. "You think you own this house?"
Livia doesn't speak. She keeps her eyes fixed on the floor, clutching the wooden frame like a shield.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you, street trash," Gia snaps. She shoves Livia’s shoulder hard.
Livia’s head snaps up. Her dark eyes flash, but she bites the inside of her cheek, swallowing the retaliation. She shifts her weight, trying to step around the older maid.
"I have work to do, Gia," Livia says flatly. "Move."
"You don't give me orders," Gia snarls, sidestepping to block the escape route. "You aren't the Lady of this estate. Caterina Falco is coming back. Her crown is waiting for her. You are a distraction. A cheap, filthy distraction."
Gia’s eyes drop to the object clutched in Livia’s hands.
A cruel, vicious smirk spreads across the maid's face.
"What is that?" Gia asks, reaching out.
"Don't touch it," Livia warns, her voice suddenly dropping its monotone compliance. She pulls the frame tighter against her ribs.
"Let me see it," Gia demands.
She lunges forward. Her hand shoots out, her painted nails digging into Livia’s wrist. Livia gasps, twisting to protect the frame, but Gia is bigger and fueled by a spiteful, ugly rage. She yanks Livia’s arm, while her other hand snatches the wooden frame from Livia’s grip.
Livia stumbles forward, catching herself against the wall. "Give it back!"
Gia steps back, holding the frame up.
I watch from the shadows, the muscles in my back locking into hard stone.
It is a faded, crumpled photograph. The colors are washed out. It shows a younger version of Livia, maybe eight or nine years old, standing next to a woman with tired eyes and a sad, fragile smile.
Her mother.
It is the only piece of her possession she owns that doesn't belong to me.
"Pathetic," Gia mocks, inspecting the cheap wood and the faded photo. "Is this the punching bag? Is this the woman who let a drunk beat her to death?"
"Shut your mouth," Livia breathes.
"Look at her," Gia laughs harshly. "She looks weak. She looks exactly like you. A worthless, little rat."
"I said give it back!" Livia shouts. She lunges for the photo.
Gia sidesteps. She holds the frame out over the hard, polished tiles of the corridor.
She looks Livia dead in the eye, a twisted satisfaction lighting up her face.
And she opens her fingers.
The wooden frame drops.
It hits the floor with a sharp, explosive crack. The cheap glass shatters instantly, sending jagged, transparent shards skittering across the tiles. The wooden backing splinters, the faded photograph slipping out and landing face-down in the mess of broken glass.
Livia freezes.
She doesn't scream. She doesn't attack Gia.
She just breaks.
I watch the fight drain completely out of her body. Her shoulders collapse. She drops to her knees right there in the middle of the hallway, uncaring about the sharp shards of glass scattered across the floor.
Her hands hover over the shattered frame. She reaches out, her fingers trembling violently, and picks up the crumpled, faded photograph of her dead mother.
A choked, ragged sob tears its way out of her throat. It is a sound of bottled up rage.
She pulls the photo to her chest, bowing her head as the tears finally spill over her lashes. She isn't the defiant survivor anymore. She is the broken little girl watching her world get destroyed, unable to stop it.
"Oops," Gia says, her tone mockingly light. "Looks like you have another mess to clean up, Livia."
A cold, homicidal blankness washes over my brain. The world tunnels into a singular focus. The sound of Livia’s ragged weeping is the only thing that exists, and the woman standing over her is the target.
I step out of the shadows.
My boots hit the tiles with a purposeful thud.
Gia turns her head at the sound. The smug, vicious smirk on her face vanishes instantly. The color drains completely out of her skin, leaving her looking like a wax corpse. Her eyes go wide, her mouth falling open as she registers my towering frame stalking down the corridor.
"Don Niccolò," she gasps, taking a frantic step backward.
I do not speak.
I close the distance in three massive strides.
Gia holds her hands up, her back hitting the wall. "Sir, I—she was being insubordinate. She refused to clean the—"