17. Livia
Livia
"Don Niccolò." Gia’s gasp is a wet, pathetic sound. "Sir, I—she was being insubordinate. She refused to clean the—"
I look up.
Niccolò fills the corridor. His dark suit absorbs the ambient light of the wall sconces. He looks like a god of war stepping out of the shadows. His jaw is locked in a harsh line. His eyes are fixed on Gia.
I drop the photo.
I push myself off the floor. My joints ache, but I do not feel the pain.
Gia is still stammering, pressing her back against the floral wallpaper, trying desperately to appease the monster walking toward her. She doesn't even look at me. She assumes I am defeated. She assumes I am the weak, submissive little rat she called me.
I don't think. I swing my arm.
My palm connects with Gia’s cheekbone.
The crack echoes down the hallway like a gunshot. The force of the slap sends a sharp shockwave up my forearm. Gia's head snaps violently to the side. She cries out, her hand flying to her rapidly reddening face. Her eyes widen in shock, staring at me as if I just grew horns.
I slap her again, then again and again until she crumbles at my feet. My hand drops to my side, stinging and numb. I look at Gia with undisguised contempt, then my gaze drags to Niccolò. I just struck a member of his staff. I disrupted the order of his household.
I step back, my bare heel crunching on a broken piece of glass. I wrap my arms tightly around my middle, close my eyes, and bow my head. I wait for the brutal consequences of losing my temper. That is what men do. Last night changes nothing.
Footsteps approach, then bypass me. A choked, wet gagging sound fills the hall, and I open my eyes.
Niccolò is not looking at me. He has Gia pinned against the wall. His large hand is wrapped around her throat. He holds her feet an inch off the ground.
Gia thrashes, her hands clawing desperately at his thick wrist as her face turns a mottled, ugly purple.
"You think you enforce the rules in my house?" Niccolò asks. His voice is a low, vibrating hum that resonates in my own core. "You think you breathe my air and make decisions about who is punished?"
I stand frozen. He isn't punishing me. He is executing her.
"Please," Gia wheezes, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.
"I should break your neck right here," Niccolò murmurs, leaning his face close to hers. "Did you touch Livia?"
He is killing her. He is actually going to kill her in front of me. The violence is terrifying, but it isn't aimed at me.
For the first time in my life, a man is using his strength to shield me.
He is using his capacity for murder to build an impenetrable wall between me and the person who hurt me.
He isn't my father. My father hurt us because he was small.
He needed to break my mother to feel big.
Niccolò is a giant. He doesn't need to break me to prove his power.
He is hurting Gia because she made me bleed.
"Niccolò," I whisper.
He doesn't hear me. Or he ignores me. His thumb presses harder against Gia's windpipe.
"Niccolò, stop." My voice is stronger this time, and I take a step forward.
He freezes. He turns his head slowly, looking at me over his broad shoulder. The darkness in his eyes softens just a fraction when they land on my face.
He opens his hand.
Gia drops to the tiles like a sack of stones. She collapses, hacking and coughing, dragging frantic breaths into her bruised throat. She scrambles backward on her hands and knees, terrified of the man looming over her.
"Get your things," Niccolò commands, looking down at her with complete disgust. "You have five minutes to leave this property. If you are still inside the gates when the clock strikes two, I will have Alessio drag you to the basement."
Gia doesn't say a word. She scrambles to her feet, stumbling down the hall, crying hysterically as she runs toward the servant's exit.
The corridor falls quiet again.
Niccolò turns his attention to me. He looks at the blood on my knee where a piece of glass cut my skin. He looks at my shaking hands and drops to his knees.
He ignores the sharp shards of glass digging into his expensive trousers. He reaches out and gently picks up the crumpled photograph from the floor. He brushes a piece of dust from my mother’s faded face with the pad of his thumb.
He holds it out to me.
I take it, my fingers brushing against his. His skin is warm.
"I'll have it reframed," he says softly.
I clutch the photo to my chest. "You didn't hit me."
"I told you I wouldn't."
"She broke it. I was just trying to dust it and..." My voice cracks.
Niccolò stands up. He doesn't offer empty platitudes. He steps close, invading my space, swallowing the chill of the hallway with his intense body heat.
He reaches out, his large hand wrapping around mine. His grip is firm, an undeniable shackle, but it doesn't bruise.
"Come with me."