18. Niccolò
Niccolò
I do not let go of her hand.
I drag Livia down the corridor, the heavy thud of my boots masking the quiet sound of her bare feet.
The two guards stationed at the top of the sweeping staircase avert their eyes, staring blankly at the wall.
They know better than to look at my face right now.
The homicidal violence from the hallway is still humming through my veins, a dark, aggressive frequency that demands an outlet.
I pull her straight toward my private suite.
I push the heavy oak double doors open, haul her inside, and kick them shut with my heel. I reach out and throw the heavy brass deadbolt. The loud, metallic click seals us in.
Livia stands in the center of the Persian rug.
She is clutching the faded photograph of her mother against her chest. Her breathing is shallow, her dark eyes wide as they track my movements.
She just watched me hold a woman off the floor by her throat.
She knows exactly what I am capable of, and yet, she followed me.
I walk up to her, reach out, and gently take the crumpled picture from her shaking fingers. I walk over to the mahogany nightstand, placing it carefully beside the lamp.
When I turn back around, the adrenaline bleeding off my skin morphs into suffocating lust.
I close the distance between us. Livia takes a step back, her heel hitting the edge of the rug, but I do not stop. I keep walking until I force her to retreat. She moves backward, step by step, until her spine hits the solid wood of the locked door.
I plant my hands on the wood on either side of her head, caging her in.
"I am done," I murmur.
Her chest heaves. "Done with what?"
"Playing games. Hiding." I lean in, my nose brushing against the soft curve of her jaw. The faint scent of vanilla and fear wraps around my senses, a drug I cannot get enough of. "I gave you space. That ends right now."
She swallows hard. I watch the pulse hammering at the base of her throat.
"You belong to me," I state. It is a fact, undeniable and absolute. "And you know it. I saw the way you looked at me when Caterina touched my arm. I felt you trembling in the service corridor. You are burning alive for me, Livia."
"No," she whispers, turning her face away.
I catch her chin with my thumb and index finger, forcing her to look at me. Her dark eyes are swimming with a chaotic mix of denial and need.
"Stop lying," I command. "Say it. Admit that you want me. Admit that you want my hands on you."
She shakes her head, a soft, helpless sound escaping her lips.
"Say it," I demand again, stepping closer. My thigh presses against her legs, the hard ridge of my arousal digging into her stomach through the fabric of my trousers.
The contact breaks her.
The walls she spent days reinforcing crumble to ash. With a ragged, breathless sob, Livia reaches up. Her small hands grip the lapels of my dark suit jacket and pulls me down.
Her mouth crashes against mine.
It is a violent, reckless collision. I groan against her lips, my arms wrapping around her waist, crushing her against my chest. She opens for me, her tongue meeting mine with a fierce, hungry desperation that matches my own. She tastes like mint and defiance.
I walk her backward, keeping our mouths locked, until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the massive king-sized bed.
I push her down. She falls onto the dark silk sheets, pulling me with her.
I hover over her, bracing my weight on my forearms. I tear my mouth away just long enough to look at her. Her lips are swollen, her hair falling in a messy, dark halo against the pillows. She is breathtaking.
My hands move to the white strings of her apron.
I rip the knot loose, tossing the fabric to the floor.
I grip the collar of her black uniform. I don't bother with the buttons.
I grip the seams and pull. The cheap cotton tears down the middle, exposing the pale, soft skin of her chest and the plain white bra underneath.
"Niccolò," she gasps, her back arching off the mattress.
"You are mine," I growl, burying my face in the crook of her neck. I bite down on her collarbone, marking her. "Every inch of you."
I shed my jacket, throwing it aside. I rip my tie off and unbutton my shirt with impatient, clumsy fingers. I need skin. I need to feel her against me without the barrier of clothes.
I push her skirt up, my hand sliding up her smooth thigh. I find the edge of her cotton panties. She is trembling, her hands gripping my shoulders as I drag my fingers down. She is incredibly wet, slick with heat that makes my vision blur.
I stroke her once, and she cries out, her hips jerking upward.
I reach for the waistband of my trousers, freeing myself. I am aching, hard to the point of pain. I want to bury myself inside her and never leave. I want to brand her so deeply she forgets every other moment of her life before me.
I settle between her thighs. I grip her hips, holding her in place, and I push forward into her heat.
I meet resistance, an unmistakable barrier.
Livia lets out a sharp gasp, her body going rigid beneath me. Her nails dig into my biceps, her eyes squeezing shut as a flash of pain crosses her features.
I freeze.
Every muscle in my body locks. The primal haze clears just enough for my brain to process the reality.
I look down at her face and pull back an inch.
"Livia," I rasp.
She opens her eyes. They are wide, shining with unshed tears and vulnerability.
"You're untouched," I say.
It isn't a question. It is a stunning, paradigm-shifting realization.
A mafia boss knows how to read people. I read her file.
I knew about her tragic past, her poverty, the way she fought tooth and nail for her independence.
I knew she built a fortress around herself.
But I assumed it was emotional. I assumed she had lived a life before I dragged her into my world.
After all, where she worked was a notorious whore house in disguise.
She wasn’t a whore. She guarded her body as fiercely as her mind. No man has ever claimed her. No man has ever seen her like this.
She was saving herself for a life she wanted to build, and now, she is giving it to me.
A profound possessiveness expands in my chest. It strokes my ego, yes, but it does something else. It humbles me. The beast that wanted to tear her apart and consume her takes a step back.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, misreading my hesitation. She tries to turn her head away. "I know I don't know what I'm doing."
I catch her jaw. I force her to look at me.
"Do not apologize," I tell her in awe. "You are perfect."
The aggression drains out of my hands. I shift my weight, taking the pressure off her. I slide my hands up her arms, mapping the soft skin, before tangling my fingers in her dark hair.
"I am going to adore you," I vow against her lips.
I kiss her. I coax her tongue into my mouth, setting a lazy rhythm. I drag my lips down her chin, kissing the soft pulse point at her throat.
"Look at me," I murmur.
Her heavy eyelids flutter open.
"I am going to take care of you," I promise.
I slide my hand down between our bodies, then I touch her, finding the swollen center of her heat. I begin to stroke her with a friction that is designed to melt her defenses and prepare her body.
Livia whimpers, her hips rolling into my hand.
I take my time. I memorize the exact sounds she makes when I press a little harder. I learn the way her breath hitches when my thumb drags over her most sensitive nerve. I praise her as her whimpers grow.
"That's it," I praise. "Let go for me."
She falls apart in my hands. Her body bows off the mattress, a beautiful, helpless cry leaving her lips as her inner muscles clench tight.
While she is still coming down from the high, I position myself at her entrance again.
I lock my eyes on hers.
"Mine," I declare.
I push forward, slowly and meticulously.
Livia winces, her fingers digging into the sheets, but I do not stop until I break the barrier and bury myself completely inside her.
She is so tight it feels like a vice around my cock. A guttural groan rips out of my throat. I drop my forehead against hers, forcing myself to remain perfectly still while her body stretches to accommodate my size.
"Breathe," I soothe her, kissing the tears off her cheeks. "The pain will fade."
"Niccolò," she gasps, her legs wrapping instinctively around my waist.
"I'm here."
I wait until her breathing evens out, until the pinch in her face shifts back into a flushed heat.
Then, I begin to move.
I pull back and drive into her with a slow stroke. She gasps, her hips rising to meet me. I set the pace, keeping it steady, ensuring every movement brings her pleasure instead of pain. I watch her face. I watch the way her eyes glaze over, the way her lips part on a silent moan.
Good, I am ruining her for anyone else.
The thought is a triumphant rhythm in my blood. She will never know another man's touch. She will never hear another man's name in the dark. I am rewriting her entire existence, stamping my claim onto her soul.
The pace increases. The primal urge takes over again, demanding friction, demanding release. Livia matches me, her small hands pulling me closer, her nails scratching down my back.
"Say it," I rasp, thrusting deep.
"I'm yours," she cries out, tossing her head back. "Only yours."
The confession shatters my control.
I drive into her, hard and fast, chasing the edge. Livia shatters first, her body clenching around me, milking me dry. Her release triggers mine. I roar her name, spilling into her with a violent, blinding climax that empties my mind of everything but her.
I collapse heavily against her side, pulling her flush against my chest.
She is panting, her skin slick with sweat. She rests her head on my shoulder, her fingers weakly tracing the ink on my forearm.
I pull the dark silk sheet over our bodies and make sure I do not let her go.
I watch Livia finally fall asleep. She is curled against my side, her face buried in the crook of my neck. She looks younger in her, she looks beautiful, peacefully calm.
I am an ass, I let the staff treat her like garbage so she would run to me. It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
I own her. She admitted it. She gave me her body, her innocence, and her surrender. But a cage is still a cage, no matter how soft the silk sheets are. If I keep her locked in this room, if I keep her isolated from the sun, the fire inside her will eventually die.
I don't want a broken doll. I want a queen.
I carefully slide my arm out from under her head. I replace my body heat with a heavy pillow. She murmurs in her sleep, shifting slightly, but does not wake.
I stand up, pulling on a pair of dark sweatpants. I walk silently across the room and step out onto the balcony, closing the glass door behind me with my phone in hand.
Then I dial the guardhouse.
"Don Niccolò," the voice of my head of security answers immediately.
"The perimeter rules for Livia Marino are changing," I state softly.
"Sir?"
"She is no longer confined to the house," I order.
"She is granted full, unescorted access to the south gardens and the glass greenhouse.
If she walks out the back doors, the patrols will fall back.
Give her a fifty-yard radius. No one approaches her.
No one speaks to her. She is allowed to walk freely in the sunlight. "
"Understood, Boss."
I hang up the phone.
I look out over the sprawling estate. The south gardens are massive, filled with ancient oak trees, stone pathways, and a large Victorian greenhouse my mother built decades ago. It is a sanctuary.
I will give her the gardens. I will give her the sun. I will let her feel the wind on her face without a guard breathing down her neck.
It is a taste of freedom. A beautiful, temporary peace.
I turn around and walk back into the bedroom. I slide under the covers, pulling her warm body back against my chest. She sighs, tangling her legs with mine.
I bury my face in her hair and finally go to sleep.