21. Livia
Livia
Six weeks later.
Time moves differently when you sleep in a massive bed wrapped in midnight silk.
The bell above the bakery door chimes. The scent of powdered sugar, roasted coffee, and rising yeast wraps around me.
It is a Tuesday afternoon, and the Boston sidewalk outside is bustling with civilians.
Commuters rush past the glass windows in their wool coats, oblivious to the syndicates and the blood shed just blocks away.
I stand in line, holding a white pastry box tied with twine. Beside me, Sofia keeps glancing over her shoulder, her fingernails picking anxiously at the sleeve of her jacket.
"I still can't believe you're just... here," Sofia whispers. She eyes my cashmere coat, taking in the flawless cut and the obscene price tag it represents. "The last time I saw you, a guy got his face smashed into a wooden table and you were dragged out the front doors by a literal mob boss."
I laugh, though the sound is brittle. "I told you, things changed."
Niccolò let me go today. No guards. No armored SUVs trailing me down the avenue. "Take the afternoon," he said this morning, pressing a kiss to my bare shoulder before he left for the docks. "Walk the city. Buy your pastries."
It was a test of trust. A terrifying leap for a man who rules through control. He gave me a taste of the life I used to want, proving he doesn't need to keep me behind iron gates to make me stay.
Sofia bumps her shoulder against mine. "Are you safe, Liv? Honestly. You vanished. Then I get a burner text saying to meet you here. You look like a millionaire, but..."
"I'm safe," I assure her.
And it is the truth. In the last six weeks, the Severato estate transformed from a prison into a sanctuary.
Niccolò treats me like a queen. He buys me whatever I want, yes, but he also listens to me.
He lets me win arguments. He worships my body every night until I forget my own name.
We exist in a beautiful, consuming bubble.
But the ghost of my mother still sits on my shoulder. Whenever he comes home with bruised knuckles, or whenever I see Enzo cleaning a weapon in the study, the illusion cracks. I am in love with a violent man. The reality of his world is always waiting just outside our bedroom door.
We pay for the pastries. I hand the cashier a hundred-dollar bill from the stack Niccolò left on the nightstand.
I tell her to keep the change. After a quick errand to the store, we walk out into the crisp afternoon air where we eat sfogliatelle on a park bench.
We laugh about the awful regulars at the bar.
For two hours, I am just Livia Marino. Not a maid.
Not the Don's obsession. Just a girl eating a pastry with her friend.
But as the afternoon sun dips below the skyline, a familiar, twisting exhaustion settles into my bones.
"I have to get back," I tell Sofia, hugging her tight. "There is a party tonight."
"A mafia party," she clarifies, her eyes wide.
"Something like that. I’ll see you later." I promise with a kiss to her cheek and a hug.
I walk away before she can ask more questions. I hail a cab, giving the driver an intersection two blocks away from the estate to maintain the perimeter security.
By eight o'clock the estate is unrecognizable.
The grand foyer echoes with the clinking of champagne flutes and the sound of a live string quartet. It is a celebration of new alliances. The surrounding families are paying their respects to the new Don.
I stand near the edge of the ballroom. I wear a floor-length silver gown that clings to my ribs and flares at my hips. A diamond necklace rests against my skin.
Niccolò stands ten feet away, speaking with two older men, whom I believe are from the Chicago outfit due to their accent. He holds a glass of bourbon. Even in conversation, his eyes flick to me every few seconds. He checks my perimeter. He ensures I am okay.
I smile at him, a reflex that comes too easily now. He nods, the harsh lines of his face softening for a fraction of a second.
Then, my stomach violently rolls.
A vicious wave of nausea climbs up my throat. I swallow bile, my skin breaking out in a sudden, freezing sweat. The room spins, the music warping into a chaotic drone.
I press a hand to my stomach. This is the third day.
The exhaustion dragging at my limbs isn't just from the late nights in his bed.
The espresso I tried to drink this morning smelled like rotting copper.
The scent of the roasted duck passing by on silver trays makes my mouth water in absolute revulsion.
I catch Niccolò's eye. I point a finger toward the hallway, signaling I need a minute. He frowns, his posture stiffening, but he gives a brief nod. He can't leave the people he is talking to yet.
I slip through the crowd and climb the grand staircase, leaving the music and the cigar smoke behind.
I walk into our private suite and lock the doors. I bypass the massive bed and go straight into the marble bathroom, and immediately heave into the toilet. Emptying the remnants of my dinner.
After I catch my breath by the wall, I walk to the bottom drawer of the vanity and open it with shaky hands. Underneath a stack of fresh towels sits a small cardboard box. I bought it at a pharmacy three blocks away from the bakery today, before Sofia joined me.
I rip the cardboard open and follow the instructions.
I set the plastic stick on the edge of the marble sink.
Three minutes.
I pace the length of the bathroom. The silver gown swishes around my ankles. My reflection in the mirror is a stranger. The diamonds. The expensive makeup. I am playing a role, pretending the violence outside these walls doesn't exist.
The timer on my phone vibrates on the counter.
I stop pacing. My lungs refuse to expand. I step up to the sink and look down.
Two unmistakable pink lines.
My knees buckle. I grab the edge of the sink, gasping for air.
Pregnant.
Fuck! I am carrying his child.
The honeymoon illusion shatters into a million jagged pieces. The reality of my situation crashes and the bubble pops, leaving me exposed to the freezing truth.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I don't see Niccolò’s face. I see my mother.
I am six years old. She is holding an ice pack to her swelling eye.
She is packing a battered suitcase on the bed.
She is finally leaving. And then my father walks in.
He blocks the door. He cries. He drops to his knees and tells her he loves her.
He tells her they have to stay together for the family. For me.
And she drops the suitcase. She stays because she thinks a child needs a father, even if that father uses his fists to communicate. She surrendered her life because she was tied to her abuser by blood.
My stomach revolts. I drop to my knees over the toilet and dry heave until my throat is raw.
Niccolò is a mafia Don. He tortures men for a living. He orchestrates executions. He rules an empire built on extortion and fear.
What will he do to a child?
He will mold a son into a ruthless, blood-soaked soldier.
He will put a gun in his hand before he teaches him how to drive.
He will teach a daughter that her value is tied to political alliances, trading her away for shipping routes just like he was supposed to trade himself for Caterina Falco.
He will steep my baby in the same violence that destroyed my childhood.
I will not be my mother.
I will not stay with a killer for the sake of a twisted family. I will not let a child grow up behind iron gates, learning to shoot a weapon instead of learning how to be a kid. I will not let my baby become a monster.
I wipe my mouth, flush the toilet, and stand up on shaking legs.
I pick up the plastic test and wrap it in layers of toilet paper, shoving it into the bottom of the trash bin.
I look at the stack of hundred-dollar bills Niccolò casually tossed onto the dresser yesterday. He never tracks the cash. It is pocket change to him. He leaves money everywhere, in his suit pockets, on the nightstands, in the study.
I will take a few bills every day. I will hide them inside the lining of my old canvas bag. I will hoard the money until I have enough to vanish completely. I know how to disappear. I know how to survive on nothing. I did it for years before he found me.
The physical pain of the decision tears my chest open.
I love him. The realization is a bitter, agonizing pill to swallow. I fell in love with his possessiveness, his rare moments of vulnerability, the way he touches me like I am the only thing in the world that matters. Walking away from him will rip my soul to shreds.
But I cannot save him. And if I stay, he will ruin this child.
I wash my face. I reapply my lipstick. I stare at my reflection. The terrified girl is gone. The iron wall is back, fortified with a protective instinct I have never felt before. I am a mother now. My survival is no longer just about me.
I walk out of the bathroom. I will go back downstairs. I will smile at his guests. I will let him kiss my jaw. I will play the perfect, devoted queen.
And the second I have enough cash, I will run.