23. Livia
Livia
The explosive encounter on his mahogany desk fixed absolutely nothing.
If anything, the savage intimacy only illuminated the invisible bars of my cage with blinding clarity.
I woke up this morning with faint bruises on my hips and the crushing realization that my body is a traitor to my own survival.
I cannot trust my own skin when he touches me.
When Niccolò puts his hands on me, my willpower crumbles into fine dust, which means I have to remove myself from his reach before I lose my mind completely.
I am not a maid anymore. Niccolò burned my uniform to ash and explicitly ordered the staff to treat me as the Lady of the house.
But right now, I am standing in the sprawling kitchen, polishing a set of heavy silver goblets until my knuckles ache.
I do it for two reasons. First, the mindless, repetitive friction of the cloth against the metal is the only thing keeping me from having a full-blown panic attack about the baby growing inside me. Second, and more importantly, it is the perfect camouflage.
The two massive guards Niccolò assigned to shadow my every move are standing just outside the kitchen archway.
If I sit in the master suite, they stare at me.
But by inserting myself into the chaos of the staff preparing for the evening meals, I become part of the background.
It gives me a legitimate excuse to linger near the scullery, right by the rear service doors.
Marta hovers nearby, her hawk-like gaze scrutinizing every motion of my hands. She hates that I am here, dressed in my own jeans and a sweater instead of a uniform, but she doesn't dare tell the Don's obsession to leave her kitchen.
"You missed a spot on the base of that goblet, Livia," Marta snaps, her voice ringing off the stainless steel appliances. It is a petty, spiteful correction, a desperate attempt to maintain her authority over me.
"I'll fix it, Marta," I say quietly, wiping the cloth over the silver again. I don't argue with her, fighting the staff is a useless expenditure of energy I desperately need to conserve for tonight.
As I stack the polished goblets onto a tray, Enzo and Alessio stroll into the adjoining dining room. Their voices carry easily through the open archway, completely oblivious to me working quietly in the corner.
"He won't be back until dawn," Enzo says, the clink of a scotch glass echoing off the walls. "The Irish factions are stalling the negotiations, and Niccolò is dragging it out to make them sweat. He told us to hold the perimeter here and make sure the grounds are secure."
"Fucking typical," Alessio grumbles, the sound of a chair scraping against the hardwood following his complaint. "He gets to play executioner across the city while we sit on our hands babysitting a fortress."
My heart kicks a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
He is gone. The monster is across the city, distracted by his own violent politics, and he will not return before sunrise. It is the window I have been praying for. The singular gap in his impenetrable armor.
Now I just need my exit.
I fold the polishing cloth and carry a tray of discarded glasses toward the back scullery.
This is where I find Leo. He is one of the younger perimeter guards, barely out of his teens, and for the past three days, I have watched him unravel.
I overheard him crying into a burner phone behind the greenhouse yesterday, pleading with a bookie for more time to pay off a gambling debt that is clearly threatening his life.
Leo jumps when I push the scullery door open, hastily shoving the phone into his tactical vest. He looks at me with wide, bloodshot eyes, running a trembling hand through his soaked hair. "You aren't supposed to be back here," he mutters, trying to sound authoritative and failing miserably.
I set the tray down on the counter and pull the wad of crumpled hundred-dollar bills from the pocket of my jean. I have been hoarding the cash for weeks, stealing from the careless stacks Niccolò leaves scattered across the nightstands and the study desk. I hold the money out. The stack is thick.
Leo stares at the cash, his Adam's apple bobbing. "What the fuck is that?"
"It is five thousand dollars," I say quietly, keeping my voice smooth and level so I don't spook him. "It is enough to clear your debt and get whoever is threatening you off your back. I will give it to you right now, Leo. No questions asked."
He licks his chapped lips, his eyes darting to the hallway to make sure we are alone. "What do you want for it?"
"The eastern service gate," I tell him. "You patrol that sector at midnight. I want the iron latch left open, and the security camera looped for ten minutes. That is all."
Panic flashes across his youthful face. He takes a step backward, shaking his head. "Are you insane? If the Don finds out I helped you with whatever the fuck this is, he will gut me alive. He will butcher my entire family. Do you have any idea what he does to traitors?"
"He is busy," I push, stepping closer and pressing the stack of bills directly into his hand.
"He won't be back until dawn, and by the time anyone realizes I am missing, I will be in another state.
You just tell them the storm blew the gate open.
You blame the weather. Please, Leo. You need this money to survive, and I need that gate open to do the same. "
He looks at the cash, his fingers curling tightly around the edges. The desperate need to save his own skin wages a brief, chaotic war against his fear of Niccolò Severato, and the debt wins.
"Midnight," he whispers, shoving the money into his pocket. "You get a five-minute window. If you miss it, I lock it back up, and we never had this conversation."
Hours bleed away, each ticking minute a brutal assault on my nerves.
The weather mirrors the chaos inside my head.
A massive thunderstorm rolls in from the Atlantic, swallowing the Boston skyline in a torrential, freezing downpour.
Lightning fractures the pitch-black sky, followed by crashes of thunder that rattle the glass panes of the master suite.
I stand in the center of the opulent bedroom, staring at the physical evidence of my captivity.
I retrieve my old, battered canvas duffel bag from the bottom of the closet, tossing two pairs of jeans and a few faded sweaters inside.
I walk over to the mahogany vanity and open the top drawer, staring at the velvet jewelry boxes.
The diamond necklace, the emerald earrings, the gold bracelets he bought to decorate his favorite possession. I leave them exactly where they are.
I strip off the expensive silk robe he likes to see me wear and pull on my own worn clothes, zipping my hooded jacket up to my chin.
My hands are shaking so violently I can barely manage the zipper. I press my palms flat against my stomach, trying to steady the frantic churning of nausea and terror. I am carrying the child of a ruthless mobster, a man whose hands are stained with the blood of countless enemies.
A vicious ache tears through my chest. God, it hurts. It physically hurts to leave him.
My mind flashes to the way his broad hands swept the broken glass off the floor to protect my feet, the way he surrendered his father’s crown just to keep me safe.
I crave the blinding, consuming heat of his touch, and the thought of never seeing those obsidian eyes again rips a sob from my throat.
I love him. I love a fucking monster, and the guilt of that affection makes me want to scream.
But I cannot let my baby breathe the violent air of this syndicate.
I cannot raise a child in a fortress where murder is a business transaction and power is maintained through brutality.
If I stay, Niccolò will mold this baby into a soldier, feeding them the same poison that ruined my own childhood.
I have to protect my blood, even if it means leaving my soul behind in this room.
The grandfather clock in the hall chimes midnight.
I swing the duffel bag over my shoulder, taking one last look at the massive bed, and slip out the bedroom door.
The estate is quiet, the storm outside masking the sound of my sneakers on the floorboards. I navigate the service avoiding the main rotunda where Enzo usually lingers. I reach the rear kitchens, unlatching the back delivery door, and step out into the raging storm.
The freezing rain hits me like a barrage of tiny knives, soaking my clothes in seconds.
The wind howls, whipping my wet hair across my face as I sprint across the manicured lawns.
Mud slops against my shoes, making the ground treacherous, but I do not slow down.
Lightning illuminates the sprawling grounds in jagged flashes of white, revealing the looming stone walls of the perimeter in the distance.
I bypass the greenhouse, my lungs burning with the exertion.
The cold bites into my bones, shivering through my soaked jacket, but the adrenaline pushes me forward.
Every step away from the mansion feels like a victory and a tragedy simultaneously.
I am abandoning the man I love, choosing the unknown over a gilded cage.
I push through a row of thick, thorny hedges, ignoring the branches scratching my cheeks, and finally spot the eastern service gate.
It is a solid wrought-iron structure set into the towering stone wall. I rush toward it, my chest heaving, wiping the relentless rain from my eyes. I reach out with trembling hands, gripping the freezing metal bars.
The latch is flipped up.
A breathless, frantic laugh escapes my mouth. Leo did it. He actually did it. The taste of freedom is intoxicating, a wild, euphoric rush that makes my knees weak. I am going to make it. I am going to vanish into the city, catch a bus heading west, and disappear from the syndicate forever.
I shove the heavy iron gate, the rusted hinges groaning in protest as it swings outward to reveal the wet, empty pavement of the street beyond.
I take a step forward, ready to sprint into the night, when the toe of my sneaker hits something soft.
I stumble, looking down at the grass just outside the threshold. Another flash of lightning rips across the sky, casting a brilliant light over the ground.
A scream lodges in my throat, choked by unmitigated horror.
Leo is lying in the mud.
He is unconscious, his body sprawled haphazardly across the wet grass. Blood streams from a vicious, jagged wound on the side of his head, mixing with the rain and turning the mud a sickly, rusted crimson. His tactical vest is soaked, his face is pale and completely still.
He didn't leave the gate open for me. He was incapacitated.
"Going somewhere, sweetheart?"
I freeze, my hands still clutching the iron bars. The world stops spinning. The freezing rain seems to suspend in mid-air.
From the pitch-black shadows of the street, a towering silhouette emerges.
Niccolò steps into the pale glow of the streetlamp. He is not across the city negotiating with the Irish. He is right here.
He wears a tailored black suit, completely indifferent to the torrential downpour soaking his clothes.
The water runs down the harsh, unforgiving angles of his face, plastering his hair to his forehead.
His expression is devoid of any warmth, any softness, any trace of the man who worshipped me in his bed.
He stands there with the deadly, terrifying stillness of the grim reaper coming to collect a soul.
"You thought you could outsmart me in my own city?" he asks with so much chill that I shiver.