27. Livia
Livia
I was awake when the brass lock clicked open at three in the morning.
I heard the faint, metallic scrape of the key sliding into the mechanism, and I immediately forced my breathing into a slow, even rhythm.
I played the part of the oblivious captive because I had no idea what kind of monster was walking through the door.
I expected wrath. I expected the ruthless, cold enforcer who dragged me through the freezing mud to stand over my bed and demand answers for my betrayal.
Instead, I got a broken man falling to his knees on the Persian rug.
I felt the heat of his skin when he leaned over the mattress, his breath ghosting across my cheek in a fractured exhale.
I kept my eyes shut, every muscle in my body locking tight, as I listened to the lethal Underboss of the Severato syndicate whisper his shattered heart into the quiet room.
My Italian is far from flawless, but I know exactly what ti amo, mia regina means.
I know what a vow sounds like when it is ripped from a man's bleeding soul.
He knelt beside my bed, condemning himself to a life of agonizing separation, convinced he was a plague that would inevitably infect the child growing inside my womb.
The morning sun spills across the pristine white linens, illuminating an empty room that feels more like a mausoleum than a sanctuary.
I push myself up against the carved wooden headboard, running a trembling hand through my tangled hair, and make a silent, unflinching vow of my own.
I refuse to be a ghost haunting the corridors of this mansion, and I refuse to let the father of my baby martyr himself on an altar of misguided guilt.
I throw the silk sheets aside, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet as I march into the massive walk-in closet.
I bypass the modest jeans and the comfortable oversized sweaters I have been hiding in for the past week.
I push the hangers down the rack until I find the crimson silk slip he bought for me last month.
It is a scandalous, fluid piece of fabric that clings to every curve, suspended by two fragile straps and plunging low across the chest. I strip off my cotton nightgown, take a quick shower, and slide the crimson silk over my skin, the cool material settling against my hips like a second skin.
I do not bother with makeup, and I leave my raven hair falling in a chaotic, untamed mess down my back. I am not dressing up to play a pristine, porcelain doll. I am dressing for a war, and my body is the most lethal weapon I possess in this particular battleground.
But I am still locked inside.
I pace the length of the bedroom, my mind calculating the logistics of the estate.
Niccolò holds the master key, but he is not the only person who requires access to this room.
Marta arrives precisely at eight o'clock every single morning to deliver my breakfast, accompanied by the rotation of the perimeter guards in the hallway.
I walk over to the oak doors and press my ear against the wood. I hear the muffled, gruff voices of the security detail as they change shifts. A few minutes later, the distinct, rhythmic clatter of a silver tray approaching down the corridor reaches my ears.
I step back, untying the thick wool cardigan I threw over my shoulders and letting it drop to the floor. I stand in the center of the threshold, clad only in the clinging crimson silk.
The mechanism rattles. The lock disengages with a sharp click.
Marta pushes the door inward, balancing the laden silver tray on one arm. "Miss Livia, I brought your—"
I do not give her a chance to finish the sentence. I surge forward, sliding through the narrow gap before she can fully swing the wood open. Marta gasps, stumbling backward to keep the china plates from crashing to the floor, her eyes widening in shock.
The two massive guards stationed in the corridor immediately step forward to block my path.
"Miss," the taller one barks, raising a thick hand. "The Don left strict instructions. You cannot leave this wing."
I do not slow down, and I do not retreat. I simply square my shoulders and walk directly toward them, letting the ambient light of the hallway illuminate the sheer, unforgiving cut of the crimson slip.
The guards freeze. A violent, visible panic overtakes their features as their brains process the reality of the situation.
I am the Don's woman, carrying the syndicate's heir, and I am standing in front of them practically naked.
In their world, looking at me is a severe violation, touching my bare skin to force me back into the room is a guaranteed death sentence.
"Move," I command, my voice ringing with authority I didn't know I possessed.
The taller guard swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.
He squeezes his eyes shut, slapping a hand over his face to avert his gaze, and presses his spine flat against the floral wallpaper.
The second guard immediately mirrors the action, turning his back to me completely, terrified that a stray glance will cost him his life.
I walk right past them, leaving Marta sputtering in the doorway.
I check his private study first, pushing the doors open to find a vacant desk and cold ash in the fireplace. I move through the grand rotunda, scanning the empty dining room and the deserted lounges. He isn't here.
I pause near the servant stairs, piecing together his habits.
He is currently orchestrating an aggressive campaign against the Falco family.
He thrives on strategy, utilizing logistics and maps to dismantle his enemies piece by piece.
He wouldn't be sitting in a lounge; he would be buried in blueprints.
I turn on my heel and head straight for the west wing.
The war room is located at the end of a reinforced corridor, shielded by a pair of formidable mahogany doors.
Enzo stands guard outside the entrance, his icy blue eyes narrowing as I approach.
He takes in my state of undress, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his usually stoic features before his professional mask slides back into place.
"Livia," Enzo says, he shifts his weight to block the brass handles. "Niccolò is reviewing the tactical reports from the harbor strikes. He left explicit instructions not to be disturbed by anyone short of an invading army."
"I am not a disturbance, Enzo," I reply, squaring my shoulders and tilting my chin up to meet his uncompromising stare. "I am his partner. Step aside."
Enzo assesses me for a long, quiet moment, his gaze calculating the shift in my demeanor.
He sees the titanium spine replacing the terrified girl who tried to flee through the mud.
A faint, approving smirk touches the corner of his mouth before he nods once, stepping away from the mahogany panels to grant me access.
"Give him hell, sweetheart," Enzo murmurs as I reach for the brass handles. "He fucking deserves it."
I push the doors open and step into the war room, letting the heavy wood click shut behind me.
The space is vast, lined with towering bookshelves and massive windows overlooking the manicured grounds.
Niccolò stands behind a sprawling conference table littered with maps, ledgers, and empty coffee cups.
He wears a tailored charcoal suit, though the jacket is discarded on a nearby chair and his white shirt is rolled up to the elbows, exposing the intricate black ink sprawling across his forearms. He looks exhausted with bruising shadows under his eyes.
He snaps his head up at the sound of the door, his jaw clenching in irritation, fully expecting to reprimand a soldier.
The moment his obsidian eyes land on the crimson silk, the irritation evaporates.
His gaze drags down the plunging neckline, tracing the curve of my waist and the bare expanse of my legs, before snapping back up to my face.
A feral, starving hunger flashes across his features, so potent and raw it makes my pulse hammer a frantic rhythm against my ribs, but the reaction lasts for a fraction of a second.
An impenetrable wall of ice slams down over his expression, freezing the hunger into a mask of detachment.
"What are you doing down here?" Niccolò asks cooly. "Marta is supposed to bring your breakfast to the suite."
"I am ending this ridiculous strike," I state, walking across the room until I reach the opposite edge of the conference table.
I place my hands flat on the polished wood, refusing to break eye contact.
"I was awake last night, Niccolò. I heard the key in the lock.
I heard you kneel beside the mattress, and I heard every single word you whispered to me in the dark before you tucked your tail between your legs and ran away again. "
A muscle feathers violently along his jawline, the only outward indication that my words struck a nerve. He grips the edge of a tactical map, his knuckles turning white under the fluorescent lights.
"You should not have heard that," he says coldly, turning his attention back to the blueprints as if my presence is nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
"It changes nothing. You made your boundaries explicitly clear in the pouring rain, and I am respecting them.
Go back upstairs, Livia. The marble floors are freezing, and you are not dressed appropriately. "
"I am dressed exactly how I want to be dressed, and I am not going anywhere until you look at me," I demand, my voice rising in volume.
"I came down here to apologize. I was a coward.
I found out I was pregnant, and the panic completely hijacked my logic.
I saw the blood on your hands, and I projected the sins of a pathetic, abusive drunk onto the man who overthrew his own father just to keep me safe.
I ran because I was terrified of failing this baby, and I broke your heart in the process. I am so incredibly sorry."