29. Livia
Livia
The concussive force of the explosion drowns out the howling wind and the freezing rain whipping through the shattered bay windows.
My opulent sanctuary has been reduced to a literal war zone in a matter of seconds.
Plaster dust chokes my lungs, settling like gray snow over the crimson silk slip I wore specifically to seduce the man who locked me in here.
Now, that same locked oak door lies in jagged, smoking splinters across the Persian rug, blown completely off its reinforced hinges by the mercenaries flooding our home.
The sheer kinetic impact of the blast threw me backward, my knees bruising against the marble tiles, but the adrenaline spiking through my veins masks the pain completely.
I scramble to my feet, my hands immediately flying to my flat stomach. I push myself into the furthest corner of the suite, my bare feet crunching over scattered diamonds and broken glass. I scan the wreckage, my eyes stinging from the acrid, sulfuric smoke billowing in from the hallway.
A silhouette emerges through the haze. He is wearing unmarked tactical gear, his face obscured by a black balaclava, and he moves with a chilling, mechanized efficiency.
He kicks a piece of the ruined mahogany vanity out of his path, his thick combat boots grinding my discarded jewelry into the floorboards, ignoring the vast wealth littering the room.
He isn't a thief looking to capitalize on the chaos. He is an assassin.
My gaze darts frantically around the ruined suite, landing on the formidable bronze lamp that survived the blast near the overturned nightstand.
I lunge for it, my fingers wrapping tightly around the cold, unforgiving metal base.
It strains my wrists, but I lift it like a club, positioning the thick bronze directly in front of my womb as a makeshift shield.
I am shaking so violently my teeth rattle together, but the panic that used to govern my life is nowhere to be found.
"Drop the lamp, bitch," the hitman barks, his voice is muffled by the thick fabric of his mask as he aligns the sights of his silenced pistol squarely with my torso.
"Make this easy on yourself. You are not the target we came for, but Don Falco wants the entire board wiped clean. Put the weapon down."
"Go to hell," I spit back, my voice completely unrecognizable even to my own ears.
The sound is ragged, venomous, and dripping with an defiance.
I shift my weight, bracing my bare feet against the slick floor, preparing to swing the bronze fixture at his skull the second he steps within striking distance.
I will not cower in the corner. I will not beg for mercy from a man who came here to butcher my unborn child.
If he wants to end my life, he is going to have to fight me for every single breath.
The mercenary sneers, his finger tightens on the trigger.
He takes a calculated step forward, closing the distance, when the sound of frantic, chaotic gunfire erupts right outside the splintered doorway.
The hitman flinches, his weapon wavering for a fraction of a second, and that brief pause shifts the axis of the universe.
A guttural, earth-shattering roar eclipses the blaring security alarms. Niccolò bursts through the smoking ruins of the doorway like a vengeful god ripped straight from a nightmare.
He is covered in gray dust and the blood of the men he slaughtered to reach this wing.
His obsidian eyes burn with a homicidal madness that sucks the remaining oxygen right out of the room.
The hitman spins around in shock. Recognizing the lethal Underboss of the Severato syndicate, the mercenary realizes the immediate threat has shifted. He swings the barrel of his pistol away from my stomach and aims it directly at Niccolò's chest.
He registers the trajectory of the weapon, he registers my vulnerable position trapped against the wall behind the shooter's line of sight, and he makes a split-second calculation.
He doesn't dive for the ruined vanity or the overturned mattress. He lunges straight into the open space, throwing his massive body squarely into the line of fire. He stretches his broad shoulders, maximizing his physical footprint to create a good distraction from my stomach.
The silenced pistol spits a muted, deadly crack.
The sound of the hollow-point bullet tearing through Niccolò's chest is a sickening, wet thud that stops my heart dead in my chest. His body jerks violently backward from the kinetic impact, a spray of crimson mist painting the plaster dust suspended in the air.
I scream his name, the sound tearing my vocal cords, but the injury barely slows his momentum.
He doesn't even stumble. Operating on adrenaline, Niccolò raises his own weapon and pulls the trigger.
The explosion of his gun is deafening inside the enclosed suite.
He fires three consecutive shots in cadence.
The bullets hit the mercenary with accuracy, shredding the tactical vest and snapping the man's neck backward.
The hitman collapses to the ruined floorboards like a discarded puppet, his weapon clattering harmlessly against the baseboards.
The immediate threat neutralized, the violent, unhinged energy fueling Niccolò evaporates in an instant.
The gun slips from his trembling fingers, hitting the Persian rug with a dull thud.
He stands there for a suspended, agonizing second, his chest heaving, his eyes locking onto mine to verify that the baby and I are still breathing.
He manages a single, ragged exhale, and then his knees buckle.
He crashes to the marble floor, his massive frame collapsing into a rapidly expanding pool of his own blood.
The bronze lamp slips from my numb fingers, rolling across the floor as I drop to my knees beside him.
The freezing rain whips through the shattered windows, soaking our skin and plastering my hair to my face, but the only thing I feel is the hot, sticky crimson pouring from the gunshot wound situated dangerously close to his heart.
The pristine white cotton of his shirt is ruined.
"Niccolò!" I sob, pressing both of my hands frantically against his chest, trying to stem the catastrophic flow of blood. The slick warmth coats my palms, seeping between my fingers. "Look at me! Keep your eyes open, damn it, look at me!"
His eyelids flutter, struggling against the encroaching unconsciousness.
He reaches up with a trembling, bloodstained hand, his fingers clumsily tracing the curve of my jawline, smearing crimson across my skin.
"Livia," he rasps, a wet cough rattling low in his chest, sending a fresh wave of blood spilling over my hands. "Are you... the baby..."
"We are fine, we are completely fine, because you shielded us," I weep, leaning my forehead against his as frantic sobs wrack my frame. "You took the bullet for us. You stupid, beautiful, reckless man, why did you do that?"
"My queen," he breathes, the corners of his mouth tipping up in a faint, agonizingly peaceful smile.
His hand falls away from my face, hitting the marble with a sickening finality.
His eyes roll back, and his entire body goes completely limp beneath my hands, the terrifying stillness of a man slipping away from the world.
"No, no, no, don't you dare leave me!" I scream, pressing my entire body weight onto the wound, ignoring the blood soaking into the crimson silk of my slip. I press my cheek against his throat, begging the universe to let him keep breathing.
Combat boots pound down the corridor, crunching over the splintered wood, and Enzo bursts into the suite with his weapon raised.
The Consigliere takes in the shattered windows, the dead mercenary, and his Don bleeding out on the floor, and his usually stoic facade shatters into unfiltered panic.
Alessio is right behind him, his face covered in soot, freezing in the doorway as he registers the sight of his brother on the ground.
"Medic!" Enzo roars into the tactical radio clipped to his belt, dropping to his knees on the opposite side of Niccolò. "Get a fucking trauma team to the master suite right now! We have a critical gunshot wound to the chest! Move, you bastards, move!"
Enzo shoves his hands over mine, adding his strength to the pressure I am applying to the wound, his icy blue eyes meeting mine over Niccolò's unconscious body.
"Keep the pressure steady, Livia. Do not let up for a single second.
Alessio, secure the perimeter and clear the route to the medical bay! "
Alessio snaps out of his paralysis, a string of vicious Italian curses leaving his lips as he turns back into the hallway, shouting orders to the surviving guards to lock down the estate.
The chaos continues to swirl around us, but my entire universe is reduced to the erratic, fading pulse beneath my blood-soaked hands.
I nod frantically at Enzo, my tears mixing with the blood smeared across my skin.
For twenty-two years, my brain associated male authority with cowardice and abuse.
I carried that paralyzing fear like a suffocating shroud, projecting the sins of a pathetic drunk onto every man who tried to get close to me.
When I found out I was pregnant, that trauma hijacked my logic, convincing me that Niccolò's violent environment would inevitably destroy our child.
I believed his power was synonymous with cruelty, a poison that would infect our family from the inside out.
But staring at the man bleeding out on the floor, the man who literally threw his own body into the trajectory of a speeding bullet to protect me, that generational curse shatters into a million irreparable pieces.
My father hurt the woman he claimed to love to elevate his own fragile ego.
Niccolò Severato just sacrificed his own heartbeat to ensure the survival of his.
He is a predator to the outside world, yes, a man who orchestrates violence to maintain his empire, but inside these walls, he is a shield forged from impenetrable steel.
He didn't hesitate. He didn't flinch. He looked at a loaded gun and decided his life was a fair trade for mine.
The monster I was so terrified of just proved his devotion with his own blood, completely overwriting the toxic fear patterns that governed my existence.
"Hold on, Niccolò," I whisper fiercely, leaning down to press my lips against his pale, cold cheek, tasting the salt of my own tears. "You owe me a lifetime, you arrogant bastard. You do not get to die on me today. I am not letting you go."