33. Livia
Livia
Four months bleed away, and I am standing in the center of the kitchen, resting one hand on the massive swell of my stomach while using the other to steal a warm biscotti off the cooling rack.
At nearly nine months pregnant, I waddle more than I walk, and the physical toll of carrying the Severato heir makes my lower back ache with a relentless throb.
Yet, despite the physical discomfort, I feel tranquil.
Marta wipes down the stainless steel counters, pausing to slide an entire plate of the almond cookies toward me.
She doesn't glare. She doesn't snap. The older woman offers a warm, genuine smile that reaches the corners of her eyes, a radical departure from the terrified, rigid obedience she displayed half a year ago.
"You need the calories, Lady Livia," Marta insists, pouring a glass of iced lemon water and setting it beside the plate. "Dr. Evans says the baby is growing rapidly. You should sit before your ankles swell again."
"If I sit down in that plush armchair in the parlor, I will not be able to get back up without a crane," I laugh, taking a bite of the biscotti.
The staff no longer treats me like a fragile glass doll destined to shatter, nor do they view me as a civilian intruder.
The shift happened gradually. When Niccolò returned to the estate with his chest bandaged and my ring on my finger, I refused to hide in the master wing.
I sat in on the syndicate dinners. I forced the Capos to realize I possessed a functioning brain, and I systematically smoothed the jagged, lethal edges of the Don's wrath.
He still rules with a brutal, uncompromising fist, but he listens to my counsel, and that shared power forged a genuine reverence among the people working inside these walls.
The kitchen door swings inward, admitting the towering, suited frame of my husband.
Niccolò shrugs off his tailored jacket, handing it to a waiting guard in the corridor, before his midnight eyes lock onto mine.
He crosses the kitchen in three massive strides, completely ignoring Marta and the bustling prep cooks, and wraps his arms around my waist. He pulls my back flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of my neck.
"You smell like sugar and vanilla," he murmurs against my skin, his hands splaying protectively over the monumental curve of my womb.
"And you are home early," I point out, leaning back into his solid warmth. "Enzo mentioned a logistical issue at the southern ports this morning. I figured you would be tied up in the war room until dinner."
"Enzo can handle the shipping logs," Niccolò replies, pressing a kiss to my pulse point before turning me around to face him. He reaches up, wiping a stray smudge of flour from my cheek with his thumb. "I cleared my schedule for the rest of the afternoon. We are going for a ride."
"A ride?" I raise an eyebrow, glancing down at my swollen stomach. "Niccolò, I can barely fit behind the dashboard of the Maybach, and the baby has been using my bladder as a punching bag all morning. I am not really in the mood for a road trip."
"It isn't syndicate business," he promises, his lips curving into a wicked, secretive smirk that makes my pulse flutter. "Indulge me, Livia. I swear it will be worth the discomfort."
He refuses to answer a single question during the forty-minute drive.
The armored SUV passes the winding, coastal highways leading away from the suffocating concrete of the city.
The scent of the Atlantic Ocean filters through the air conditioning vents, crisp and salty.
I watch the coastline blur past the tinted windows, resting my hand over my stomach as the baby executes a series of sharp, rolling kicks against my ribs.
The vehicle pulls onto a private, gravel driveway, the tires crunching to a halt. Before I can unbuckle my seatbelt, Niccolò reaches across the leather console, a strip of midnight silk dangling from his fingers.
"What is that?" I ask, batting his hand away.
"It is a blindfold," he answers smoothly, catching my wrists and pinning them effortlessly with one hand. "Turn around, sweetheart. You are ruining the surprise."
"I hate surprises, and I am too pregnant for games," I grumble, but I comply anyway, turning my back to him.
He slides the cool silk over my eyes, tying it securely at the base of my skull.
Total blackness consumes my vision, enhancing my other senses.
I hear the car door open, feeling the humid ocean breeze wash over my face, before his large hands grasp my waist to help me step down onto the pavement.
He guides me forward, his arm wrapped securely around my shoulders, leading me up a short flight of wooden stairs.
A key jingles. A door unlocks, swinging open with a welcoming creak.
The unmistakable, intoxicating aroma of roasted espresso, toasted almonds, and fresh yeast hits my nose, instantly transporting me back to the tiny, cramped kitchens of my childhood where I used to bake bread to escape the shouting.
"Okay," Niccolò murmurs, his chest brushing against my back. "Take it off."
I reach up, pulling the knot loose and letting the silk fall to the floor. I blink against the sudden influx of natural sunlight streaming through massive, floor-to-ceiling windows.
We are standing inside a sprawling, impeccably renovated bakery.
The walls are painted a pristine, soothing cream, accented with exposed brick and natural wood shelving.
Gleaming glass display cases line the front counter, empty but waiting to be filled, while state-of-the-art industrial ovens and stainless steel prep stations dominate the expansive open-concept kitchen in the back.
Beyond the massive windows, the Atlantic ocean crashes against the rocky shoreline, offering a breathtaking, unobstructed view of the water.
I stand frozen in the center of the terracotta tile floor, my brain struggling to process the visual.
Niccolò reaches into his pocket, pulling out a folded piece of thick parchment paper. He places it gently into my trembling hands.
I unfold the document. It is a commercial deed, listing the property, the structure, and the surrounding land. On the bottom line, authorized and finalized by the city, is my name. Livia Mirano Severato.
"You built this," I whisper, my vocal cords constricting as tears blur my vision.
"I know you’ve always wanted a place of your own, a bakery by the water where you could make your own rules. I bought the property months ago. I had the contractors working around the clock to finish the renovations before the baby arrives" he says, stepping around to face me.
He didn't just hand me a credit card to placate me. He didn't lock me in a tower with a pile of diamonds. He listened to the fragile, buried dream I barely dared to speak out loud, and he used his power to forge it into a tangible reality.
"Niccolò," I sob, the tears finally spilling over my lashes as I throw my arms around his neck. "It is beautiful. It is perfect. I love it."
"It belongs to you," he fiercely replies, burying his face in my hair as his arms crush me against his chest. "You own the building, the land, and the business. No one can ever take it from you, Livia. You are never going to be beholden to anyone ever again."
He pulls back just enough to look at my face, his thumbs wiping the moisture from my cheeks.
The pride radiating from his expression quickly shifts, melting into a hunger that makes my breath hitch.
We are completely alone in the isolated, sunlit building.
The guards are stationed at the bottom of the driveway, ensuring our privacy.
"I love you," I confess, the words tearing from my throat with an unfiltered honesty. "I love you so much it physically hurts my chest. You are the best thing that ever happened to me."
A vulnerable tremor wracks his massive frame.
He crushes his mouth to mine, swallowing my confession with a ravenous, bruising kiss.
I open for him instantly, my tongue sweeping against his, tasting the salt of my own tears mixed with his mint and coffee flavor.
He walks me backward until the backs of my thighs hit the edge of the flour-dusted prep counter.
He grips my waist, lifting me effortlessly onto the stainless-steel surface. He spreads my knees, stepping into the cradle of my thighs, his broad shoulders blocking out the sunlight.
"Say it again," he demands, his voice a gravelly, filthy rasp as he pushes my floral maternity dress up to my hips.
"I love you," I whimper, my head falling back as his mouth trails scorching, open-mouthed kisses down the column of my throat.
He rips my cotton panties down my legs, tossing the fabric onto the floor. I am completely exposed to the warm summer air, slick and aching for his touch. He doesn't rush. He drops to his knees on the terracotta tiles, positioning himself between my spread thighs.
"You are a fucking goddess, so fucking ripe," he praises, his obsidian eyes worshiping the swollen curve of my stomach before tracking lower to the glistening, swollen folds of my core.
He leans forward, pressing his mouth against my center.
I scream, my hands flying back to grip the edge of the metal counter as a blinding jolt of electricity shoots up my spine.
He devours me, his tongue lashing expertly against my most sensitive cluster of nerves.
He is ruthless, employing a filthy, agonizing rhythm that forces my hips to buck wildly against his face.
He uses his large hands to grip my thighs, holding me firmly in place, refusing to let me escape the torment.
"Please," I sob, my vision flashing with brilliant white light. "Niccolò, please, it is too much."
"You take exactly what I give you," he growls against my slick skin, replacing his mouth with two thick fingers.
He drives his fingers inside me, stretching my slick sheath, while his thumb resumes the merciless assault on my clit.
I am thrashing, completely unhinged, drowning in a sea of ecstasy.
I beg him in fractured, breathless syllables, my nails scratching against the stainless steel as he edges me closer and closer to the precipice.
Just as my inner muscles begin to clamp, signaling the impending release, he abruptly withdraws his hand.
I whine, a pathetic, frustrated sound, my body arching in protest.
Niccolò stands up, his chest heaving, his eyes dilated until they are completely black. He unbuckles his belt with impatient, frantic motions, freeing his rigid, aching length from his trousers. He grips my hips, hauling me to the very edge of the counter, and aligns his body with mine.
"Tell me who owns this body," he commands, his thumb pressing firmly against the pulse point at my throat.
"You do," I cry out, reaching down to guide his thick arousal to my entrance. "Only you. Fuck me, Niccolò. I need you inside me."
He obliges with a brutal, unforgiving thrust, burying himself to the hilt in one fluid motion.
The stretch is incredible, a searing, magnificent fullness that forces a guttural moan from my lips.
He is so massive, stretching my slick walls to their physical limit, but the angle of the counter ensures he doesn't press against my pregnant stomach.
He withdraws almost completely before gently sliding back into my heat.
The impact sends a loud smack echoing through the empty bakery.
He sets a punishing, chaotic pace, driving into me with a desperate hunger that proves exactly how much he worships my changing anatomy.
He isn't treating me like fragile glass, he is treating me like a woman who commands his entire soul.
"Look at me," he rasps, catching my jaw to force my eyes open. "Look at what you do to me, Livia. You ruined me for anything else."
"Good," I breathe, wrapping my legs around his waist to pull him closer. "I want to ruin you. I want you obsessed."
"I am a fucking slave to you," he curses, his thrusts turning jagged and erratic.
He pulls one hand back and brings it down hard against my bare thigh.
The sharp, stinging smack resonates in the sunlit room, sending a rush of hot blood straight to my core.
The degradation fuels the fire, incinerating the last shreds of my restraint.
He strikes me again, harder, the wicked sting melting into an agonizing pleasure that tips me right over the edge.
I shatter into a million pieces. A magnificent, helpless scream tears from my throat as my inner muscles clamp violently around his cock. I milk him with crushing force, my body bowing off the counter as wave after wave of intense climax wrecks my nervous system.
My release destroys his control. Niccolò roars my name, and drives into me one final time. He empties his release inside my body with a violent, shuddering climax, his forehead dropping against my collarbone as he fights to drag oxygen back into his lungs.
We remain tangled together on the edge of the flour-dusted counter, our breathing ragged and completely out of sync.
He withdraws slowly, taking meticulous care as he pulls my dress back down over my thighs.
He gathers me into his arms, lifting me off the cold metal and holding me flush against his chest.
I bury my face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of bergamot and sweat, while his hand rests protectively over our baby.
"I love you," Niccolò whispers, his lips pressing a tender kiss to my temple.
The words are no longer a jagged confession torn from a bleeding soul, they are calm, from a man who finally understands his own worth.
"You gave me a reason to breathe, mia regina.
I will spend the rest of my life building empires just to lay them at your feet.
" I smile against his skin, my heart swelling until I think it might actually burst.