34. Niccolò
Niccolò
One year later
The Cuban cigar smoke curls toward the vaulted ceiling of the war room, mixing with the scent of aged bourbon pouring into crystal tumblers.
Enzo slides a leather-bound ledger across the polished mahogany, his icy blue eyes scanning the final columns of the quarterly shipping tariffs.
The rain lashes against the reinforced glass windows, a torrential summer downpour that washes the Boston streets clean, but the atmosphere inside my office is a portrait of undeniable, ruthless peace.
"The Irish factions paid their dues three days early this month, Niccolò," Enzo notes, tapping a manicured finger against the page.
"And Alessio managed to secure the eastern seaboard ports without firing a single bullet.
The transition of the Falco loyalists is officially complete.
We are looking at a thirty percent increase in legitimate revenue across all our construction fronts. "
"Caterina actually proved useful for once," Alessio chimes in, sprawling across the leather sofa with his boots propped carelessly on a velvet ottoman.
He flicks a speck of ash onto the floor, earning a withering glare from our Consigliere.
"My lovely wife convinced her father's stubborn traditionalists that crossing me means a very fast trip to the bottom of the harbor.
Turns out, the threat of a Severato firing squad does wonders for syndicate diplomacy.
Who knew marriage could be such a tactical advantage? "
I take a slow sip of my liquor, letting the fiery liquid burn a familiar path down my throat while reviewing the logistical maps spread across my desk.
The Boston underground answers solely to my command, the borders are fortified with impenetrable layers of armed security, and the violent chaos that defined the previous year is replaced by a fiercely enforced stability.
"Marriage is a tactical advantage when you wield it correctly, Alessio," I reply.
"But do not mistake compliance for loyalty.
Keep your men stationed at the narrows. The Russians are testing the northern boundaries, looking for a blind spot.
The moment you offer a rival faction an inch of leniency, they will take a mile and slit your throat in the process. We maintain the perimeter."
"Let them test," Alessio smirks, cracking his knuckles. "If they step one foot onto our docks, I will send their bodies back to Moscow in shipping crates."
I glance at the platinum band resting on my left hand, the metal catching the ambient light of the study.
A year ago, I burned a worthless employment contract and bound the woman I love to my name in a ceremony that rivaled a royal coronation.
We did not exchange vows in a quiet, secluded chapel to hide from the world.
I shut down the largest cathedral in the city, surrounding the perimeter with a hundred armed soldiers to ensure our enemies understood the magnitude of my claim.
The memory of Livia walking down the marble aisle remains burned into my retinas.
She wore a gown woven from imported French lace and ivory silk, the fabric clinging flawlessly to the curves of her pregnant body.
Her raven hair was pinned back with diamonds, and she carried a bouquet of white roses that trembled slightly in her grip.
The Capos, men who once viewed her as a temporary liability, bowed their heads in genuine reverence as she passed.
Alessio stood as my best man, surprisingly sober and lethal in his tuxedo, while Enzo managed the security protocols with an iron grip.
When she reached the altar and placed her small, warm hand in mine, the suffocating paranoia that had governed my existence finally broke.
I looked into her fierce brown eyes and promised to shield her from the monsters lurking in the shadows, vowing to slaughter any threat that dared to breathe her name.
The reception was a magnificent, chaotic display of wealth and power, but my only focus was the woman wearing my ring.
We abandoned the politicians long before the champagne ran dry, escaping to the master suite to consummate the vows in a tangle of bruised lips, torn silk, and desperate, filthy promises whispered against the sheets.
She rode me until the sun breached the horizon, claiming my soul with an aggressive, unapologetic hunger that proved she was born to rule the empire by my side.
Those vows we exchanged in the cathedral were violently tested barely a month later when the tranquil silence of our bedroom shattered with Livia's panicked gasp. The memory of the birth still possesses the power to freeze the blood in my veins.
I carried her down to the mansion’s medical wing, my hands shaking with a terror I had never experienced in my lifetime.
I shouted vicious curses at Dr. Evans and his team, grabbing the physician by his sterile scrubs and pinning him against the wall.
Save her, I had snarled, the homicidal beast inside my chest clawing to get out.
If I have to choose, you save my wife, or I will burn this place to the ground with you inside it.
But Livia, stubborn and fiercely resilient, refused to let me make that choice.
I stood beside the hospital bed for fourteen agonizing hours, gripping her hand as she fought through the grueling exhaustion of labor.
She screamed, she cursed my name in multiple languages, and she nearly broke my fingers with her crushing grip, but she fought with the ferocity of a lioness.
When the piercing, furious cry of a newborn finally echoed off the walls, my knees actually buckled beneath my weight.
Evans placed a tiny, thrashing bundle into Livia's exhausted arms, and I stared at the fragile life we created with a breathtaking awe.
We named her Elettra. A bright, shining spark forged in the center of a mafia warzone.
She possesses her mother's stubborn chin and my raven hair, a beautiful amalgamation of the woman who polished my floors and the Don who burned the world to keep her safe.
Holding my daughter for the first time, feeling her microscopic heartbeat against my scarred palms, I wept.
I buried my face in Livia's sweat-dampened neck and cried, shedding the final layers of the hardened enforcer to embrace the profound vulnerability of fatherhood.
"You aren't even listening to me, are you?" Alessio asks, tossing a silver coaster across the room to shatter my reverie. The metal clatters against the edge of my desk, earning him a lethal glare that makes him raise his hands in mock surrender.
"I am listening to you complain about shipping manifests when you should be patrolling the docks, you lazy prick," I shoot back, checking the vintage Rolex on my wrist. It is past four in the afternoon. "Get out of my office. I need to clear the perimeter before Livia returns from the coast."
Enzo shuts the ledger, gathering his encrypted tablets with his usual meticulous efficiency. "Her security detail reported in ten minutes ago, Don Niccolò. There were no incidents during her shift. The crowds were substantial, but the men maintained the fifty-yard secure zone."
Livia runs the seaside bakery three days a week, transforming the renovated building into a thriving, legitimate business that commands lines out the door.
I hate the fact that she leaves the fortified safety of the estate, but I refuse to cage the fierce, independent woman I fell in love with.
She spent her childhood trapped by a tyrant.
I will not replicate that trauma. Instead, I compromise by surrounding the bakery with an elite squad of undercover guards, ensuring she can bake her pastries and interact with her customers while my soldiers watch every single person who steps within range.
She humors my obsessive need to protect her, trading the isolation for a radiant happiness that illuminates every corner of our home. The psychological wounds inflicted by her past are healing, replaced by a confident, commanding presence that demands respect from everyone she encounters.
I dismiss my commanders, leaving the smoke-filled war room to go down the quiet corridors of the residential wing.
The mansion no longer feels like a sprawling mausoleum.
The sterile, intimidating architecture is softened by the undeniable presence of a family.
The staff goes about their duties with genuine smiles, treating my wife with a reverence born from admiration rather than terror, because Livia treats them like human beings instead of collateral damage.
I push the door to the nursery open, stepping into a spacious room painted in soft, soothing shades of lavender and cream. The scent of baby powder and vanilla greets me.
I walk over to the ornate wooden crib resting in the center of the room.
Elettra is wide awake, kicking her chubby legs against the soft mattress, her big brown eyes tracking the slow rotation of the crystal mobile hanging above her head.
When she spots my face leaning over the railing, her tiny mouth stretches into a slightly toothy and gummy, ecstatic smile.
"Ciao, principessa," I whisper, my voice dropping into a gentle, soothing cadence I reserve exclusively for the two women who own my soul.
I reach down, slipping my large hands beneath her fragile body, and lift her effortlessly from the crib.
She feels impossibly light against my chest, a delicate bird that I could crush with a fraction of my strength, yet I hold her with a practiced, meticulous reverence.
I cradle her against my shoulder, rocking her slowly back and forth as I pace the length of the plush carpet.
Elettra babbles a string of nonsensical syllables with the occasional Papa here and there, her incredibly soft fingers reaching up to tangle in the collar of my tailored shirt.
She tugs on the expensive fabric, asserting her dominance over the Underboss of the Severato syndicate with a simple, demanding grip.
She has me wrapped completely around her finger, and I am a willing, devoted captive to her every whim.
I hear the soft padding of bare feet approaching down the hallway, followed by the familiar, intoxicating scent of roasted espresso and spun sugar.
Livia steps into the nursery frame, pausing in the doorway to take in the sight.
She wears a flour-dusted apron over a simple summer dress, her raven hair pulled into a messy knot at the nape of her neck, radiating a stunning, effortless beauty that steals the oxygen straight from my lungs.
"Marta said you were hiding in the war room plotting hostile takeovers," Livia murmurs, a brilliant, teasing smile curving her lips as she crosses the room to join us.
"Marta needs to mind her own fucking business," I reply, unable to keep the fond amusement out of my tone.
Livia leans against my side, wrapping her arm around my waist while using her free hand to stroke the soft fuzz covering our daughter's head. Elettra yawns, her eyelids drooping as the steady, rhythmic motion of my pacing finally lulls her into a peaceful slumber.
"Her first word is going to be a swear,” Livia tuts.
“No, it was papa,” I smugly say.
“Don’t be so proud. The bakery was completely swamped today," Livia sighs happily, pressing her cheek against my bicep.
"We sold out of the almond biscotti before noon.
Your guards actually helped carry the extra sacks of flour from the storage room when the delivery truck ran late.
They are terrifyingly efficient pastry assistants. "
"I do not pay highly trained mercenaries to haul baking supplies, mia regina," I grumble, though the fierce pride swelling in my chest betrays my annoyance. "I pay them to ensure nobody looks at you the wrong way while you play civilian."
"They like helping me," she insists, tilting her head back to meet my gaze. "And I like coming home to my grumpy, overprotective husband. You look incredibly sexy holding a baby, Don Niccolò. It softens the murderous glare."
"I am not soft," I warn her, leaning down to capture her lips in a slow, consuming kiss that tastes like vanilla and devotion.
"I am just saving my stamina for when we put her in the crib.
You owe me for abandoning me to deal with Alessio's insufferable complaining all afternoon, and I plan on collecting my debt very thoroughly. "
Livia shivers, a wicked, answering fire igniting in her brown eyes. "I look forward to the punishment."
"I am going to bend you over the vanity," I promise against her mouth. "I am going to strip that apron off and remind you exactly who owns every single inch of your body until you are screaming my name loud enough for the guards outside to hear."
"You are arrogant," she breathes, arching into my touch with a breathless sigh.
"And you are mine," I vow, kissing her again.
There will always be rival factions to crush, borders to defend, and blood to spill upon the cobblestones. But as I stand in the quiet nursery, holding the tiny girl who holds my heart while her mother rests against my ribs, I know I possess the only empire that truly matters.
The end.
Thank you for reading Claimed Through Deception. Your support truly means more to me than you know.
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And now comes book two, Bound Through Betrayal. Caterina and Alessio’s story in The Severato Syndicate.
A rejected mafia princess.
A ruthless butcher who conquered her family’s syndicate.
A marriage forged through hatred, betrayal, and obsession.
Turn the page for an exclusive sneak peek into Book Two, Bound Through Betrayal.