Page 19 of Claimed Through Deception

The car slows.

Through the tinted glass, I see towering stone walls rising from the darkness, easily twelve feet high and topped with wrought-iron spikes. The Maybach turns onto a long, sweeping driveway. Heavy, gothic iron gates loom ahead, flanked by stone pillars and armed guards carrying tactical rifles.

The guards step back. The gates groan, parting just enough to let the car glide through.

I twist around, looking over my shoulder through the rear window. The second the back bumper clears the threshold, the heavy iron gates swing shut. The metallic clang of the lock engaging echoes through the quiet night.

That is it. The final nail in the coffin. I am locked in. My freedom, my autonomy, the fortress I spent twenty-two years building, it is all on the other side of that iron.

The car stops in front of a massive, imposing estate. It looks less like a home and more like a fortress. Stone columns, heavy mahogany doors, and rows of dark windows staring down at the circular driveway like empty eyes.

A guard pulls my door open. The freezing night air bites at my bare legs. I am still wearing nothing but the oversized grey t-shirt and my cotton underwear.

I step out, wrapping my arms tightly around my chest.

Niccolò rounds the back of the car. He doesn't offer me his jacket. He doesn't offer comfort. He steps behind me, his large hand settling firmly at the base of my spine. The heat of his palm burns right through the thin cotton of my shirt. It is a brand. It is a physical claim broadcasting to every armed man in the courtyard exactly who I belong to.

He pushes me forward.

We walk up the wide stone steps and through the front doors.

The foyer is a sprawling expanse of imported white marble and dark wood. A massive crystal chandelier hangs from the vaulted ceiling, casting a cold, brilliant light over the space. It is beautiful, and it is terrifying.

There are people waiting.

Two men stand near the base of the grand, sweeping staircase. I recognize them instantly. They are the same men who flanked Niccolò at the bar.

"Brother," the younger one says. He has a smirk playing on his lips, his suit jacket discarded to reveal a dark dress shirt. His eyes slide to me, roaming over my bare legs and my messy hair with amusement.

"Eyes on the floor, Alessio," Niccolò says. The command is soft, but the threat laced through the syllables is unmistakable.

Alessio’s smirk falters. He immediately shifts his gaze to the marble tiles, though the tension in his frame tells me he is a man who loves to push boundaries.

"This is Alessio," Niccolò says to me, his hand still resting heavily on my lower back. He doesn't look at his brother. "And the man beside him is Enzo. My Consigliere."

Enzo is staring at me with a flat, icy calculation. There is no amusement in his gaze, he doesn't look at my body. He looks right into my eyes.

"They are my inner circle," Niccolò continues, the deep timbre of his voice echoing off the marble. "They are the only men in this house permitted to speak to you. If any of the guards or the soldiers look at you for too long, you tell me. Do you understand?"

"I don't want to speak to anyone," I mutter hoarsely.

Niccolò ignores my defiance. His hand guides me forward, steering me toward a group of women standing in a rigid line near the hallway archway.

There are four of them. They wear crisp, tailored black uniforms with white collars.

The woman at the head of the line is older, her dark hair pulled back into a severe, tight bun. Her posture is ramrod straight, her expression entirely unreadable.

"This is Marta," Niccolò says. "She is the head housekeeper. She runs the staff."

Marta gives a stiff, perfunctory nod. "Don Niccolò. We prepared the guest suite, as requested."

"She will not be using the guest suite," Niccolò corrects her smoothly. "She will be staying on my floor."

A ripple of tension passes through the line of maids.

My eyes catch on a younger maid standing directly beside Marta. She is beautiful, with sharp features and dark, heavily lined eyes. Her nametag reads Gia.

Gia is staring at me. She doesn't have Marta’s rigid discipline. Her eyes rake over my oversized, wrinkled t-shirt, dropping to my bare, bruised knees. Her lip curls in a faint, unmistakable sneer, she is disgusted.