Page 26 of Claimed Through Deception

I won't.

I want her to surrender. I want her to break her own rules.

I drag my thumb over her racing pulse one last time, committing the rhythm to memory. Then, I step back.

I take the cold glass of bourbon from her trembling hand.

"You missed a spot on the top shelf," I say, my voice stripped of the heavy lust from a second ago.

I turn my back on her and walk to my desk. I sit down in the leather chair, taking a slow sip of the liquor, and open my file.

I don't look up as she practically runs out of the study. I take another a sip of my drink and then realize that my hand is shaking.

9

Livia

I am awake, lying in the dark of my assigned room on the second floor, when I hear the heavy rumble of engines in the courtyard. I slip out of bed and walk to the window, pulling the heavy velvet curtain back just a fraction of an inch.

Down below, a convoy of four black, armored SUVs is lined up near the iron gates. Armed men are moving quickly, loading heavy duffel bags into the trunks.

Niccolò walks out of the front doors.

He is wearing a black overcoat over a dark suit, his face a harsh, unreadable mask in the pale security lighting. He gets into the back of the second SUV, the heavy door slams shut, and the convoy rolls out of the gates, disappearing into the city.

A syndicate war. That is the whisper that travels through the hallways the moment his tires leave the pavement. The Irish factions are pushing back on the South Side. Don Niccolò has gone to remind them who owns the streets.

The moment he is gone, the atmosphere inside the estate violently shifts.

The suffocating tension he brings to every room evaporates, but it isn't replaced by relief. It is replaced by a cold, predatory malice. While Niccolò was here, the staff kept their hatred contained to sneers and whispers. They were terrified of him.

Without him, the leash is entirely off.

It starts small on the first day.

I am in the main kitchen, preparing a tray of coffee and pastries for the guards stationed at the back perimeter. I carefully arrange the cups, checking the sugar packets.

Gia walks past me. She doesn't just bump my shoulder. She drives her elbow hard into my ribs, her hip checking the edge of the stainless-steel counter.

The silver tray tips. The china cups shatter against the floor tiles, hot, black coffee splashing across my black boots and the hem of my white apron.

"Oops," Gia says. Her voice is dripping with mock sympathy, but her dark eyes are shining with vicious amusement. "You really need to watch your hands, Livia. You’re so incredibly clumsy."

I look down at the shattered china. The coffee is soaking through my socks, burning my skin.

"Clean it up," Marta barks, stepping into the kitchen. She doesn't look at Gia. She glares directly at me, her face pinched in disapproval. "We do not tolerate waste in this house. Get a mop. And you will skip your lunch to replace the cups."

I don't argue. I don't raise my voice. I look at Gia’s triumphant smirk, and I force my face into a completely blank slate.

I walk to the utility closet, grab the mop, and I clean it up.

I know how to play this game. I learned it when I was seven years old, watching my father throw a plate of spaghetti at the wall because the sauce was too cold. If you cry, they win. If you yell, the punishment gets worse. You become a ghost. You absorb the hit, you swallow the pain, and you give them absolutely nothing to feed on.

But Gia is starving, and my silence only pisses her off more.

By the third day of Niccolò’s absence, the passive-aggressive sabotage escalates into open warfare.

Marta assigns me to the basement laundry wing. It is a massive, windowless, humid room of industrial washing machines and pressing tables. The air smells heavily of bleach, hot iron steam, and damp cotton.