Page 27 of Claimed Through Deception

I am standing at the pressing table, sliding a heavy iron over the collar of one of Niccolò’s white dress shirts. The physical labor is exhausting, but the mindless repetition gives my brain somewhere to hide. I focus on the steam. I focus on the creases.

The heavy metal door to the laundry wing suddenly slams shut.

The loud, definitive click of the deadbolt sliding into place echoes over the hum of the washing machines.

I stop moving. The iron hovers over the fabric.

I set the iron down, walk across the concrete floor, and grab the brass handle of the door. I pull. It doesn't yield. I pull harder, rattling the metal in its frame. Locked from the outside.

"Marta?" I call out, knocking my knuckles against the heavy wood. "The door is stuck."

A low, cruel laugh filters through the metal grate at the bottom of the door.

"It isn't stuck, whore."

It is Gia. Her voice is muffled but entirely clear.

"Open the door, Gia," I say, keeping my voice flat. I refuse to let the panic bleed into my tone.

"Why? So you can run upstairs and try to spread your legs for one of the guards since the Don isn't here to keep you entertained?" Gia sneers. I can hear the rustle of her uniform as she leans closer to the grate. "We all know what you are, Livia. You think because he put you on his floor, you’re special? You’re just a warm hole he bought out of a jail cell."

I step back from the door. My chest tightens, the humid air of the laundry room suddenly feeling dangerously thin.

"You think you’re better than us because you don't talk?" Gia’s voice turns venomous, dropping the pretense of a joke. "I know where you come from. Everyone knows. A dirty little rat from the South Side. Your father was a pathetic drunk who beat your mother to a pulp, right?"

The breath is violently punched out of my lungs.

My hands begin to shake. I cross my arms tightly over my chest, digging my nails into my biceps through the fabric of the uniform.

How does she know? The police report? The background checks? It doesn't matter. She has the weapon, and she is twisting the blade.

"Is that why you like it here?" Gia taunts, her voice echoing through the basement. "Is that why you let Don Niccolò keep you? Because you’re used to the violence? Trash breeds trash, Livia. Your mother was a weak, pathetic punching bag, and you are exactly the same. You found a richer monster to beat you."

"Shut up," I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut.

"What was that?" Gia mocks. "I can't hear you over the sound of you cowering in the dark. Your mother died of a failing liver, didn't she? Pathetic. You'll probably die in this house the exact same way. Alone, bruised, and completely useless."

The walls of the laundry room begin to close in. The heavy scent of bleach makes my stomach heave.

I slide down the solid wood of the door until my knees hit the cold concrete floor. I pull my legs to my chest, wrapping my arms around my shins.

I want to scream at her. I want to tell her that she doesn't know anything about my mother. I want to claw at the door until my fingers bleed.

But I don't.

I bury my face in my knees. I take a slow, jagged breath in through my nose. I hold it for four seconds. I exhale through my mouth. I do it again. And again.

I will not break. I will not give this spiteful, jealous girl the satisfaction of hearing me cry. She wants me to shatter. She wants me to bang on the door and beg to be let out.

I sit in the suffocating heat of the basement, and I build the fortress back up, brick by brick. I take every vile word she speaks through the grate, and I bury it in the darkest, coldest part of my mind.

I am Livia Marino. I survived the devil himself. I will not be broken by a maid in a black dress.

I don't know how long I sit there. Gia eventually gets bored of the silence. I hear her footsteps retreat down the hallway.

Hours pass. The heat of the pressing irons makes the air heavy and oppressive. Sweat drips down my spine, soaking the collar of my uniform. My stomach clenches with hunger, the skipped meals finally taking their toll on my body.

Finally, the deadbolt clicks.