Page 60 of Claimed Through Deception

I bite her neck, sucking the sensitive skin right above her collarbone. "You like the power," I taunt, my hand sliding under her lace panties.

"I like your power," she breathes, arching into my touch. She reaches down, unbuckling my trousers. Her small hands are frantic, freeing my aching length.

She strokes me, a firm, agonizing friction that makes my vision blur. I groan, catching her wrist.

"You are playing a dangerous game," I warn.

"I'm winning," she whispers, pulling me inside her.

She takes all of me in one smooth motion. I grunt, my hands gripping her hips. The fit is agonizingly tight. I set a punishing rhythm, driving into her until the desk groans against the floorboards. She meets every thrust, her nails dragging down my back, pulling me closer.

We battle for control. She bites my shoulder, I grip her jaw, kissing her until she is breathless. The rage from the meeting dissolves into lust. "Mine," I rasp, increasing the pace.

"Yours," she cries out, shattering around me, reeling in the leash of the monster.

21

Livia

Six weeks later.

Time moves differently when you sleep in a massive bed wrapped in midnight silk.

The bell above the bakery door chimes. The scent of powdered sugar, roasted coffee, and rising yeast wraps around me. It is a Tuesday afternoon, and the Boston sidewalk outside is bustling with civilians. Commuters rush past the glass windows in their wool coats, oblivious to the syndicates and the blood shed just blocks away.

I stand in line, holding a white pastry box tied with twine. Beside me, Sofia keeps glancing over her shoulder, her fingernails picking anxiously at the sleeve of her jacket.

"I still can't believe you're just... here," Sofia whispers. She eyes my cashmere coat, taking in the flawless cut and the obscene price tag it represents. "The last time I saw you, a guy got his face smashed into a wooden table and you were dragged out the front doors by a literal mob boss."

I laugh, though the sound is brittle. "I told you, things changed."

Niccolò let me go today. No guards. No armored SUVs trailing me down the avenue. "Take the afternoon," he said this morning, pressing a kiss to my bare shoulder before he left for the docks. "Walk the city. Buy your pastries."

It was a test of trust. A terrifying leap for a man who rules through control. He gave me a taste of the life I used to want, proving he doesn't need to keep me behind iron gates to make me stay.

Sofia bumps her shoulder against mine. "Are you safe, Liv? Honestly. You vanished. Then I get a burner text saying to meet you here. You look like a millionaire, but..."

"I'm safe," I assure her.

And it is the truth. In the last six weeks, the Severato estate transformed from a prison into a sanctuary. Niccolò treats me like a queen. He buys me whatever I want, yes, but he also listens to me. He lets me win arguments. He worships my body every night until I forget my own name. We exist in a beautiful, consuming bubble.

But the ghost of my mother still sits on my shoulder. Whenever he comes home with bruised knuckles, or whenever I see Enzo cleaning a weapon in the study, the illusion cracks. I am in love with a violent man. The reality of his world is always waiting just outside our bedroom door.

We pay for the pastries. I hand the cashier a hundred-dollar bill from the stack Niccolò left on the nightstand. I tell her to keep the change. After a quick errand to the store, we walk out into the crisp afternoon air where we eat sfogliatelle on a park bench. We laugh about the awful regulars at the bar. For two hours, I am just Livia Marino. Not a maid. Not the Don's obsession. Just a girl eating a pastry with her friend.

But as the afternoon sun dips below the skyline, a familiar, twisting exhaustion settles into my bones.

"I have to get back," I tell Sofia, hugging her tight. "There is a party tonight."

"A mafia party," she clarifies, her eyes wide.

"Something like that. I’ll see you later." I promise with a kiss to her cheek and a hug.

I walk away before she can ask more questions. I hail a cab, giving the driver an intersection two blocks away from the estate to maintain the perimeter security.

By eight o'clock the estate is unrecognizable.

The grand foyer echoes with the clinking of champagne flutes and the sound of a live string quartet. It is a celebration of new alliances. The surrounding families are paying their respects to the new Don.