Page 70 of Claimed Through Deception

The taller guard swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He squeezes his eyes shut, slapping a hand over his face to avert his gaze, and presses his spine flat against the floral wallpaper. The second guard immediately mirrors the action, turning his back to me completely, terrified that a stray glance will cost him his life.

I walk right past them, leaving Marta sputtering in the doorway.

I check his private study first, pushing the doors open to find a vacant desk and cold ash in the fireplace. I move through the grand rotunda, scanning the empty dining room and the deserted lounges. He isn't here.

I pause near the servant stairs, piecing together his habits. He is currently orchestrating an aggressive campaign against the Falco family. He thrives on strategy, utilizing logistics and maps to dismantle his enemies piece by piece. He wouldn't be sitting in a lounge; he would be buried in blueprints.

I turn on my heel and head straight for the west wing.

The war room is located at the end of a reinforced corridor, shielded by a pair of formidable mahogany doors. Enzo stands guard outside the entrance, his icy blue eyes narrowing as I approach. He takes in my state of undress, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his usually stoic features before his professional mask slides back into place.

"Livia," Enzo says, he shifts his weight to block the brass handles. "Niccolò is reviewing the tactical reports from the harbor strikes. He left explicit instructions not to be disturbed by anyone short of an invading army."

"I am not a disturbance, Enzo," I reply, squaring my shoulders and tilting my chin up to meet his uncompromising stare. "I am his partner. Step aside."

Enzo assesses me for a long, quiet moment, his gaze calculating the shift in my demeanor. He sees the titanium spine replacing the terrified girl who tried to flee through the mud. A faint, approving smirk touches the corner of his mouth before he nods once, stepping away from the mahogany panels to grant me access.

"Give him hell, sweetheart," Enzo murmurs as I reach for the brass handles. "He fucking deserves it."

I push the doors open and step into the war room, letting the heavy wood click shut behind me.

The space is vast, lined with towering bookshelves and massive windows overlooking the manicured grounds. Niccolò stands behind a sprawling conference table littered with maps, ledgers, and empty coffee cups. He wears a tailored charcoal suit, though the jacket is discarded on a nearby chair and his white shirt is rolled up to the elbows, exposing the intricate black ink sprawling across his forearms. He looks exhausted with bruising shadows under his eyes.

He snaps his head up at the sound of the door, his jaw clenching in irritation, fully expecting to reprimand a soldier.

The moment his obsidian eyes land on the crimson silk, the irritation evaporates. His gaze drags down the plunging neckline, tracing the curve of my waist and the bare expanse of my legs, before snapping back up to my face. A feral, starving hunger flashes across his features, so potent and raw it makes my pulse hammer a frantic rhythm against my ribs, but the reaction lasts for a fraction of a second.

An impenetrable wall of ice slams down over his expression, freezing the hunger into a mask of detachment.

"What are you doing down here?" Niccolò asks cooly. "Marta is supposed to bring your breakfast to the suite."

"I am ending this ridiculous strike," I state, walking across the room until I reach the opposite edge of the conference table. I place my hands flat on the polished wood, refusing to break eye contact. "I was awake last night, Niccolò. I heard the key in the lock. I heard you kneel beside the mattress, and I heard every single word you whispered to me in the dark before you tucked your tail between your legs and ran away again."

A muscle feathers violently along his jawline, the only outward indication that my words struck a nerve. He grips the edge of a tactical map, his knuckles turning white under the fluorescent lights.

"You should not have heard that," he says coldly, turning his attention back to the blueprints as if my presence is nothing more than a minor inconvenience. "It changes nothing. You made your boundaries explicitly clear in the pouring rain, and I am respecting them. Go back upstairs, Livia. The marble floors are freezing, and you are not dressed appropriately."

"I am dressed exactly how I want to be dressed, and I am not going anywhere until you look at me," I demand, my voice rising in volume. "I came down here to apologize. I was a coward. I found out I was pregnant, and the panic completely hijacked my logic. I saw the blood on your hands, and I projected the sins of a pathetic, abusive drunk onto the man who overthrew his own father just to keep me safe. I ran because I was terrified of failing this baby, and I broke your heart in the process. I am so incredibly sorry."

Niccolò goes completely still. He slowly raises his head, his dark eyes devoid of the warmth and fierce devotion I used to find there. He looks at me like a judge delivering a final, unalterable sentence.

"You do not owe me an apology for possessing a functioning survival instinct," he replies. "You were right to run. You looked at the reality of my syndicate and recognized that a slaughterhouse is no place to raise a child. You made a mother’s choice, and I cannot fault you for seeing the monster clearly when the camouflage finally slipped."

"You are not a monster!" I shout, slapping my palm against the table. "Alessio told me everything. He told me how Roberto ruled this family, how you took the beatings to protect your brother, and how you dismantled the hierarchy to stop the cycle of abuse. You use violence as a shield, Niccolò. You spill blood to keep the wolves away from our door. I was too traumatized to see the difference between cruelty and protection, but I see it now."

"Alessio talks too much. It does not matter what you see," he growls, shoving the tactical maps aside and stalking around the edge of the table. He stops a safe distance away from me, crossing his arms over his chest to maintain the physical barrier between us. "The blood is still on my hands, Livia. The violence is carved into my bones. You will have the Severato wealth, you will have my name to protect you, and this child will never want for anything in this world. You can live in this mansion like a queen, but I will not force my monstrous presence into your life ever again. I will not be the poison that ruins my own bloodline."

The sheer, arrogant stubbornness of his martyr act sends a hot, blinding spike of fury straight through my veins. He is trying to orchestrate our lives from a distance, playing the tragic villain while I sit in a gilded tower, and I refuse to accept this twisted version of reality.

"You arrogant bastard," I hiss, stepping away from the table to close the gap he so carefully established. "You do not get to dictate what I need, and you do not get to hide behind your own guilt because you are too scared to face the mess we made."

I walk right into his space, refusing to stop until the tips of my breasts brush against the crisp white cotton of his shirt. Niccolò inhales a sharp, jagged breath, his hands falling to his sides as he instinctively tries to step backward, but the edge of a leather armchair blocks his retreat. I crowd him, pressing my body flush against his towering frame, ensuring the thin crimson silk is the only barrier separating my bare skin from his heat.

"Livia, stop," he warns, his voice dropping an octave as a shudder wrecks through his shoulders. "Step back."

"Make me," I challenge, tilting my head back to look him dead in the eye. I slide my hands up his chest, my fingers gripping the collar of his shirt as I press my hips explicitly against his groin. The thick, rigid length of his erection strains against his trousers, betraying the physical hunger he is trying so desperately to suppress.

I roll my hips forward, and it draws a harsh, guttural sound from the back of his throat.