Page 1 of Claimed Through Deception

1

Livia

The smell of stale beer and cheap cologne is a permanent fixture in my lungs.

I wipe a damp rag across the sticky surface of table four, my wrist aching with a dull, familiar throb. The bass from the jukebox vibrates through the scuffed soles of my black boots, traveling up my shins until it rattles in my chest.

The Neon Crow isn’t the kind of bar people come to for a crafted cocktail or a quiet conversation. It’s a dive situated on the edge of the city, a place where the floor is always tacky, the lighting is an unforgiving, harsh red, and the patrons are usually trying to forget who they are.

Or, in some cases, trying to show or remind others of who they really are.

It is a well-known secret that the high and mighty use The Neon Crow as their gritty playground. Real estate moguls, bored heirs, and men who rule the city's shadows come here to escape their sterile penthouses and rub elbows with the dirt. As a result, half the waitstaff treats this bar like a casting call. Girls like Chloe spend half their shifts in the cramped employee bathroom, applying blood-red lipstick and unbuttoning their blouses down to their toes, practically tripping over themselves to catch the eye of a slumming millionaire. They want to be saved. They want a black card and a way out.

I don't.

I am just here to work. I don't care about their Rolexes, their tailored suits, or the luxury cars parked out back. I care about the cash they leave on the sleek tables.

I toss the dirty rag into the plastic tub on my hip and pick up the empty pint glasses. Two five-dollar bills sit crumpled underneath a damp coaster. I snatch them up, smoothing the edges with my thumb before shoving them deep into the front pocket of my apron.

Ten dollars.

In my head, the mental ledger instantly updates. That’s ten more dollars toward the seaside bakery. Ten more dollars toward white subway tiles, the smell of rising yeast, and a glass display case filled with sfogliatelle and cannoli. Ten more dollars away from this city, away from the neon lights, and away from the miserable life I was born into. Every single dollar is a physical brick in the wall I am building between myself and my past.

"Table seven needs another round, Liv," Sofia mutters as she brushes past me, carrying a heavy tray loaded with tequila shots. Her dark eyeliner is smudged, a thin layer of sweat shining on her collarbone. Sofia is my only real friend in this place. She is the only one who knows about my savings, the only one who doesn't look at the VIP booths like they are winning lottery tickets.

"On it," I say.

I weave through the crowded floor, keeping my elbows tucked in tightly to my sides. You learn quickly in a place like this how to make yourself small, how to slip between drunk, wandering hands without causing a scene. Survival is an art form entirely dependent on knowing exactly when to look away and when to stare straight ahead.

Unfortunately, Marco isn’t someone you can just ignore.

He is sitting at table seven, flanked by three of his usual friends. Marco is the son of a local real estate developer. He wears custom-tailored suits to a dive bar just to loudly remind everyone in the room that he can buy and sell them. He’s rich, he’s bored, and for the last month, he has decided I am his new favorite game.

I approach the table, balancing a fresh tray of drinks on my palm. "Four draft beers."

I set the wet glasses down quickly, intending to turn away, but a heavy, manicured hand wraps around my wrist. The grip is tight. Too tight. The metal of his heavy watch presses uncomfortably against my bone.

"What's the rush, Livia?" Marco slurs slightly. His breath smells of expensive scotch and artificial mint. His eyes drag down the front of my black uniform, lingering explicitly on the curve of my chest before sliding back up to my face. "Sit with us for a minute. Take a break."

My skin crawls. A hot, prickling wave of revulsion coats the back of my neck.

"I have other tables to wait on, Marco. Let go."

I tug my arm, but his fingers dig harder into my flesh, refusing to yield. His friends stop talking, watching the exchange with drunken, amused grins. They think this is a show. They think I am part of the entertainment.

I know men like Marco. They puff themselves up in front of an audience because that is how they feed their self-image. His grip tightened not because he was confident, but because his friends were watching, and his fragile ego could not survive looking weak in front of them.

"Come on," Marco lowers his voice, leaning in closer. He thinks he’s being charming. He genuinely believes the Rolex on his wrist is a skeleton key to whatever he wants. "I know how much you make in a night here. It’s pathetic. Come back to my place tonight. I’ll give you ten thousand in cash just to look pretty on my couch."

The sheer, staggering entitlement in his eyes makes my stomach turn. It isn’t just the offer, it’s the arrogant assumption behind it. The assumption that because I serve him drinks, I am for sale. The assumption that his money automatically makes him my master.

Something cold and vicious snaps inside my chest.

I don't pull away this time. I lean down, closing the distance between us until I am mere inches from his face. The amused smirk on his lips falters slightly, replaced by a flicker of uncertainty.

"Listen to me very carefully," I hiss in his face, my voice completely devoid of warmth. "If I had a price, Marco, it wouldn't be paid with the weekly allowance your daddy deposits into your checking account."

One of his friends chokes on his beer, a loud bark of laughter escaping his throat before he can muffle it.