Page 2 of Claimed Through Deception

Marco’s face flushes a dark, ugly red. The sleazy charm evaporates instantly, replaced by a bruised ego and sharp, ugly malice.

"And," I continue, my eyes locked dead on his, completely unblinking, "if you ever put your hands on me again, I will break this empty pint glass over the edge of the table and shove the jagged end so far into your throat you’ll be choking on glass until Christmas. Let. Go."

Marco stares at me. The muscles in his jaw twitch. For a second, I see the violent impulse flash behind his eyes—the urge to strike, to put me back in my place. To remind me that I am poor and he is rich. But there are too many witnesses, and his friends are already shifting uncomfortably in their seats, the joke suddenly turning sour.

Slowly, his fingers uncurl from my wrist.

I stand up straight, picking up my empty tray. I don't look back as I turn on my heel and walk away, but I feel the heat of his glare burning a hole right between my shoulder blades.

"You're going to regret that, you stuck-up bitch," Marco spits to my back.

Ignoring him, I push through the swinging wooden doors that lead to the back hallway, letting them swing shut behind me, cutting off the noise of the bar.

The moment the heavy doors close, the adrenaline drains completely out of my blood, leaving a cold, shaking vacuum in its wake. I drop the tray onto a stack of empty crates and lean my back against the cool brick wall. My lungs heave. I press the palms of my hands firmly against my thighs, trying to force my muscles to stop trembling.

I close my eyes, and the smell of the spilled beer on my apron suddenly shifts, warping into the sharp, metallic stench of cheap whiskey and stale cigarettes.

Boom.

The memory hits me with the force of a physical blow.

I am nine years old again. I am sitting on the frayed carpet at the top of the stairs, peering through the wooden banister. Below me, in the cramped, yellow-lit kitchen, my mother is folded into the corner by the refrigerator. She is covering her face with her arms, making small, pathetic, whimpering sounds that echo off the cheap linoleum.

My father stands over her. His face is flushed, his knuckles split and bleeding.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," he slurs, his roar shaking the thin walls of the house.

My mother doesn't fight back. She never fights back. She just cowers, absorbing the brutal blows, shrinking herself down until she is nothing but bruises and apologies. She stayed with him because he paid the rent. She stayed because she had no money of her own, no spine left to stand on. She depended on a monster for survival, and the monster ate her alive piece by piece.

My chest tightens, the phantom echo of my father's heavy boots making my heart race frantically against my ribs.

I open my eyes, gasping for air in the dim light of the bar’s back hallway. The rough brick wall against my spine grounds me. I am not nine years old. I am twenty-two. I am safe.

I reach into my apron and pull out the wad of cash. Ones, fives, tens. It is dirty, crumpled money. But to me, it is the most beautiful thing in the world.

I smooth the bills out, counting them with shaking fingers.

The night the police officer knocked on our front door is permanently burned into my brain. It was raining heavily. The officer stood on the porch, his uniform soaked, holding his hat nervously in his hands. He told my mother that my father’s truck had wrapped around a concrete overpass at eighty miles an hour. His blood alcohol level was three times the legal limit. Dead on impact.

My mother collapsed onto the linoleum floor, sobbing hysterically. She mourned the man who broke her ribs because he was her source of livelihood.

I stood in the hallway, ten years old, watching the rain hit the porch. I didn't shed a single tear. I didn't feel an ounce of grief. I felt an overwhelming, blinding rush of absolute relief. The monster was dead. The heavy boots would never walk up the stairs again. The air in the house suddenly felt breathable.

Right then and there, standing over my weeping mother, I made a vow to myself. A vow carved deep into my bones.

I will never depend on a man. I will never rely on someone else to put a roof over my head or food on my plate. I will never allow myself to be placed in a position where I have to cower in a corner because someone else holds the purse strings.

And more importantly, I will never let a man own my body.

My virginity isn’t a moral stance, it’s a fortress. It is the one thing in this brutal world that belongs entirely, exclusively to me. It is untouched, unconquered territory. Men like Marco, men like my father, they view women as property. They view sex as a transaction of power. I refuse to play the game. I belong to Livia Marino, and absolutely no one else.

I finish counting the bills. Forty-two dollars.

I fold the money sharply, slipping it into the hidden pocket sewn inside the waistband of my jeans. I take a deep breath, smoothing my hands over my black uniform, forcing my spine to straighten.

The trembling stops. The armor slides back into place.

I push the swinging doors open and step back out onto the chaotic floor of The Neon Crow.