Page 22 of Claimed Through Deception

He is still on his knees. His dark, obsidian eyes lock onto mine. He sees the way my shoulders are hunched. He sees the way I am still bracing for a physical blow. He reads the paralyzing terror radiating off my body.

His jaw clenches so hard a muscle jumps beneath the stubble on his cheek.

He realizes exactly what I just did. He knows it wasn't an accident.

"I am not him," Niccolò says.

The words are spoken with softness.

He slowly stands up, his towering frame casting a long shadow over me. He steps closer, stopping when the toes of his expensive shoes brush against my bare feet.

"Listen to me very carefully," he murmurs, his eyes burning into mine with an intensity that steals the oxygen from the room. "I will burn this entire city to ash before I ever raise a hand to you. I will cut my own hands off before they ever leave a bruise that you don’t want on your skin."

I am shaken.

The certainty that all powerful men are exactly like my father fracture. He is a monster to the rest of the world. He pins men to bar floors and presses blades to their skin. He uses his wealth to obliterate lives.

But right now, standing in the ruins of a thousand-dollar crystal decanter, he is looking at me like I am something sacred.

A soft knock sounds at the double doors of the suite.

Niccolò breaks our eye contact, the harsh, violent lines of his face snapping back into place. He turns toward the door.

"Come in," he barks.

The door opens. Marta stands in the threshold, her eyes dropping to the shattered glass and spilled liquor on the floor. She doesn't react. She simply extends her arm, holding a neatly folded stack of black and white fabric.

"The uniform, Don Niccolò," she says evenly.

Niccolò walks over, takes the clothes from her hands, and kicks the door shut in her face.

He walks back to me and presses the folded uniform against my chest. My numb hands automatically come up to grip the fabric.

"The bathroom is through that door," he says, gesturing toward the far side of the room. His voice is back to its cold, commanding pitch, the vulnerability from seconds ago is completely gone. "Put it on, Livia. And then come back out here. We have rules to discuss."

8

Niccolò

The lock on the bathroom door clicks.

I am standing by the stone fireplace, a fresh glass of bourbon in my hand, watching the heavy oak door swing inward.

Livia steps out.

The air in my lungs evaporates.

Marta is an efficient woman. She pulled the smallest uniform she could find from the staff quarters, but it still hangs slightly loose on Livia’s delicate frame. It is a standard issue black dress that hits just above her knees, with a crisp white apron tied around her waist and a high white collar. It is modest. It is designed to make the wearer invisible.

On her, it is a fucking sin.

The stark black-and-white fabric contrasts sharply with her pale skin. Her dark hair is pulled back, exposing the elegant, vulnerable line of her neck. She stands frozen by the doorframe, her bare feet sinking into the rug, her arms wrapped defensively around her middle. She looks like a captive. She looks exactly like what she is.

Mine.

She refuses to look at my face. Her eyes are glued to the floorboards, her jaw clamped so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath her skin. The humiliation radiates from her in waves.

"Look at me," I command.