Page 23 of Claimed Through Deception

She doesn't move. Her fingers dig into the white fabric of her apron.

"Livia. Look at me." The warning is heavier this time.

Slowly, her chin lifts. Her eyes meet mine, and the hatred burning in her irises is a physical strike to my chest. Good. I prefer her hatred to her terror. Hatred means she is still fighting.

"Come here," I say.

She hesitates, weighing her options, before her bare feet carry her across the Persian rug. She stops six feet away, keeping a safe distance between us.

I take a slow sip of my bourbon, letting the burn coat the back of my throat. I lower the glass.

"We are going to establish the boundaries of your new life," I state, my voice dropping into a cadence that leaves no room for negotiation. "Rule number one. You do not step foot outside the perimeter of this estate. If you cross the iron gates, the guards have orders to drag you back inside, and the consequences will be severe."

She swallows hard, her throat bobbing.

"Rule number two. You do not speak to my soldiers. You do not speak to the perimeter guards. You do not look at them, and they will not look at you. The only men you acknowledge in this house are myself, my brother, and Enzo."

"I am a maid," she says, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "How am I supposed to do my job if I can't look at anyone?"

"You are not their maid," I correct her smoothly. "You are my maid. You will clean my floor. You will organize my study. You will serve my meals personally. You do not lift a finger for another man under this roof."

Her chest rises and falls in sharp, jagged breaths. She is smart. She realizes exactly what this is. This isn't employment to pay off a debt. It is isolation.

"Are we clear?" I ask.

"Yes," she bites out.

"Yes, what?"

Her eyes flare. She knows what I am waiting for. I want the verbal submission. I want her to acknowledge the hierarchy.

"Yes, Don Niccolò," she whispers, the title tasting like poison on her tongue.

I step forward, closing the distance between us. She flinches, but she doesn't step back. I reach out, hooking a single finger under her chin to tilt her face up. Her skin is impossibly soft against my callous.

"Your shift begins at 6:00 AM," I murmur, staring down at her mouth. "Marta will show you to your room. It is down the hall. Two doors away from mine."

I drop my hand. I turn my back to her, dismissing her entirely, and stare into the dying embers of the fireplace. I hear the quiet, rapid sound of her bare feet retreating toward the door, followed by the heavy click of the latch.

The moment she is gone, I drain the rest of the bourbon. My blood is a roaring, volatile mess.

Three days pass.

Seventy-two hours of living with a ghost.

Livia is a silent phantom in my house. I gave Marta strict instructions regarding her schedule, but I did not instruct Marta on how to treat her. I let the natural hierarchy of the estate take over, and the result is exactly what I anticipated.

It is brutal.

I am standing on the second-floor balcony, looking down into the sprawling main kitchen. It is early morning. The house is waking up.

Livia is standing by the industrial sink, scrubbing a heavy cast-iron pan. She is wearing the uniform, her hair tied back, her hands raw and pink from the hot water.

Gia walks past her. The older maid doesn't just bump her shoulder; she aggressively slams into Livia, sending the heavy pan slipping from Livia’s wet grip. It clatters loudly against the stainless-steel sink. Soap and dirty water splash across the front of Livia’s white apron.

"Watch where you’re standing, street trash," Gia sneers.

Livia grips the edge of the sink. Her knuckles turn white. I can see the tension vibrating through her spine. The Livia who stood in the dive bar would have broken a glass over Gia’s head.