Page 33 of Claimed Through Deception

I picture Livia in that oversized maid uniform, carrying a silver tray, forced to stand in the corner of the dining room and watch me parade an arranged fiancée around the estate. I picture the humiliation it will cause her. I picture the staff whispering, reminding her that she is nothing but a temporary whore while the real Queen holds court.

My jaw clenches so hard my teeth grind together.

I slam my fist down into the water, sending a violent splash of pink foam over the edge of the marble tub.

I can't do it.

I don't care about the shipping routes. I don't care about the treaty with the Falco family or the millions of dollars tied to the alliance. I don't care about my father's wrath or the syndicate's traditions.

If Caterina Falco sets foot in this house and looks down at Livia, I will pull my gun and shoot the princess at the dinner table.

11

Livia

The main kitchen of the Severato estate is a war zone of clattering copper pots, hissing steam, and shouted Italian.

I stand perfectly still near the swinging doors, a heavy silver tray balanced on my palms. My black uniform is perfectly pressed. My white apron is tied tight enough to restrict my breathing. My hair is scraped back into a severe bun that pulls at my scalp.

"Posture, Livia," Marta snaps, walking past me with a critical glare. "You will serve the wine from the right. You will clear from the left. You will not make eye contact with the guests. You are a shadow. Understand?"

"Yes, Marta," I say emptily.

I am a shadow. I have been practicing for this all week. Ever since the conversation I overheard in the hallway, I have been fortifying the walls inside my head. I have poured cement over every chaotic, terrifying emotion Niccolò Severato woke up inside me. I am a maid. Nothing more. Not even washing him would change that.

"They are seated," a guard barks, stepping into the kitchen.

Marta points a sharp finger at me. "Go."

I push through the swinging doors, stepping out of the chaos of the kitchen and into the suffocating, opulent silence of the formal dining room.

The room is a cavern of dark mahogany, blood-red velvet drapes, and gold accents. A massive crystal chandelier hangs over a dining table long enough to seat twenty people. Tonight, there are only six.

Don Roberto sits at the head of the table. He is an older, terrifyingly still man with cold eyes and a cruel mouth. Enzo sits to his right, Alessio is slumped casually in his chair, swirling a glass of scotch, looking bored by the entire affair.

And at the opposite end of the table sits Niccolò.

He is wearing a tailored black tuxedo that fits his massive frame with perfection. The white of his dress shirt emphasizes the angles of his jaw and the obsidian black of his eyes. He looks exactly like what he is, a king holding court.

But it isn't Niccolò who steals the air from my lungs. It is the woman sitting directly beside him.

Caterina Falco.

She is breathtaking. She is a creature carved from old money, ruthless breeding, and untouchable privilege. Her dark hair falls in perfect, glossy waves over her shoulders. She wears a slip of emerald-green silk that clings to every flawless curve of her body. Diamonds glitter at her throat, catching the light of the chandelier.

As I walk silently around the perimeter of the room, Caterina leans into Niccolò’s space. She murmurs something close to his ear, her manicured hand resting possessively, on the dark fabric of his thigh.

A sharp, violent pain tears through my chest. I force my eyes away. I look at the crystal wine glasses. I look at the folded linen napkins. I look at anything but the way his arm rests behind her chair.

I step up to Don Roberto first, pouring the dark red wine into his glass. My hands do not shake. I do not spill a single drop.

"The shipping routes through the harbor belong to us," Don Roberto is saying. "With the Falco territory secured to the north, the Irish are effectively suffocated."

"My father agrees," Caterina says smoothly. Her voice is like velvet. "The union secures the borders. It’s good business."

A union. A marriage. A business transaction worth millions of dollars and countless human lives.

I move down the table, pouring the wine for Enzo, then Alessio.