Page 34 of Claimed Through Deception

I am completely invisible to them. Caterina doesn't even glance at my face as I reach past her shoulder to fill her glass. To her, I am not a woman. I am a piece of moving furniture. I am the help.

I move to Niccolò.

I stand at his right side. I keep my chin lowered, my eyes fixed firmly on the stem of his empty crystal glass. I lift the heavy bottle.

I can feel him looking at me. The rest of the table fades into a dull buzz. I feel the tension radiating off his large frame. He is waiting for me to look up. He is waiting for my eyes to flick to his, to show him the hurt, the anger, the jealousy he knows should be there.

I don't.

I pour the wine. I step back. I turn on my heel and walk away, my face is a perfect, unreadable mask of blank indifference.

I retreat to the corner of the dining room, folding my hands over my white apron, and stand perfectly still.

The dinner lasts for two agonizing hours.

I stand in the shadows, forced to watch the reality of the class difference play out in front of me. I watch Caterina sip expensive wine, laughing lightly at something Alessio says. I watch her touch Niccolò’s arm. I watch the confidence she wears. She doesn't have to fight for her autonomy. She doesn't have to count crumpled dollar bills or scrub blood out of a bathtub. She was born to rule this world alongside a monster.

And me? I am the girl the monster bought out of a holding cell.

The realization cements my absolute disgust. Men with power do not save girls like me. They use us. They lock us in their houses, they strip our independence, and they use our bodies until they are bored, and then they discard us. My father used his fists. Niccolò uses his wealth. It is the exact same game, just played on a more expensive board.

I am nothing to him. A temporary plaything. A warm body to pass the time until the wedding invitations are sent.

"Clear the plates," Marta whispers harshly as she passes me.

I step forward. I gather the heavy porcelain plates, stacking them carefully onto the large silver tray. When I reach Niccolò’s place setting, I reach for his plate.

His hand shoots out, his large fingers clamping down on my wrist.

The contact sends a violent jolt of electricity straight up my arm. I freeze.

The conversation at the table doesn't stop. Don Roberto and Enzo are deep into a discussion about the docks. Caterina is looking at her phone. No one notices the Underboss gripping the maid’s wrist under the edge of the mahogany table.

His grip is bruising. I look at his hand, but I refuse to look at his face.

"Sir," I say quietly, my voice is devoid of emotion. "Your plate."

His fingers tighten for one fraction of a second, and then, he lets me go.

I pick up the plate, balance the heavy tray on my palms, and walk quickly out of the dining room.

I push through the heavy doors, bypassing the chaotic main kitchen, and take the service corridor that leads back toward the staff wing. I need a second. I need to put this tray down before my hands start shaking and I shatter thousands of dollars’ worth of porcelain.

The corridor is silent, lit only by small wall sconces.

I make it halfway down the hall when the heavy oak door connecting the service corridor to the main dining room swings open behind me.

I hear the heavy, unmistakable thud of his shoes on the runner rug.

My heart kicks violently against my ribs, but I don't stop walking. I quicken my pace.

He is faster.

A large hand grabs my shoulder, spinning me around with brutal force.

The silver tray tips, the plates sliding. Niccolò’s other hand catches the edge of the tray before it can crash to the floor. He yanks it out of my grip entirely and tosses it onto a nearby wooden credenza. The porcelain clatters loudly, but nothing breaks.

Before I can even draw a breath, he crowds me into the wall.