Page 46 of Claimed Through Deception

He walks to the door, pulls it open, and steps out into the hallway.

He leaves me alone with the blood on my floor.

Four days pass. Ninety-six hours of silence.

The estate is on absolute lockdown. Armed guards patrol the hallways. The heavy iron gates remain shut. The air inside the house is heavy with the promise of retaliation from the Falco family.

I do not see Niccolò.

He isolates himself in his wing. Marta gives me my assignments, keeping me confined to the lower floors. I scrub the baseboards. I polish the silver. I try to lose myself in the physical labor, but my mind is a relentless, agonizing trap.

I cannot stop thinking about his mouth on mine. I cannot stop feeling the hard ridge of his arousal against my core.

The confusion is rotting me from the inside out.

I hate him. I hate the cage he put me in. I hate the violence he represents. But when I close my eyes, I ache for him. My body remembers the weight of his hands, the possessive claim in his voice. I am terrified of him, yet I am terrified of never feeling his touch again.

It is a sickness. I am becoming my mother. I am finding comfort in the shadow of a monster.

I wipe a rag across the kitchen counter with shaky hands.

If I stay here, I lose. I lose my soul. I lose my identity. The contract was for one year, but I won't survive a year. He will break me down, piece by piece, until I am nothing but a compliant shadow warming his bed. I will forget the bakery. I will forget the ocean.

I drop the rag.

I have to leave.

It doesn't matter that he owns the cops. It doesn't matter that I will go to prison. A federal cell is a physical cage. This house is a mental one. I would rather wear an orange jumpsuit for twenty years with my soul intact than wear silk dresses as a mafia boss’s plaything.

I wait for the clock to strike two in the morning.

The house is silent.

I pull my small, cheap canvas bag from the back of the closet. I pack my few belongings. Two faded t-shirts. A pair of jeans. My worn sneakers. I leave the black maid uniform folded on the mattress. I leave the expensive soaps and lotions untouched in the bathroom.

I sling the bag over my shoulder.

I crack the door open. The hallway is empty. The guards stick to the perimeter and the main entrances. There is a side door near the kitchens, a service exit that leads to the delivery driveway. If I can slip past the cameras and climb the stone wall near the north corner, I can disappear into the city.

I step out into the corridor. My sneakers make no sound on the runner rug.

My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I move through the shadows, bypassing the grand staircase, taking the narrow servant stairs down to the first floor.

I reach the kitchens. The stainless steel appliances gleam in the pale moonlight filtering through the windows.

I walk toward the heavy metal service door.

I reach out, my hand closing around the deadbolt.

"Going somewhere?"

The voice comes from the shadows.

I gasp, spinning around, my back hitting the cold metal door.

Niccolò sits in a dark corner of the kitchen. He is seated at the small wooden prep table. A glass of amber liquor rests in front of him. He is wearing dark trousers and a black shirt. He looks exhausted, the harsh angles of his face hollowed out by the lack of sleep.

I brace myself. I wait for the wrath. I wait for him to cross the room, rip the bag from my hands, and drag me down to the basement. I wait for the dictator to punish his prisoner for trying to escape.