Page 63 of Claimed Through Deception

"Cut the bullshit," I snarl, throwing my pen onto the mahogany wood and surging to my feet. I stalk around the edge of the desk, backing her up against the towering shelves until my chest brushes against her soft curves. "You have been treating me like a stranger for weeks. You flinch when I touch you, you stare at the walls when I fuck you, and you look at my guards like they are going to put a bullet in your head. What is going on in that stubborn head of yours?"

"You surrounded me with armed men inside the house!" she scoffs. "I can't walk to the kitchen without two mobsters staring at my back. You promised me freedom, and then you strapped a fucking leash around my neck because you can't stand the thought of me breathing without your permission!"

"I put those men there to keep you alive!" I roar right back, grabbing her waist to haul her flush against my body. "The Falcos want to butcher my entire family, and you are the most glaring vulnerability I possess. Do you think I want to watch you pace the greenhouse like a caged bird? I am trying to stop my enemies from sending you back to me in fucking pieces!"

"I am not your vulnerability!" she screams, shoving her hands against my chest in a futile attempt to break my iron grip. "I am just a girl you bought out of a jail cell! If they want to hurt you, they will aim for your syndicate, not the maid you fuck on the side!"

The insult obliterates the last shred of my sanity.

I grip the back of her thighs, lifting her completely off the floor, and carry her the few steps to my massive mahogany desk. I sweep my arm across the surface, sending files, crystal tumblers, and brass paperweights crashing to the hardwood floor, before slamming her down onto the polished wood. She gasps, her legs instinctively wrapping around my hips as I crowd into the V of her thighs, pinning her wrists to the desk above her head with one massive hand.

"You are going to stop calling yourself a maid," I growl, leaning down until my mouth is hovering a fraction of an inch from her swollen lips. "You are my woman. You are the only fucking thing in this miserable world that matters to me, and I will rip out the throat of any man who tries to tell you otherwise."

Livia’s chest heaves beneath her silk robe, her brown eyes are wide and swimming with a chaotic mix of terror and feral lust. We are both operating on adrenaline, using the explosive physical connection to mask the paralyzing fears tearing us apart from the inside. She hates the cage I put her in, and I am terrified that the woman I love is slipping away from me, so we do the only thing we know how to do. We fuck.

"Then prove it," she challenges, her voice a breathless, venomous whisper that shoots a spike of liquid fire straight to my groin. "Show me I'm yours."

I tear the silk robe off her shoulders, tossing the expensive fabric onto the ruined floor, and drag her cotton shorts down her legs with impatient efficiency. She is already slick, her body weeping for the aggressive dominance she claims to hate, and the sight of her wet, swollen pussy shatters my control. I undo my trousers, freeing my aching length, and drive into her tight, slick heat with a savage, unrelenting thrust that forces a beautiful, high-pitched scream from her throat.

I don't give her a chance to recover, and set a punishing pace that shakes the mahogany desk against the floorboards. Livia thrashes beneath me, her nails biting viciously into the muscles of my back as she arches her spine, chasing the ruthless friction with a desperate hunger that matches my own. We are completely unhinged, trading biting kisses and bruised lips, punishing each other for the emotional chasm growing between us.

"Tell me you belong to me," I command, my thumb finding the swollen bundle of nerves at her center, pressing hard to push her over the precipice.

"I'm yours, I'm yours, please, Niccolò," she sobs uncontrollably, her hips bucking wildly against my hand.

She sobs and shatters with a magnificent, helpless cry, her inner muscles clamping around my cock with agonizing force. The intense sensation tips me right over the edge, and I roar her name, emptying my release inside her with a violent, shuddering climax that leaves us both gasping for oxygen in the study. I collapse over her chest, burying my face in her fragrant hair, pretending that the explosive sex fixed the broken pieces of our relationship, even as I feel her slowly retreating back behind her impenetrable walls.

Fuck!

23

Livia

The explosive encounter on his mahogany desk fixed absolutely nothing. If anything, the savage intimacy only illuminated the invisible bars of my cage with blinding clarity. I woke up this morning with faint bruises on my hips and the crushing realization that my body is a traitor to my own survival. I cannot trust my own skin when he touches me. When Niccolò puts his hands on me, my willpower crumbles into fine dust, which means I have to remove myself from his reach before I lose my mind completely.

I am not a maid anymore. Niccolò burned my uniform to ash and explicitly ordered the staff to treat me as the Lady of the house.

But right now, I am standing in the sprawling kitchen, polishing a set of heavy silver goblets until my knuckles ache.

I do it for two reasons. First, the mindless, repetitive friction of the cloth against the metal is the only thing keeping me from having a full-blown panic attack about the baby growing inside me. Second, and more importantly, it is the perfect camouflage.

The two massive guards Niccolò assigned to shadow my every move are standing just outside the kitchen archway. If I sit in the master suite, they stare at me. But by inserting myself into the chaos of the staff preparing for the evening meals, I become part of the background. It gives me a legitimate excuse to linger near the scullery, right by the rear service doors.

Marta hovers nearby, her hawk-like gaze scrutinizing every motion of my hands. She hates that I am here, dressed in my own jeans and a sweater instead of a uniform, but she doesn't dare tell the Don's obsession to leave her kitchen.

"You missed a spot on the base of that goblet, Livia," Marta snaps, her voice ringing off the stainless steel appliances. It is a petty, spiteful correction, a desperate attempt to maintain her authority over me.

"I'll fix it, Marta," I say quietly, wiping the cloth over the silver again. I don't argue with her, fighting the staff is a useless expenditure of energy I desperately need to conserve for tonight.

As I stack the polished goblets onto a tray, Enzo and Alessio stroll into the adjoining dining room. Their voices carry easily through the open archway, completely oblivious to me working quietly in the corner.

"He won't be back until dawn," Enzo says, the clink of a scotch glass echoing off the walls. "The Irish factions are stalling the negotiations, and Niccolò is dragging it out to make them sweat. He told us to hold the perimeter here and make sure the grounds are secure."

"Fucking typical," Alessio grumbles, the sound of a chair scraping against the hardwood following his complaint. "He gets to play executioner across the city while we sit on our hands babysitting a fortress."

My heart kicks a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

He is gone. The monster is across the city, distracted by his own violent politics, and he will not return before sunrise. It is the window I have been praying for. The singular gap in his impenetrable armor.