Page 65 of Claimed Through Deception

A scream lodges in my throat, choked by unmitigated horror.

Leo is lying in the mud.

He is unconscious, his body sprawled haphazardly across the wet grass. Blood streams from a vicious, jagged wound on the side of his head, mixing with the rain and turning the mud a sickly, rusted crimson. His tactical vest is soaked, his face is pale and completely still.

He didn't leave the gate open for me. He was incapacitated.

"Going somewhere, sweetheart?"

I freeze, my hands still clutching the iron bars. The world stops spinning. The freezing rain seems to suspend in mid-air.

From the pitch-black shadows of the street, a towering silhouette emerges.

Niccolò steps into the pale glow of the streetlamp. He is not across the city negotiating with the Irish. He is right here.

He wears a tailored black suit, completely indifferent to the torrential downpour soaking his clothes. The water runs down the harsh, unforgiving angles of his face, plastering his hair to his forehead. His expression is devoid of any warmth, any softness, any trace of the man who worshipped me in his bed. He stands there with the deadly, terrifying stillness of the grim reaper coming to collect a soul.

"You thought you could outsmart me in my own city?" he asks with so much chill that I shiver.

24

Niccolò

The rain lashes against the bulletproof glass of the Maybach, distorting the neon city lights into blurred, chaotic streaks of red and yellow. I sit in the back seat, staring at the encrypted tablet resting on my thighs. Beside me, Enzo pours a measure of scotch from the crystal decanter built into the console, his movements precise and unbothered by the erratic swerving of the vehicle on the slick roads.

"Alessio is at the warehouse," Enzo states, handing me the glass. "The Irish factions bought the decoy. They genuinely think you are sitting across the table from their lieutenants right now, discussing the southern harbor tariffs. It buys us exactly two hours before they realize the man wearing your coat is a fucking proxy."

I take the glass, the amber liquor burning a smooth trail down my throat. "Two hours is all I need."

Enzo watches me, his icy blue eyes assessing the rigid set of my jaw. "You wired the scullery door."

"I wired the whole servant wing," I correct him. "You warned me I was developing a blind spot. I eliminated it. When my woman handed a stack of stolen hundreds to a perimeter guard with a gambling problem, the audio feed routed directly to my secure server. She thought I was blind to the inner workings of my own house."

Enzo exhales a slow breath, shaking his head. He turns to look out the tinted window. "She is trying to run, Niccolò. You gave her the gardens, you gave her the run of the estate, and she uses the first crack in the armor to plot an escape. She doesn't want this life."

"She doesn't know what she wants," I snap, the crystal glass cracking slightly under the pressure of my grip. "She is terrified of the syndicate. She thinks if she runs far enough, the monsters won't follow her. She is wrong. The only place she is untouchable is right by my side."

The driver navigates the treacherous streets, turning onto the private access lane that leads to the northern boundary of the estate. The trees loom like towering sentinels in the storm, their branches thrashing against the wind in a violent display.

I knew she would choose the eastern service gate. Leo was stationed there, an easy mark for a desperate girl with a pocket full of cash. I arrived thirty minutes before the grandfather clock chimed midnight. I found Leo shivering near the iron bars, waiting to betray me for pocket change. He didn't even have time to reach for his weapon before I cracked the butt of my Smith & Wesson against his temple. He went down in the mud, unconscious and bleeding.

The car rolls to a silent stop fifty yards from the gate. I hand the glass back to Enzo, unbuttoning my suit jacket.

"Hold the perimeter," I instruct him, pushing the door open. "Nobody intervenes."

The freezing rain pelts against my face the second my boots hit the wet pavement. I walk through the shadows, the storm swallowing the sound of my approach. I stand on the opposite side of the wrought-iron gate, blending into the pitch-black night, waiting.

The iron hinges groan in protest. The gate swings outward, revealing the woman I would burn the world for.

Livia stands on the threshold, a worn canvas duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She wears a faded sweater and jeans, soaked to the bone. When her sneaker hits Leo's unconscious body, a scream lodges in her throat. She stumbles backward, her eyes wide with horror, clutching the iron bars like they are a lifeline.

"Going somewhere, sweetheart?"

She freezes, and I step into the pale glow of the streetlamp, letting her see the reality of her failed escape. I wear a tailored suit, completely indifferent to the torrential downpour soaking my clothes. The water runs down the harsh, unforgiving angles of my face. I hold a hunting knife, confiscated from Leo, letting it catch the meager light.

"You thought you could outsmart me in my own city?" I ask, my tone is devoid of any warmth, any softness.

I step over the bleeding guard and close the vast distance between us. The urge to shake her, to demand answers until my throat is raw, claws violently at my chest. I toss the knife into the mud. I reach out, wrapping my hands around her upper arms, and haul her away from the gate. Her sneakers slip in the slush, her chest crashing against mine.