Page 69 of Claimed Through Deception

My eyes trace the delicate curve of her cheekbone, the slight part of her swollen lips, and the gentle, rhythmic rise and fall of her chest beneath the thin fabric of her nightgown. She looks so incredibly fragile lying in the center of my world, a civilian trapped in the crosshairs of a mafia empire, carrying a child that will inherit a kingdom built on extortion and fear. I am the villain in her story, the warden who locked the gates and swallowed the key, yet the fierce, possessive love expanding in my chest feels more real than anything I have ever experienced.

I slowly lower my frame, kneeling on the rug beside the bed to bring my face level with hers. The familiar, intoxicating scent of vanilla and warm skin envelops my senses, a potent drug that instantly soothes the agitation in my veins.

My hand moves entirely on its own accord. I reach out, my fingers trembling as I hover mere millimeters above the soft skin of her cheek. The overwhelming urge to brush the hair from her face, to pull her flush against my chest and bury my face in her neck, wages a violent war against my ironclad discipline. I want to wake her up. I want to beg for her forgiveness and demand her surrender in the same breath.

But I force my hand to stop.

I curl my fingers into a tight fist, the nails biting into my palm, and pull my arm back. She established her boundary in the freezing rain, and until she is ready to invite the monster back into her bed, I will respect the distance she requires to feel safe.

I lean forward, closing my eyes as I rest my forehead against the edge of the mattress, inches from her sleeping form.

"Ti amo, mia regina," I whisper into the quiet room. I love you, my queen. "Sei la luce nel mio inferno. Ti proteggerò sempre, anche da me stesso." You are the light in my hell. I will always protect you, even from myself.

Livia sighs in her sleep, a soft, content sound, and shifts closer to the edge of the bed, her hand falling open on the sheets mere inches from my own. The unconscious movement sends a jolt of liquid heat straight to my core, a cruel reminder of exactly what I am denying myself.

I stay kneeling on the floor for a long time, watching the steady rhythm of her breathing, memorizing the peaceful curve of her mouth. I commit the picture to memory, storing it away to combat the demons waiting for me outside this room. When the first faint traces of dawn begin to bleed through the windowpanes, threatening to expose my presence, I finally force myself to stand up.

I walk backward toward the oak doors, my eyes locked on her sleeping figure until the very last second. I step out into the cold corridor, pulling the door shut and sliding the key back into the brass lock with a definitive click. The separation is a consequence of my own destructive nature, but I will endure the purgatory for as long as it takes. She is carrying my world inside her womb, and I will gladly stand guard outside her door for the rest of my miserable life if it means she never has to fear the shadows again.

27

Livia

I was awake when the brass lock clicked open at three in the morning. I heard the faint, metallic scrape of the key sliding into the mechanism, and I immediately forced my breathing into a slow, even rhythm. I played the part of the oblivious captive because I had no idea what kind of monster was walking through the door. I expected wrath. I expected the ruthless, cold enforcer who dragged me through the freezing mud to stand over my bed and demand answers for my betrayal.

Instead, I got a broken man falling to his knees on the Persian rug.

I felt the heat of his skin when he leaned over the mattress, his breath ghosting across my cheek in a fractured exhale. I kept my eyes shut, every muscle in my body locking tight, as I listened to the lethal Underboss of the Severato syndicate whisper his shattered heart into the quiet room. My Italian is far from flawless, but I know exactly what ti amo, mia regina means. I know what a vow sounds like when it is ripped from a man's bleeding soul. He knelt beside my bed, condemning himself to a life of agonizing separation, convinced he was a plague that would inevitably infect the child growing inside my womb.

The morning sun spills across the pristine white linens, illuminating an empty room that feels more like a mausoleum than a sanctuary. I push myself up against the carved wooden headboard, running a trembling hand through my tangled hair, and make a silent, unflinching vow of my own. I refuse to be a ghost haunting the corridors of this mansion, and I refuse to let the father of my baby martyr himself on an altar of misguided guilt.

I throw the silk sheets aside, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet as I march into the massive walk-in closet. I bypass the modest jeans and the comfortable oversized sweaters I have been hiding in for the past week. I push the hangers down the rack until I find the crimson silk slip he bought for me last month. It is a scandalous, fluid piece of fabric that clings to every curve, suspended by two fragile straps and plunging low across the chest. I strip off my cotton nightgown, take a quick shower, and slide the crimson silk over my skin, the cool material settling against my hips like a second skin.

I do not bother with makeup, and I leave my raven hair falling in a chaotic, untamed mess down my back. I am not dressing up to play a pristine, porcelain doll. I am dressing for a war, and my body is the most lethal weapon I possess in this particular battleground.

But I am still locked inside.

I pace the length of the bedroom, my mind calculating the logistics of the estate. Niccolò holds the master key, but he is not the only person who requires access to this room. Marta arrives precisely at eight o'clock every single morning to deliver my breakfast, accompanied by the rotation of the perimeter guards in the hallway.

I walk over to the oak doors and press my ear against the wood. I hear the muffled, gruff voices of the security detail as they change shifts. A few minutes later, the distinct, rhythmic clatter of a silver tray approaching down the corridor reaches my ears.

I step back, untying the thick wool cardigan I threw over my shoulders and letting it drop to the floor. I stand in the center of the threshold, clad only in the clinging crimson silk.

The mechanism rattles. The lock disengages with a sharp click.

Marta pushes the door inward, balancing the laden silver tray on one arm. "Miss Livia, I brought your—"

I do not give her a chance to finish the sentence. I surge forward, sliding through the narrow gap before she can fully swing the wood open. Marta gasps, stumbling backward to keep the china plates from crashing to the floor, her eyes widening in shock.

The two massive guards stationed in the corridor immediately step forward to block my path.

"Miss," the taller one barks, raising a thick hand. "The Don left strict instructions. You cannot leave this wing."

I do not slow down, and I do not retreat. I simply square my shoulders and walk directly toward them, letting the ambient light of the hallway illuminate the sheer, unforgiving cut of the crimson slip.

The guards freeze. A violent, visible panic overtakes their features as their brains process the reality of the situation. I am the Don's woman, carrying the syndicate's heir, and I am standing in front of them practically naked. In their world, looking at me is a severe violation, touching my bare skin to force me back into the room is a guaranteed death sentence.

"Move," I command, my voice ringing with authority I didn't know I possessed.