Page 73 of Claimed Through Deception

The attackers planted a breaching charge. The formidable oak doors to the master suite are violently blown off their reinforced hinges, sending jagged splinters of wood flying across the corridor.

"Livia!" I roar, a sound torn from the very bottom of my soul.

I sprint through the smoke, leaping over the splintered remains of the doors, and burst into the bedroom.

The suite is a chaotic mess of ruined furniture and shattered glass. The bay windows are completely blown out, the freezing storm pouring into the room, whipping the torn silk curtains into a frantic frenzy.

Through the haze of the smoke, my eyes scan the wreckage, searching desperately for the crimson silk.

I spot her.

Livia is backed into the far corner of the room, trapped near the ruins of the vanity. She holds a heavy brass lamp clutched in her hands like a makeshift club, her knuckles are white, her eyes are wide with terror. The crimson slip is covered in gray dust, her breathing is erratic as she presses her spine against the wall, trying to shield the tiny life growing inside her stomach.

Standing a mere ten feet away from her, a Falco hitman raises a silenced pistol. He ignores the jewels scattered on the floor. His orders are clear, and he aligns the sights of his weapon squarely on her pregnant stomach.

29

Livia

The concussive force of the explosion drowns out the howling wind and the freezing rain whipping through the shattered bay windows. My opulent sanctuary has been reduced to a literal war zone in a matter of seconds. Plaster dust chokes my lungs, settling like gray snow over the crimson silk slip I wore specifically to seduce the man who locked me in here. Now, that same locked oak door lies in jagged, smoking splinters across the Persian rug, blown completely off its reinforced hinges by the mercenaries flooding our home. The sheer kinetic impact of the blast threw me backward, my knees bruising against the marble tiles, but the adrenaline spiking through my veins masks the pain completely.

I scramble to my feet, my hands immediately flying to my flat stomach. I push myself into the furthest corner of the suite, my bare feet crunching over scattered diamonds and broken glass. I scan the wreckage, my eyes stinging from the acrid, sulfuric smoke billowing in from the hallway.

A silhouette emerges through the haze. He is wearing unmarked tactical gear, his face obscured by a black balaclava, and he moves with a chilling, mechanized efficiency. He kicks a piece of the ruined mahogany vanity out of his path, his thick combat boots grinding my discarded jewelry into the floorboards, ignoring the vast wealth littering the room. He isn't a thief looking to capitalize on the chaos. He is an assassin.

My gaze darts frantically around the ruined suite, landing on the formidable bronze lamp that survived the blast near the overturned nightstand. I lunge for it, my fingers wrapping tightly around the cold, unforgiving metal base. It strains my wrists, but I lift it like a club, positioning the thick bronze directly in front of my womb as a makeshift shield. I am shaking so violently my teeth rattle together, but the panic that used to govern my life is nowhere to be found.

"Drop the lamp, bitch," the hitman barks, his voice is muffled by the thick fabric of his mask as he aligns the sights of his silenced pistol squarely with my torso. "Make this easy on yourself. You are not the target we came for, but Don Falco wants the entire board wiped clean. Put the weapon down."

"Go to hell," I spit back, my voice completely unrecognizable even to my own ears. The sound is ragged, venomous, and dripping with an defiance. I shift my weight, bracing my bare feet against the slick floor, preparing to swing the bronze fixture at his skull the second he steps within striking distance. I will not cower in the corner. I will not beg for mercy from a man who came here to butcher my unborn child. If he wants to end my life, he is going to have to fight me for every single breath.

The mercenary sneers, his finger tightens on the trigger. He takes a calculated step forward, closing the distance, when the sound of frantic, chaotic gunfire erupts right outside the splintered doorway. The hitman flinches, his weapon wavering for a fraction of a second, and that brief pause shifts the axis of the universe.

A guttural, earth-shattering roar eclipses the blaring security alarms. Niccolò bursts through the smoking ruins of the doorway like a vengeful god ripped straight from a nightmare. He is covered in gray dust and the blood of the men he slaughtered to reach this wing. His obsidian eyes burn with a homicidal madness that sucks the remaining oxygen right out of the room.

The hitman spins around in shock. Recognizing the lethal Underboss of the Severato syndicate, the mercenary realizes the immediate threat has shifted. He swings the barrel of his pistol away from my stomach and aims it directly at Niccolò's chest.

He registers the trajectory of the weapon, he registers my vulnerable position trapped against the wall behind the shooter's line of sight, and he makes a split-second calculation.

He doesn't dive for the ruined vanity or the overturned mattress. He lunges straight into the open space, throwing his massive body squarely into the line of fire. He stretches his broad shoulders, maximizing his physical footprint to create a good distraction from my stomach.

The silenced pistol spits a muted, deadly crack.

The sound of the hollow-point bullet tearing through Niccolò's chest is a sickening, wet thud that stops my heart dead in my chest. His body jerks violently backward from the kinetic impact, a spray of crimson mist painting the plaster dust suspended in the air.

I scream his name, the sound tearing my vocal cords, but the injury barely slows his momentum. He doesn't even stumble. Operating on adrenaline, Niccolò raises his own weapon and pulls the trigger. The explosion of his gun is deafening inside the enclosed suite. He fires three consecutive shots in cadence. The bullets hit the mercenary with accuracy, shredding the tactical vest and snapping the man's neck backward. The hitman collapses to the ruined floorboards like a discarded puppet, his weapon clattering harmlessly against the baseboards.

The immediate threat neutralized, the violent, unhinged energy fueling Niccolò evaporates in an instant. The gun slips from his trembling fingers, hitting the Persian rug with a dull thud. He stands there for a suspended, agonizing second, his chest heaving, his eyes locking onto mine to verify that the baby and I are still breathing. He manages a single, ragged exhale, and then his knees buckle. He crashes to the marble floor, his massive frame collapsing into a rapidly expanding pool of his own blood.

The bronze lamp slips from my numb fingers, rolling across the floor as I drop to my knees beside him. The freezing rain whips through the shattered windows, soaking our skin and plastering my hair to my face, but the only thing I feel is the hot, sticky crimson pouring from the gunshot wound situated dangerously close to his heart. The pristine white cotton of his shirt is ruined.

"Niccolò!" I sob, pressing both of my hands frantically against his chest, trying to stem the catastrophic flow of blood. The slick warmth coats my palms, seeping between my fingers. "Look at me! Keep your eyes open, damn it, look at me!"

His eyelids flutter, struggling against the encroaching unconsciousness. He reaches up with a trembling, bloodstained hand, his fingers clumsily tracing the curve of my jawline, smearing crimson across my skin. "Livia," he rasps, a wet cough rattling low in his chest, sending a fresh wave of blood spilling over my hands. "Are you... the baby..."

"We are fine, we are completely fine, because you shielded us," I weep, leaning my forehead against his as frantic sobs wrack my frame. "You took the bullet for us. You stupid, beautiful, reckless man, why did you do that?"

"My queen," he breathes, the corners of his mouth tipping up in a faint, agonizingly peaceful smile. His hand falls away from my face, hitting the marble with a sickening finality. His eyes roll back, and his entire body goes completely limp beneath my hands, the terrifying stillness of a man slipping away from the world.