Page 79 of Claimed Through Deception

I catch her waist, lifting her off the floor as our lips crash together in a starving kiss.

33

Livia

Four months bleed away, and I am standing in the center of the kitchen, resting one hand on the massive swell of my stomach while using the other to steal a warm biscotti off the cooling rack. At nearly nine months pregnant, I waddle more than I walk, and the physical toll of carrying the Severato heir makes my lower back ache with a relentless throb. Yet, despite the physical discomfort, I feel tranquil.

Marta wipes down the stainless steel counters, pausing to slide an entire plate of the almond cookies toward me. She doesn't glare. She doesn't snap. The older woman offers a warm, genuine smile that reaches the corners of her eyes, a radical departure from the terrified, rigid obedience she displayed half a year ago.

"You need the calories, Lady Livia," Marta insists, pouring a glass of iced lemon water and setting it beside the plate. "Dr. Evans says the baby is growing rapidly. You should sit before your ankles swell again."

"If I sit down in that plush armchair in the parlor, I will not be able to get back up without a crane," I laugh, taking a bite of the biscotti.

The staff no longer treats me like a fragile glass doll destined to shatter, nor do they view me as a civilian intruder. The shift happened gradually. When Niccolò returned to the estate with his chest bandaged and my ring on my finger, I refused to hide in the master wing. I sat in on the syndicate dinners. I forced the Capos to realize I possessed a functioning brain, and I systematically smoothed the jagged, lethal edges of the Don's wrath. He still rules with a brutal, uncompromising fist, but he listens to my counsel, and that shared power forged a genuine reverence among the people working inside these walls.

The kitchen door swings inward, admitting the towering, suited frame of my husband. Niccolò shrugs off his tailored jacket, handing it to a waiting guard in the corridor, before his midnight eyes lock onto mine. He crosses the kitchen in three massive strides, completely ignoring Marta and the bustling prep cooks, and wraps his arms around my waist. He pulls my back flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of my neck.

"You smell like sugar and vanilla," he murmurs against my skin, his hands splaying protectively over the monumental curve of my womb.

"And you are home early," I point out, leaning back into his solid warmth. "Enzo mentioned a logistical issue at the southern ports this morning. I figured you would be tied up in the war room until dinner."

"Enzo can handle the shipping logs," Niccolò replies, pressing a kiss to my pulse point before turning me around to face him. He reaches up, wiping a stray smudge of flour from my cheek with his thumb. "I cleared my schedule for the rest of the afternoon. We are going for a ride."

"A ride?" I raise an eyebrow, glancing down at my swollen stomach. "Niccolò, I can barely fit behind the dashboard of the Maybach, and the baby has been using my bladder as a punching bag all morning. I am not really in the mood for a road trip."

"It isn't syndicate business," he promises, his lips curving into a wicked, secretive smirk that makes my pulse flutter. "Indulge me, Livia. I swear it will be worth the discomfort."

He refuses to answer a single question during the forty-minute drive. The armored SUV passes the winding, coastal highways leading away from the suffocating concrete of the city. The scent of the Atlantic Ocean filters through the air conditioning vents, crisp and salty. I watch the coastline blur past the tinted windows, resting my hand over my stomach as the baby executes a series of sharp, rolling kicks against my ribs.

The vehicle pulls onto a private, gravel driveway, the tires crunching to a halt. Before I can unbuckle my seatbelt, Niccolò reaches across the leather console, a strip of midnight silk dangling from his fingers.

"What is that?" I ask, batting his hand away.

"It is a blindfold," he answers smoothly, catching my wrists and pinning them effortlessly with one hand. "Turn around, sweetheart. You are ruining the surprise."

"I hate surprises, and I am too pregnant for games," I grumble, but I comply anyway, turning my back to him.

He slides the cool silk over my eyes, tying it securely at the base of my skull. Total blackness consumes my vision, enhancing my other senses. I hear the car door open, feeling the humid ocean breeze wash over my face, before his large hands grasp my waist to help me step down onto the pavement. He guides me forward, his arm wrapped securely around my shoulders, leading me up a short flight of wooden stairs. A key jingles. A door unlocks, swinging open with a welcoming creak.

The unmistakable, intoxicating aroma of roasted espresso, toasted almonds, and fresh yeast hits my nose, instantly transporting me back to the tiny, cramped kitchens of my childhood where I used to bake bread to escape the shouting.

"Okay," Niccolò murmurs, his chest brushing against my back. "Take it off."

I reach up, pulling the knot loose and letting the silk fall to the floor. I blink against the sudden influx of natural sunlight streaming through massive, floor-to-ceiling windows.

We are standing inside a sprawling, impeccably renovated bakery. The walls are painted a pristine, soothing cream, accented with exposed brick and natural wood shelving. Gleaming glass display cases line the front counter, empty but waiting to be filled, while state-of-the-art industrial ovens and stainless steel prep stations dominate the expansive open-concept kitchen in the back. Beyond the massive windows, the Atlantic ocean crashes against the rocky shoreline, offering a breathtaking, unobstructed view of the water.

I stand frozen in the center of the terracotta tile floor, my brain struggling to process the visual.

Niccolò reaches into his pocket, pulling out a folded piece of thick parchment paper. He places it gently into my trembling hands.

I unfold the document. It is a commercial deed, listing the property, the structure, and the surrounding land. On the bottom line, authorized and finalized by the city, is my name. Livia Mirano Severato.

"You built this," I whisper, my vocal cords constricting as tears blur my vision.

"I know you’ve always wanted a place of your own, a bakery by the water where you could make your own rules. I bought the property months ago. I had the contractors working around the clock to finish the renovations before the baby arrives" he says, stepping around to face me.

He didn't just hand me a credit card to placate me. He didn't lock me in a tower with a pile of diamonds. He listened to the fragile, buried dream I barely dared to speak out loud, and he used his power to forge it into a tangible reality.