Page 20 of Claimed Through Deception

I don't need to be a mind reader to know exactly what she is thinking. I am a half-naked girl brought in from the streets in the middle of the night by the boss. To her, I am a cheap whore. I am trash who traded her body to stay out of a prison cell.

Great, I am walking into a hateful viper nest.

"Marta, have a uniform brought to my quarters," Niccolò orders.

"Right away, sir," Marta replies.

Niccolò doesn't introduce me to them. He doesn't tell them my name. He simply nudges my spine again, steering me away from the staff and toward the grand staircase.

Every step I take up the mahogany stairs feels like climbing the steps to the gallows. The higher we go, the further away I get from the front doors.

We reach the second floor. It is a long corridor lined with heavy oak doors. It is completely isolated from the rest of the house.

Panic begins to claw its way back up my throat.

"Wait," I say, stopping in the middle of the hallway. I turn to face him. I cross my arms tightly over my chest, trying to maintain some shred of dignity. "I need a phone."

Niccolò stops and looks down at me. "You don't need a phone."

"I do," I argue, my voice rising in desperation. "Sofia is expecting me to cover her shift tomorrow. When I don't show up, when I don't answer my door, she is going to panic. She will call the police."

"The police won't care," Niccolò states coldly. "The twelfth precinct already processed your paperwork. As far as the system is concerned, you skipped town to avoid a trafficking charge."

The breath leaves my lungs. He really did seal every single exit.

"I just need to tell her I am alive," I beg. "I won't tell her where I am. I won't say your name. Just let me send her one text."

Niccolò steps into my space. He towers over me, his broad shoulders blocking out the ambient light of the hallway.

"No."

"Why?" I demand, a hot tear of frustration burning the corner of my eye.

"Because you are mine now," he says softly, the possessive edge in his voice making my skin prickle. "And liberties in this house are not a right, Livia. They are earned. Right now, you haven't earned anything."

He reaches past me, turning the brass handle of a massive double door. He pushes it open and steps aside.

"Inside," he commands.

I swallow the argument sitting bitter on my tongue. I have no leverage. I have no power.

I walk through the doors into his private quarters.

The master suite is enormous. It smells strongly of his bergamot cologne and woodsmoke. There is a massive, king-sized bed dominating the center of the room, covered in dark silk sheets. A stone fireplace spans an entire wall, the embers currently glowing a dull orange. To the left is an open archway leading into a sprawling private study, lined with books and a heavy mahogany desk.

I stand awkwardly in the center of the Persian rug, my bare feet sinking into the plush material.

Niccolò walks past me. He sheds his suit jacket, tossing it carelessly over the back of a leather armchair. He rolls up the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt, exposing thick forearms corded with muscle and completely covered in dark, chaotic tattoos.

He walks into the study and stops in front of a crystal liquor cabinet.

"Come here," he says, his back to me.

I hesitate, but my bare feet move across the rug. I stop at the edge of the study.

"Pour me a drink," he orders, gesturing to a heavy crystal decanter filled with amber liquid. "Bourbon. Neat."

I stare at his broad back. I look at the thick, brutal muscle shifting beneath his shirt.