Page 22 of Ruined Through Obsession

"Fuck yes," he growls, his teeth scraping over my collarbone, biting the sensitive skin hard enough to leave a fresh mark.

The violence of our plan acts as a blistering aphrodisiac, a potent cocktail of adrenaline and lust that makes my entire body flush with heat. Enzo unfastens my jeans, his knuckles brushing against my soaking center as he strips the denim down my legs, tossing the garments carelessly onto the floor. I reach for the towel wrapped around his waist, pulling the terrycloth away to free his thick, rigid erection.

He does not bother with the slow, teasing buildup we shared before. We are warlords preparing for a slaughter, and our bodies demand a much rougher release. He grips my hips, aligning us perfectly, and drives himself inside my wet, aching entrance with a singular thrust that steals the oxygen straight from my lungs.

A loud, shameless moan rips from my throat, echoing off the peeling plaster walls as my muscles clamp down around his impressive girth.

"You feel so fucking good," Enzo rasps, his chest plastered against mine, his icy eyes blazing with a starving fire. "You are my brilliant, wicked queen."

He starts to fuck me with a wet, filthy rhythm that makes the wooden table groan in protest beneath us. I wrap my legs tightly around his waist, locking my ankles together to anchor him flush against my body, riding the chaotic wave of pleasure building in my lower belly.

I reach down, my fingers digging into his muscular glutes, pulling him deeper inside me with every violent thrust. "Harder, Enzo," I demand in a broken, breathy plea. "Do not hold back."

He grants my request with a ruthless enthusiasm, his thrusts turning into a brutal, claiming assault that sends stars exploding across my vision. He leans down, capturing my mouth in another kiss, his tongue mimicking the relentless, driving motion of his hips. I suck his tongue, my hands clutching his hair, matching his feral energy as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter in my gut.

"You belong to me," he murmurs filthy praises directly against my ear, his hot breath fanning across my damp skin. "Every brilliant, treacherous thought in that beautiful head belongs to me. I am going to slaughter that bastard, and then I am going to put a crown on your head that the entire world will respect."

The dirty, encouraging words combined with the sweet fucking push me right over the precipice. I shatter brilliantly around him, my body convulsing with force, sobbing his name as a blinding climax rips through my veins. Enzo groans, a guttural, strained sound tearing from his chest as he chases my release, driving into me three more times before emptying his hot seed deep inside my pussy.

He collapses against me, the ragged sounds of our breathing filling the room as the blistering high slowly begins to recede.

Eventually, Enzo pulls back just enough to look at my face, his thumb swiping across my kiss-swollen lower lip. He studies me, the protective Consigliere merging flawlessly with the man who trusts my intellect implicitly.

"We are going to need a secure communication line," Enzo states, his pragmatic nature resurfacing as he traces the line of my jaw. "If you are walking into Villa Rosa alone, I need an audio feed. I need to hear every single word that bastard says to you, and I need to know the exact moment the perimeter guards shift their rotation."

I nod, shifting my weight on the hard wooden table, my bare skin sticking slightly to the topographical maps beneath me. "Giancarlo can acquire microscopic transmitters from the local black market. I will wear the bug stitched into the collar of my dress. You will hear everything, Enzo. You will know exactly when to strike."

Enzo helps me sit up, his hands surprisingly gentle as he hands me my discarded clothing. We dress in the light of the kitchen.

We spend the remainder of the afternoon fine-tuning the tactical ambush. We chart the exact sightlines for the Severato snipers, positioning them on the elevated ridges surrounding Villa Rosa to ensure Roberto’s men cannot retreat. We map the structural blind spots in the courtyard, calculating the precise amount of C4 required to obliterate the main gates without compromising the structural integrity of the dining hall where the summit will take place.

I draft the formal invitation to the peace summit, using the archaic, overly respectful phrasing Roberto will expect from a niece seeking the protection of an elder patriarch. I seal the message with the official Vitiello wax crest, ensuring the underground couriers recognize the authority behind the summons.

"The trap is set," I announce, dropping the sealed envelope onto the table beside his encrypted laptop. "He will receive it by midnight. We will hold the summit tomorrow evening."

Enzo stares at the wax seal, a terrifying, homicidal anticipation radiating from his imposing frame. He reaches out, pulling me flush against his side, his arm wrapping securely around my waist.

17

Enzo

The sprawling architectural blueprints for Villa Rosa cover every available inch of the scuffed kitchen table, the faded blue ink charting a massive estate nestled deep within a treacherous Sicilian valley. I lean over the paper, a red marker in my right hand, slashing aggressive lines across the designated access roads. Giancarlo stands across from me, his massive, tattooed arms crossed over his chest, his brow furrowed in fierce concentration as he absorbs the tactical layout of tomorrow's slaughterhouse.

"The northern ridge is our best vantage point," I instruct, circling an elevated plateau overlooking the central courtyard of the villa. "I want three suppressed sniper teams dug into the brush before the sun comes up. They will have a clear line of sight on the main gates and the cobblestone driveway. Roberto is an arrogant bastard, but he is not stupid. He will bring an advance guard to sweep the perimeter before his personal vehicle breaches the gates. Our shooters do not engage until the target is inside the dining hall with Elena."

Giancarlo nods, tapping a thick finger against the eastern wall of the compound. "The masonry here is older, mostly limestone and crumbling mortar. I can plant microscopic surveillance cameras in the cracks of the courtyard pillars and wire them directly to your encrypted tablet. You will have eyes on every rat that scurries onto the property. What about the explosives? If we blow the main gates, we risk trapping ourselves inside the blast radius."

"We are not blowing the gates," I correct him, tracing the route from the dining hall to the rear gardens. "We wire the secondary exit corridors. When Elena gives the signal, we detonate the rear walls, cutting off their retreat into the valley. We funnel them back into the courtyard where the snipers will pick them off like fish in a barrel. I will be inside the villa, waiting in the adjoining parlor. Once the first charge goes off, I breach the dining room."

"I will personally oversee the C4 placement," Giancarlo confirms, grabbing a spare radio off the counter. "The boys are restless. They want blood for the vineyard bombing, Boss. By tomorrow night, the Severato patriarch will be a memory."

The enforcer offers a grim, respectful nod before slipping out the front door to coordinate with the squad.

The moment Giancarlo leaves, the pristine, tactical armor I wear begins to fracture.

I stare at the blueprints, but the blue ink blurs, morphing into the horrifying, grime-stained concrete of a Boston basement. My hands grip the edges of the wooden table so hard my knuckles turn bone-white, the wood groaning in protest under the strain. I can smell the rotting copper of my own blood. I can feel the agonizing crunch of my fingers breaking under the weight of a steel pipe. And stepping out of the shadows, wearing a pristine white suit that mocked the filth I drowned in, is my father.

You belong to me, boy. I own your pain. I own your breath.