Page 23 of Ruined Through Obsession

A ragged, uneven gasp tears from my throat as the phantom pain rips across my chest. My heart thrashes against my ribs in a frantic, terrifying cadence. I am the Consigliere. I am the man who calculates odds and slaughters Capos without blinking, but the mere prospect of standing in the same room as the monster who forged me unravels the seams of my sanity. He conditioned me to fear him. He programmed a visceral, paralyzing terror into my DNA using isolation and torture, and tomorrow night, I have to look into his eyes and pull the trigger.

"Enzo."

The voice is a commanding, beautiful whip that snaps through the haze of my panic.

I blink, my vision clearing just enough to see Elena standing on the opposite side of the table. She wears a simple black silk robe, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders in a messy, captivating cascade.

She walks around the table, stepping directly into my personal space. She grabs the lapels of my dark shirt, her grip surprisingly strong, and shoves me backward until my spine hits the peeling plaster of the kitchen wall.

"Look at me," she demands, her dark eyes flashing with fire.

"He is in my head," I confess, the admission scraping raw against my throat. "I can feel the cold concrete. I can hear his fucking voice laughing at me."

"His voice is a ghost, and ghosts cannot hurt you," Elena fires back, rising onto her toes to force her face inches from mine. "You are not a bleeding sixteen-year-old boy in an alleyway. You are the man who burned my uncle's estate to ash. You are the predator who owns the Boston underworld. Tell me where you are, Enzo. Right now."

"I am in Palermo," I rasp, my hands coming up to grip her waist, desperately needing the tactile proof of her existence.

"Who is standing in front of you?" she asks, her voice dropping into a sultry, demanding purr.

"My queen," I whisper.

"Damn right," she says, right before she crashes her mouth against mine.

Her tongue slips past my teeth, tasting of mint and wicked intent. She does not kiss me like a woman seeking romance, she kisses me like a sovereign claiming her territory. I groan, opening my mouth wider to grant her unrestricted access, my tongue tangling with hers in a wet, filthy rhythm.

She bites down on my lower lip, her teeth sinking into the plush flesh until I taste a drop of copper. The sting is magnificent, a searing anchor that tethers my spiraling mind directly to the present. I slide my hands down her waist, gripping the swell of her ass through the thin silk of her robe, lifting her off the floor. She wraps her legs tightly around my waist, her wet center pressing directly against the rigid, aching length of my erection trapped behind my denim jeans.

"Fuck, you taste so good," I growl against her mouth, walking us backward until I press her against the edge of the kitchen counter.

"Then eat," she challenges, her breath hitching as I drag my open mouth down the column of her throat.

I suck the sensitive skin right over her collarbone, swirling my tongue over the purple bruises I left days ago, marking her all over again. She whimpers, a needy, gorgeous sound that feeds the starving beast inside my chest. I push the silk robe off her shoulders, letting the fabric pool around her elbows, exposing the pale, beautiful curves of her breasts. I take a hardened nipple into my mouth, sucking hard, rolling the sensitive peak between my teeth while my fingers slide underneath the silk covering her thighs.

She is soaking wet for me, a slick, inviting heat that makes my brain short-circuit. I slip two fingers inside her tight passage, and she arches her back, a filthy moan ripping from her throat.

"You are so fucking wet," I praise her, pumping my fingers in a relentless, driving motion that mimics the thrust of my hips. "Tell me who you belong to, Elena."

"You," she gasps, her fingernails digging crescent moons into the muscles of my shoulders. "Only you, Enzo. Harder. Please."

I increase the pace, my thumb aggressively circling the swollen nub of her clitoris. Her hips buck wildly against my hand, chasing the blistering friction. She is a magnificent creature of violence and lust, a woman who demands the darkest, most ruined parts of my soul and matches them with her own. I watch the pleasure contort her beautiful face, my own arousal straining painfully against my zipper.

"I am going to tear him apart for what he did to you," Elena sobs, the orgasm crashing over her in a brilliant wave. Her inner walls clamp down around my fingers, her body shivering violently as she rides out the intense climax.

I hold her against my chest, burying my face in the crook of her neck, my heart finally beating in a normal, controlled rhythm. The ghosts are banished, replaced by the reality of the woman breathing in my arms. She anchored me.

"I am right here," I murmur, kissing the sweat-dampened skin of her temple. "I am not going anywhere."

The following evening, the safehouse resembles a subterranean armory preparing for a siege.

I stand by the battered wooden table, expertly sliding a fresh magazine into the grip of my customized Glock. The metallic clack of the chamber racking a round sounds like music to my ears. My black tactical trousers and fitted sweater blend seamlessly into the impending night, a modern suit of armor designed for a bloodbath.

The bathroom door opens, and Elena steps out, stealing the oxygen straight from my lungs.

She wears a designer mourning dress, the midnight-black fabric clinging to the curves of her hips before flowing gracefully to her ankles. The neckline is modest, a deceptive display of aristocratic grief, while a dangerous slit travels up her left thigh, offering unrestricted mobility. Her dark hair is pinned back in a sleek, elegant style, highlighting the sharp, patrician lines of her face. She looks like a grieving widow stepping out of a cathedral, but the calculating, homicidal fire burning in her eyes tells an entirely different story. She is a Trojan horse wrapped in Italian silk.

"The couriers confirmed Roberto received the invitation," Elena announces, slipping a compact, suppressed pistol into the custom holster strapped to her thigh, the weapon hidden perfectly by the draping fabric of her dress. "He agreed to the parley at Villa Rosa. He demanded I arrive alone, unarmed, and wait in the central dining hall."

"He will search you at the doors," I warn, crossing the room to stand in front of her. "His guards will pat you down. They will find the thigh holster."