Page 24 of Ruined Through Obsession

"I know," she replies, a wicked, knowing smirk curving her painted lips. "I am going to let them find it. If I walk into a sit-down with the most dangerous man in Boston without a weapon, he will instantly suspect a trap. Discovering a small, defensive pistol will satisfy his paranoia. He will confiscate the gun, pat himself on the back for disarming the foolish little girl, and lead me straight to his table."

Her brilliance is staggering, a ruthless manipulation of Roberto’s inherent arrogance. I reach out, my calloused fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"I have a gift for you," I say, pulling a tiny, transparent adhesive square from the pocket of my tactical trousers. Embedded within the center of the patch is a microscopic computer chip, no larger than a grain of rice.

Elena narrows her eyes, inspecting the device resting on my index finger. "Giancarlo mentioned the audio transmitters, but that does not look like a microphone, Enzo."

"It is a biometric tracker," I admit. "It monitors your heart rate, tracks your adrenaline spikes, and broadcasts a real-time GPS signal directly to my encrypted tablet. Turn around."

She does not move. She crosses her arms over the bodice of her black dress, a stubborn, defiant glare hardening her features. "We discussed this. I am walking into Villa Rosa as an equal, not a tagged asset. I do not need a babysitter monitoring my pulse while I negotiate with a tyrant."

"You are getting the tracker," I growl, closing the final inch of space between us, my imposing frame forcing her to tilt her head back. "I am sending the only woman I love into a room with a sadistic psychopath. I am allowing you to play bait in a game where the loser ends up in a shallow grave. You demand autonomy, and I respect your right to orchestrate this ambush, but I refuse to apologize for my obsessive need to ensure you do not become a casualty of my family's war. If your heart rate spikes into a panic, or if that GPS signal moves toward the exit, I am blowing the walls down early."

The only woman I love.

The confession slips from my lips naturally, a profound, undeniable truth that I never expected to speak aloud. I spent my entire life avoiding emotional attachments, viewing love as a catastrophic liability that enemies could exploit. Now, staring at the fierce, beautiful sovereign willing to risk her own life to help me execute my abuser, I realize love is the most terrifying, powerful weapon in my arsenal.

Elena's defiant posture softens, her dark eyes widening slightly as the magnitude of my words washes over her. The irritation melts away, replaced by a breathtaking vulnerability she rarely allows the world to see.

She uncrosses her arms and silently turns her back to me, sweeping her dark hair over her left shoulder to expose the nape of her neck.

I step forward, pressing the microscopic adhesive patch directly against the sensitive skin right below her hairline. The tracker binds to her flesh, practically invisible to the naked eye. I lean down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss over the exact spot.

"The audio bug is stitched into the lace collar of your dress," I murmur, my hands resting on her hips. "I will hear every breath you take. I will hear every word he says."

Elena turns back around to face me, her expression hardening back into the ruthless, calculating mask of the Don of Vitiello family. She reaches up, her manicured fingers smoothing the lapels of my dark shirt.

"You wait for my signal, Consigliere," she instructs. "When I say the word, you burn the fucking roof down on his head."

"I will paint the walls with his blood," I promise.

I turn away, grabbing the encrypted tablet and my submachine gun from the kitchen table

As I walk toward the reinforced front door, I make a vow to myself, if that bastard looks at her wrong, if he raises his voice, if he even breathes in her direction incorrectly, the strategy burns. The plan becomes void, and I will slaughter every single breathing soul in that villa just to watch him choke on his own arrogance.

I slide the deadbolt back, throwing the door open to reveal the suffocating, humid Sicilian night.

"Let's go kill a king," I say, leading my queen into the dark.

18

Elena

The winding, treacherous roads of the Sicilian valley offer nothing but impenetrable darkness, the headlights of my solitary town car slicing through the thick evening fog. I sit in the leather backseat, watching the ancient, limestone walls of Villa Rosa materialize through the gloom. The estate is a sprawling monument to old money and forgotten truces, an isolated fortress nestled among rolling hills and dying vineyards. Tonight, it will serve as an execution block.

I smooth my hands over the midnight-black silk of my mourning dress, feeling the microscopic biometric tracker adhering to the skin at the nape of my neck. Every inhale I take, every frantic beat of my heart, transmits directly to the encrypted tablet Enzo holds in the shadows. He is out there, lurking in the brush with his snipers, a terrifying apex predator waiting for my command. The audio bug stitched flawlessly into the lace collar of my bodice acts as our invisible tether

The car tires crunch over the gravel driveway, rolling to a halt before the massive, iron-wrought gates of the courtyard.

Showtime.

I step out of the vehicle, the humid night air instantly clinging to my bare skin. My black heels click against the ancient cobblestones, announcing the arrival of the Vitiello sovereign. Five of Roberto Severato’s elite mercenaries block the carved wooden doors of the main house. They wear tactical gear, their suppressed assault rifles resting aggressively against their chests. They look at me not with the respect owed to a Don, but with the condescending amusement of wolves cornering a stray lamb.

"Stop right there, princess," the lead guard barks, a hulking brute with a jagged scar running down his jawline. He steps forward, blocking my path, his hand resting on the grip of his sidearm. "Nobody sees the boss without a thorough search."

"I am the head of the Vitiello family," I state, my voice dripping with an aristocratic disdain that immediately wipes the smirk off his face. I raise my arms away from my sides, offering him a frigid, unimpressed glare. "Make it fast. I do not like being kept waiting in the damp."

The brute sneers, stepping into my personal space. He runs his rough, calloused hands down the sides of my ribcage, checking for a wire, completely missing the microscopic technology hidden in the lace. His palms slide aggressively over my hips, moving down to the dangerous slit running up my left leg. He pushes the silk aside, his fingers brushing the bare skin of my thigh before hitting the leather strap of my custom holster.