Page 26 of Ruined Through Obsession

The trap is irrevocably set. I slide my right hand under the edge of the mahogany table, my fingers brushing against the cold glass of my encrypted phone hidden within a concealed fold of my underwear.

"You are making a very wise decision tonight, Elena," Roberto says, reaching for the open bottle of Barolo to refill his glass, completely oblivious to the invisible crosshairs currently resting on his chest. "I will teach you how a true empire is managed. The boys in Boston were flawed experiments. Too much emotion, too much erratic anger. But you and I... we are going to build something spectacular."

You are going to die choking on your own blood.

"To a new era, Don Severato," I say, offering him a polite smile.

Roberto raises his glass, the red wine catching the light of the crystal chandelier like a pool of fresh blood. "To the future, my dear."

"To burning the past," I reply, holding his pale, sadistic gaze without a fraction of fear.

Beneath the table, my thumb presses the send icon, transmitting the single, pre-arranged code word to the reaper waiting in the dark.

Burn.

19

Enzo

The audio feed piped directly into my earpiece brings the sickening, cultured baritone of my father’s voice into the cramped confines of the adjoining parlor. I stand hidden in the shadows, my back pressed firmly against the peeling floral wallpaper of Villa Rosa, listening to the monster who forged me spin his arrogant delusions. The encrypted tablet rests in the palm of my left hand, casting a pale, ghostly glow over my tactical gear. Across the screen, a glowing green line tracks Elena’s heartbeat, transmitting the data from the microscopic biometric patch I pressed to her skin.

Her heart rate is flawlessly even. She sits across from the most dangerous patriarch on the eastern seaboard, feeding him a masterclass of deceit, and her vital signs do not even spike. She plays the sadistic bastard like a seasoned virtuoso, wrapping his misogyny and his bloated ego around her finger.

The boys in Boston were flawed experiments, Roberto says through the transmission, the condescension practically dripping from his tongue. Too much emotion, too much erratic anger. But you and I... we are going to build something spectacular.

My right hand tightens around the grip of my customized submachine gun, the rough polymer biting harshly into my calloused palm.

I watch the glowing screen of the tablet, waiting for the trap to spring. Every instinct roaring in my blood demands I kick the door down and put a bullet between his eyes immediately, but I force myself to trust Elena. She demanded the right to corner him. She demanded the right to deliver him to the reaper.

Then, a notification illuminates the top corner of the tablet.

A single text message from her hidden phone.

Burn.

A dark thrill races through my veins, replacing the phantom memories of my childhood trauma with a blistering, homicidal focus. I tap the radio transmitter strapped to the collar of my Kevlar vest.

"Execute," I command, my voice a freezing, remorseless rasp. "No survivors on the perimeter."

"Copy that, Boss," Giancarlo replies through the encrypted frequency. "Lighting them up."

Outside the thick limestone walls of the estate, the Boston squad unleashes hell. The suppressed sniper rifles positioned on the northern ridge go to work, the soundless muzzles spitting death into the courtyard. Through the crack in the parlor window, I hear the dull, consecutive thwacks of high-velocity rounds finding their marks, followed instantly by the meaty thuds of Roberto’s elite mercenaries collapsing onto the cobblestones. They never even have the chance to draw their weapons or shout a warning. The eradication is methodically flawless.

"Courtyard is secure," Giancarlo announces over the radio. "Blowing the rear exits now."

A concussive explosion rocks the foundation of Villa Rosa, the explosive charges obliterating the secondary escape routes leading into the valley. The floorboards beneath my boots vibrate from the shockwave, dust raining down from the decaying ceiling of the parlor. The detonation funnels any surviving rats directly back into the crosshairs of the sniper teams, sealing the perimeter in a cage of fire and shattered mortar.

The trap is sprung. It is my turn to play.

I drop the tablet onto a nearby velvet armchair, bringing my submachine gun up to my shoulder. I take two massive strides across the parlor, raising my booted foot, and kick the adjoining mahogany door with a devastating, bone-shattering force.

The wood splinters violently around the brass latch, the hinges screaming as the door flies inward and crashes against the dining room wall. I step through the threshold, the dust and smoke swirling around my dark tactical gear, presenting myself as the literal embodiment of the grim reaper coming to collect a decades-old debt.

The grand crystal chandelier sways frantically above the sprawling dining table, the illuminated prisms casting chaotic, dancing light across the Renaissance frescoes.

Roberto Severato sits at the far end of the mahogany table. The expensive glass of the red wine slips from his manicured fingers, shattering against the polished floor, sending a spray of red liquid across the pristine white fabric of his tailored suit. The arrogant, condescending mask he wore just seconds ago dissolves into a portrait of terror. The blood drains fully from his aristocratic face, leaving him looking like a fragile, aging coward.

"Hello, father," I state, my voice cutting through the ringing aftermath of the exterior explosions.