Page 32 of Ruined Through Obsession

"Thank you," Niccolò finally says. "You handled the infection we could not stomach excising ourselves."

Alessio grabs the receiver, his voice rougher and louder than the Don's. "When are you flying back to Boston? The Irish are testing the northern borders again, and we need you to draft the new treaties."

"I have matters to handle in Palermo before I book a flight," I explain, staring at the topographical maps scattered across the desk. "The streets are bleeding. There is a massive power vacuum, and the remaining Capos are scrambling to claim the scraps. I need to establish order."

"Then you take the throne," Alessio suggests immediately. "You conquered the territory. You plant the Severato flag on Sicilian soil and fill the vacuum yourself. We can run the European ports through your command."

"No," I refuse, rejecting the proposition without a second thought. "Placing an American proxy ruler in Palermo is a massive liability. The locals will never respect a foreigner, and they will fight a hostile occupation until the streets run out of bodies. This island requires a sovereign who understands the treacherous architecture of these specific streets. Someone who possesses the legitimate bloodline to demand their respect."

"Who?" Niccolò asks, his calculating tone returning.

"Elena," I say. "She is the rightful heir. She possesses the intellect and the ruthlessness to hold the territory."

Alessio laughs, a harsh, disbelieving sound. "You want to put a woman in charge of the most traditional, archaic syndicate in Italy? They will slit her throat while she sleeps."

"They will bow to her," I promise, a dark smile curving my mouth. "Or I will kill them all. I will contact you when the coronation is complete."

I disconnect the call, tossing the phone onto the desk. I strip off my ruined shirt, washing the grime from my skin before walking down the corridor to the bedroom.

Elena is sitting up against the headboard, reviewing a leather-bound ledger she salvaged from her uncle's study. She is wearing a clean button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up carefully to accommodate her bandages. She looks up as I enter, she is healing remarkably fast, fueled by the intoxicating rush of our victory.

"The streets are clear," I announce, stopping at the edge of the mattress. "Giancarlo is bringing the surviving Capos to the warehouse district in an hour. It is time to secure your position."

Elena closes the ledger, setting it aside. She swings her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet hitting the floorboards. She knows she was born for this exact moment.

An hour later, we stand inside an expansive cargo bay near the eastern docks. Ten men stand in a loose semicircle, surrounded by Giancarlo and my tactical operators. These are the surviving lieutenants, the men who surrendered when they realized their bosses were rotting in the earth. They wear expensive suits, but their postures reek of fear. They look at me, expecting the American enforcer to issue demands and claim the territory for Boston.

I do not take the center of the room. I step back, gesturing for Elena to step forward.

She walks past me, clad in a tailored black suit. She stops in front of the assembled men, her chin tilted at a proud, aristocratic angle.

"My uncle is dead," Elena declares, her voice ringing across the concrete walls. "Salvatore Russo is dead. The men who sold our honor to foreign mercenaries are gone. The Vitiello syndicate is broken, but it is not destroyed. I am the last surviving heir to my father's bloodline, and I am taking control of this family today."

The lieutenants shift uncomfortably. A man named Vincenzo, an older Capo with a greying beard, steps forward, his face contorting into a mask of traditionalist outrage.

"With all due respect, Signora," Vincenzo spits, refusing to use her proper title. "A woman cannot sit at the head of the table. The Commission will never recognize your claim. Our men will not take orders from a girl who translates documents for a living. You must step aside and allow the senior members to vote on a new Don."

I do not give Vincenzo the opportunity to finish his pathetic rebellion. I draw the Glock from my shoulder holster in a fluid, blurring motion, stepping forward and pressing the cold muzzle directly against the side of his skull. The click of the safety disengaging rings out in the cargo bay.

The other lieutenants freeze, their hands shooting up in gestures of surrender as Giancarlo and my operators raise their rifles, aiming directly at the chests of the remaining men.

"You seem to be confused about the nature of this gathering," I snarl. "This is not a democracy. There is no voting process. The woman standing in front of you is the undisputed Don of Palermo. She owns the ports, she owns the accounts, and she owns your pathetic lives. Anyone who contests her sovereignty will catch a bullet from my gun before they can blink."

I shove the barrel harder against Vincenzo's temple, forcing him to his knees. "Bow to your Queen," I command.

Vincenzo trembles, his eyes darting frantically toward the other men for support, but he finds none. The remaining Capos realize that standing against Elena means facing the wrath of the Severato syndicate. One by one, they drop to their knees on the grimy concrete, lowering their heads in a synchronized display of submission.

Elena looks down at the kneeling men with a mask of flawless, regal power. She nods, accepting their fealty.

"The new rules take effect immediately," Elena instructs with authority. "You will purge your ranks of anyone loyal to the Volkovs. You will consolidate the shipping manifests and deliver them to my safehouse by morning. Dismissed."

The men scramble to their feet, rushing out of the cargo bay as fast as their legs can carry them, desperate to escape the executioner's block.

I holster my weapon, a rush of pride flooding my veins as I watch her command the room. I close the distance between us, grabbing her waist and pulling her flush against my chest.

"You look incredible when you terrify grown men," I praise her, capturing her mouth in a demanding, bruising kiss that tastes of victory and adrenaline. Her good arm wraps around my neck, her tongue sweeping into my mouth to meet my hunger with passion.

We return to the safehouse, and Elena retreats to the bathroom to wash the grime of the docks from her skin, leaving me alone in the makeshift office to finalize the logistical reports for Niccolò.