Page 33 of Ruined Through Obsession

I sit down at the desk, pulling my encrypted laptop from my bag. I launch the communication software, intending to draft the treaties that will formally bind Palermo to Boston. But the moment the screen illuminates, a glaring red warning banner flashes across the display.

The automated decryption programs I left running in the background intercepted a massive surge of encrypted chatter originating from the United States. I lean forward, my brow furrowing in concentration as I input my bypass codes to translate the intercepted data.

The text scrolls across the screen in jagged blocks, detailing a series of high-level communications between the elite families of the eastern seaboard.

The American Mafia Commission is mobilizing.

The old-guard bosses, the archaic patriarchs who cling to outdated traditions, received intelligence regarding the events in Sicily. They know Don Vitiello is dead, and they know the Severato Consigliere placed a woman on the throne. The messages are laced with outrage and political posturing, claiming that Elena's ascendance invalidates the treaties governing international trade.

But the Commission is not acting alone.

I trace the digital signatures attached to the secure relays, uncovering a terrifying alliance forming in the shadows of New York and Boston. The remnants of the Volkov Bratva, the fractured Russian mercenaries who survived our initial purge, are funneling resources to the Commission bosses. The new Bratva Pakhan is utilizing his hidden capital to bribe the American leaders, pushing them to formally contest Elena's claim and declare war on our integrated empire.

They refuse to accept a Queen. They intend to march on Boston, leverage their combined armies, and strip her of her title using force.

I stare at the glowing monitor, a homicidal fury locking my jaw tight. They think they can manipulate the laws to tear down the woman I love. They think archaic traditions will protect them from the wrath of a man who just executed his own father.

I hear the bathroom door open down the hall, the soft sound of Elena's footsteps approaching the office. I reach out and slam the laptop shut, severing the feed.

23

Elena

The soft click of my bare feet against the scuffed floorboards announces my arrival as I step into the makeshift office. Enzo shuts his encrypted laptop with a sudden, forceful snap the moment I cross the threshold. The screen goes black, cutting off whatever he was reviewing. His jaw is locked, the tendons working furiously beneath his stubble, but the moment his eyes find mine, the storm brewing in his gaze shifts into a familiar hunger.

He doesn't mention the laptop, and I do not ask. The war on this island is won, and for tonight, I want to revel in the blood-soaked crown resting upon my head.

I am the Don of Sicily.

The realization sends a rush of wicked heat straight through me. I walk toward the wooden desk, my silk robe parting slightly to reveal my bare thighs. I round the edge of the furniture and slide directly onto his lap, straddling his muscular thighs.

"You look like a man plotting a massacre," I murmur, tracing the line of his cheekbone with my fingertips.

"Just securing our borders, mia bella," he replies, his large hands finding my hips, his thumbs brushing the bare skin of my waist. He studies my face, his gaze searching the depths of my irises. "You claimed your throne today with a ruthlessness most men spend decades trying to master. You stepped over your uncle's corpse without shedding a single tear. Who taught you to be this fierce, Elena?"

The question is a probing inquiry into the darkest corners of my soul. He shared his nightmare with me. Now, he wants to understand the origins of my own fire.

I do not pull away. I rest my hands on his broad shoulders, tracing the raised, chaotic ink spanning his collarbone.

"My father was the rightful Don," I begin. "He was brilliant, pragmatic, and immensely respected across the Mediterranean. My uncle was a greedy, envious worm who despised his own mediocrity. When I was twelve years old, I woke up in the middle of the night to the smell of smoke and copper. I crept down the hallway and walked into my father's study."

Enzo's hands tighten on my hips.

"I found my parents butchered on the Persian rug," I whisper, the memory burning behind my eyelids. "My uncle claimed a rival faction orchestrated the hit. He used the tragedy to rally the Capos, seizing the throne while playing the grieving brother. But I saw the mud on his boots that night. I saw the way his hands shook when he washed the blood from his skin in the kitchen sink. I knew he was the architect of their slaughter."

"Why didn't you run?" Enzo asks.

"Because running is for cowards," I answer fiercely, my eyes locking onto his. "I realized early on that survival required deception. I became the obedient, diplomatic niece. I learned multiple languages, I translated his documents, and I made myself indispensable to his operations. I stayed right by his side, smiling at the man who destroyed my family, waiting patiently for the exact moment I could orchestrate his absolute ruin."

Enzo stares at me, an awestruck reverence softening his austere features.

"You are a terrifying masterpiece," he praises, his hands sliding up my spine to tangle in my dark hair.

"I am your equal," I remind him.

"Show me," he demands.

He pulls my face down, crashing his mouth against mine with a starving, desperate necessity. I open for him willingly, a breathless moan escaping my throat as his tongue sweeps inside my mouth, tasting of fine whiskey. He sucks my lower lip, his teeth biting down just enough to elicit a gasp of pain that morphs instantly into heat between my thighs.