Page 34 of Ruined Through Obsession

My hands grip the dark strands of his hair, kissing him back with enthusiasm. We slide our tongues against each other in a wet rhythm.

"Fuck," he swears against my mouth, his hands roaming over my curves, pushing the silk robe off my shoulders.

"Take me," I beg, grinding my soaking wet center against the rigid, aching bulge trapped beneath his dark trousers. "Right here, Enzo. Own me."

"I own every inch of you," he growls, his hot breath fanning across my jaw.

He shifts his weight, lifting me effortlessly off his lap and laying me back against the surface of the desk. He unfastens his trousers, freeing his erection. He pushes my thighs apart, aligning himself at my entrance, and drives his hips forward, sinking me with one smooth, impossibly thorough thrust.

I throw my head back, crying out his name as the stretching fullness steals the oxygen from my lungs. His hips slap against mine in a wet symphony that fuels the fire inside my blood. I wrap my legs around his waist, locking my ankles to pull him even further inside, matching his aggression with my own frantic thrusts.

"You are my fucking queen," he rasps, leaning down to suck a bruising mark into the sensitive skin of my neck.

"Yours," I sob, my internal muscles clamping down on his length with a crushing force.

The Sicilian sun beats relentlessly against the fortified walls of the estate I selected for the mandatory sit-down. It is a sprawling, neutral villa nestled in the hills, far away from the prying eyes of the local authorities. I stand in front of the ornate gilded mirror in the master bedroom, adjusting the lapels of my tailored crimson suit.

Enzo steps up behind me, his reflection joining mine in the glass. He wears a bespoke black suit, looking every inch the terrifying Boston Consigliere. He rests his hands on my shoulders, his thumbs sweeping over the fabric of my jacket.

"Are you ready to make them kneel?" he asks with a wicked smirk curving his lips.

"I am going to make them understand that the old world is dead," I reply, turning to face him. "We operate as a unified, international syndicate from this day forward. Palermo will serve as the European gateway for your brothers' operations in Boston. The Severato and Vitiello factions are no longer divided by an ocean. We are a global superpower."

Enzo’s eyes gleam with pride. He respects my ambition, recognizing the flawless strategic advantage of merging our territories. "Niccolò and Alessio will welcome the expansion. You command the Mediterranean, mia bella. I will stand at your back and ensure anyone who questions your authority ends up in a shallow grave."

"I do not need you to execute my detractors, Enzo," I tell him, slipping my customized ceramic derringer into the concealed holster at my back.

We walk out of the bedroom, through the opulent corridors until we reach the imposing mahogany doors of the grand dining hall.

Two heavily armed operators push the doors inward.

I step across the threshold, my heels clicking purposefully against the imported marble tiles. The room is packed with the surviving Capos and lieutenants of the Sicilian factions. These are men who spent their entire lives operating under an archaic, patriarchal system, men who view women as fragile, diplomatic ornaments meant to be hidden away in safehouses. They fall silent the moment I enter, their eyes tracking my progression with a mixture of disbelief, outrage, and terror.

I walk directly to the head of the massive, rectangular oak table. I do not ask for permission to take the seat of honor. I simply pull the oversized leather chair back and sit down, crossing my legs with a smooth, unbothered grace. Enzo takes his position directly behind my right shoulder, standing like an immovable, intimidating monolith of muscle and firepower. He crosses his arms over his chest, his eyes scanning the room, daring a single man to make a foolish move.

"Welcome, gentlemen," I announce. "The Vitiello syndicate experienced a necessary, albeit violent, restructuring. My uncle and his treacherous underboss, Salvatore Russo, paid the ultimate price for their incompetence and their treasonous alliances. I am the sole surviving heir to the Vitiello bloodline, and I am the undisputed Don of Sicily."

A murmur of discontent ripples through the assembled men. They exchange nervous, irritated glances, waiting for someone brave enough to voice the objections festering in their minds.

Finally, a man named Stefano pushes his chair back and stands up. He is a traditionalist Capo, a grizzled veteran with a scarred face who controlled the western smuggling routes for decades. He slams his meaty fist onto the oak table, his face flushed an angry shade of magenta.

"This is an outrage," Stefano spits, his thick Sicilian dialect laced with venom. "We will not bow to a woman! The Commission will never recognize a girl sitting at the head of the table. You are a translator, Elena. You should be sitting in a parlor, not dictating syndicate logistics. We demand a vote to elect a proper patriarch to guide this family through the crisis."

The room goes deathly still. The other Capos hold their breath, waiting to see how the foreign Consigliere will react to the blatant disrespect aimed at his bride. They expect Enzo to draw his weapon and slaughter the man for insulting me, after all, he did that before.

But instead, I offer Stefano a polite, chillingly gracious smile.

"You speak of tradition, Stefano," I state smoothly, resting my manicured hands on the polished wood. "You speak of proper patriarchs. My uncle was a proper patriarch, and he allowed foreign mercenaries to infiltrate our shores and slaughter our brothers because he lacked the strategic brilliance to secure his own borders. Tradition is a rotting corpse dragging this syndicate into bankruptcy."

"I will not take orders from a bitch in a red suit," Stefano snarls, reaching beneath his tailored jacket, foolishly intending to draw his sidearm.

He never even clears leather.

My hand dives beneath my jacket to retrieve the ceramic derringer from my back. I bring the weapon up, aligning the sights with precision, and pull the trigger.

The sharp crack of the gunshot shatters the hushed atmosphere of the dining hall.

The round strikes Stefano directly in the center of his throat. A brilliant explosion of crimson paints the man standing behind him. Stefano drops his weapon, his hands flying up to clutch his ruined neck, choking on his own blood. His eyes bulge in shock, his arrogant defiance melting into panic before he collapses face-first onto the oak table, dead.