Page 50 of Ruined Through Obsession

I brace my hands flat against the polished wood of the desk, leaning forward. My mind runs through a thousand different scenarios, trying to isolate the variable causing her distress. "Then tell me who I need to kill."

A fragile, watery laugh escapes her lips, lacking any real humor. She drops her gaze to her lap, her fingers twisting nervously. This is a woman who stared down the American Mafia Commission without blinking. She shot a traitorous Capo in the throat and stepped over his corpse to claim her birthright. Nothing terrifies her.

Yet, she is shaking.

"You cannot shoot this problem, Consigliere," Elena murmurs. She takes a shaky breath, forcing her eyes back to mine. "I am pregnant."

The words hit me with the force of a detonating car bomb.

The sophisticated, calculating machinery of my brain simply ceases to function. All the complex algorithms, the legal strategies, and the tactical defense protocols evaporate into a blinding, roaring static.

Pregnant.

I stare at her, my hands frozen against the mahogany desk. I cannot breathe. I search her face for a sign of deception, a hint that this is a cruel, elaborate test of my loyalties. I find only sincerity.

She is carrying a child.

My mind violently recoils, dragging me back to the horrors of my youth. I remember the freezing concrete floors, the taste of my own blood, the sound of Roberto's boots echoing on the stairs before he unleashed his sadistic rage. I remember swearing to myself, night after night, that I would never bring an innocent life into a universe ruled by monsters. I swore I would never risk replicating the torment I endured. I believed the violence I inflict upon my enemies was a contagious disease, a curse that would inevitably poison anyone I tried to raise.

But then the logic pierces through the panic.

Roberto is not my blood.

He was a tyrant who pulled a starving orphan off the streets and named me his godson, manipulating my loyalty to forge a weapon. We share no genetics. The madness infecting the Severato patriarch does not reside in me. The child growing inside Elena is not a continuation of Roberto's sadistic legacy. The child is ours.

I look at the woman sitting in my chair. She is waiting for my reaction, bracing herself for the pragmatic Consigliere to compute the massive variable. She expects me to view the pregnancy as a logistical nightmare, a weakness our enemies will exploit to tear down the empire we built. She expects the icy, detached attorney to shut down and retreat into his fortress of solitude.

My knees hit the floorboards.

I collapse in front of her, the impact sending a jarring shockwave up my shins, but I do not feel the pain. I crawl forward, closing the final few inches until I am kneeling between her spread thighs. I reach out, my large, scarred hands shaking as I rest my palms against her flat stomach.

Elena lets out a ragged, shattered gasp, her hands flying up to cover her mouth. She watches me, tears spilling hot and fast over her dark lashes.

I lean forward, pressing my face against the soft fabric of her white blouse. I press a kiss to her stomach, right over the spot where my son or daughter is growing. The realization that we created life, that the love we found amidst the carnage of Sicily and Boston has manifested into a living, breathing miracle, rips a sob from my own throat.

I am crying. The ruthless executioner, the man who bankrupts syndicates and snaps necks in alleyways, is weeping on the floor of his study.

"Enzo," Elena whispers, her fingers tangling desperately in the dark strands of my hair. "I was so frightened you would hate this. You told me you never wanted to pass on the curse. You told me you were a broken machine."

I lift my head, looking up at her beautiful, tear-streaked face. I reach up, cupping her cheeks, my thumbs sweeping the moisture from her skin.

"I was a broken machine until you put me back together," I vow. "Roberto was a disease, but he is not my father. He gave me nothing but scars. This child... this child is made from the only pure, untainted thing I have ever known. This child is made from you."

"We live in a warzone," she argues weakly, her maternal fears bleeding into the open. "We reign over a universe built on extortion and blood. How do we protect a baby from the monsters who want to take our thrones?"

"We become the biggest monsters on the planet," I promise. "I will build a fortress so impenetrable the devil himself will not be able to cross our threshold. I will slaughter any rival, any Capo, and any mercenary who even dares to look in the direction of our family."

I slide my hands down her arms, gripping her wrists, pressing her palms flat against my chest so she can feel the frantic beating of my heart.

"I swear to you, Elena," I vow, ensuring every syllable carries weight. "Our child will never know the coldness of a basement. They will never know the fear of a raised hand. Our child will be raised in an empire of unconditional love and security. We are permanently breaking the cycle today. I am going to give them the world."

Elena stares down at me, the terrifying burden of her secret finally lifting from her shoulders. She leans forward, sliding out of the oversized leather chair to join me on the floor. She drops to her knees, wrapping her arms securely around my neck, burying her face against my shoulder.

I wrap my arms around her waist, holding her flush against my chest. We kneel together on the Persian rug.

"A baby," I whisper against the curve of her neck. "We are having a baby."

"We are having a baby," she confirms. "You are going to be a father, Enzo."