Page 16 of Ruined Through Obsession

Enzo follows close behind, his massive frame taking up the entirety of the cramped stairwell. We hit the top landing, pausing for a fraction of a second to listen to the chaotic symphony of destruction tearing through the main house below us. The screams of dying men and the continuous chatter of automatic weapons confirm that Giancarlo is keeping the garrison occupied, leaving the path to Don Vitiello relatively undefended.

I push the hidden door open, stepping out into the opulent, carpeted expanse of the east wing. The backup generators finally kick on, bathing the hallway in a sickly, amber emergency glow.

We take three steps toward the reinforced oak doors of the study before a figure steps out from an adjoining guest room, a customized assault rifle raised and pointed directly at Enzo's exposed flank.

I freeze, my blood turning to ice in my veins.

It is Marco.

The grizzled, gray-haired guard has been on the Vitiello payroll since I was a little girl. He taught me how to saddle my first horse in the stables out back. He sneaked me extra portions of dessert from the kitchens when my father placed me on strict diets. He is a fixture of my childhood, a man who showed me countless small kindnesses in a world devoid of warmth.

Marco’s eyes widen in shock as he registers my face, the barrel of his rifle wavering for a fraction of a second. "Elena?" he breathes, the confusion evident in his rough voice. "What are you doing? He is a Severato."

He does not lower his weapon. His loyalty to the paycheck Vitiello signs overrides his affection for the disgraced niece. His finger tightens on the trigger, preparing to put a burst of incendiary rounds into the man protecting me.

I raise my Glock, squaring my shoulders, and squeeze the trigger.

The gunshot is deafening in the confined corridor. The hollow-point bullet strikes Marco squarely in the center of his forehead. His head snaps back, a spray of crimson painting the expensive flocked wallpaper behind him, and he collapses onto the Persian rug like a discarded ragdoll.

The smell of burnt gunpowder fills my nostrils, mixing with the sudden, metallic scent of blood pooling around Marco's boots. I stare at his lifeless body, my hands perfectly still, my breathing controlled. I just murdered a man I have known for a decade to protect the rival boss I spent the night with, cementing my treason in undeniable bloodshed.

Enzo lowers his own weapon, stepping over the corpse to stand beside me. He looks down at Marco, then turns his icy, calculating gaze toward my face, evaluating my reaction to the kill.

13

Enzo

The ringing blast of the gunshot still rings in the confined corridor, a damning endorsement of the woman standing beside me. I lower my own weapon, my boots shifting against the expensive Persian rug, and turn my gaze toward Elena. I watch her face, waiting for the inevitable crack in her armor. The men and women of her aristocratic class usually vomit or dissolve into hysterics the second brains paint the wallpaper. They orchestrate murders from boardrooms, signing death warrants on crisp white paper, but they lack the stomach for the visceral consequence of pulling the trigger themselves.

Elena is a magnificent, terrifying exception.

She stares at the lifeless body of Marco, the grizzled guard who undoubtedly bounced her on his knee when she was a child. The man’s blood is rapidly soaking into the ornate fibers of the carpet, pooling around his tactical boots. She does not gasp. She does not drop her Glock. Her chest rises and falls with a controlled, measured cadence that speaks of an underlying pragmatism. I search her dark eyes for a flicker of remorse, for the fragile guilt of a mafia princess realizing she just crossed a line she can never uncross.

I find nothing but a freezing, beautiful conviction.

She recognizes that survival in our world requires a ruthless, unsympathetic pruning of liabilities. Marco chose his paycheck over her life, and she granted him the consequence of that choice. The dark, consuming pride that erupts in my chest is a roaring inferno, solidifying the undeniable truth I suspected since the night we shared in the safehouse. She is built for my world. She is not a civilian I need to shield from the bloodshed, she thrives in the carnage, a queen capable of reigning over the ashes of her enemies.

"He made his choice," I state, my voice cutting through the ringing in our ears, offering a factual assessment rather than comfort.

"I know," Elena replies, her tone devoid of any tremor. She adjusts her grip on the pistol and steps right over the pooling blood, not even bothering to glance down at the corpse again. "The study is ten yards ahead."

I tap the comms unit strapped to my Kevlar vest, the chaotic symphony of automatic gunfire from the ground floor bleeds through the earpiece. "Status, Giancarlo."

"We own the grand foyer, Boss," Giancarlo growls through the static, the sound of a fresh magazine slapping into a rifle serving as his punctuation. "The Vitiello mercenaries are disorganized, fighting like cornered rats. We trapped a dozen of them near the kitchen corridors. They are bleeding out fast. You have a clear path to the target. Give me a shout if you need reinforcements."

"Hold the perimeter," I command, my eyes locking onto the massive, reinforced oak doors at the end of the hall. "No one comes up these stairs. The Underboss belongs to us."

"Copy that. Happy hunting."

I advance down the corridor, my boots crunching softly over the shattered plaster blown out from Marco’s stray bullets. The emergency amber lighting casts long, distorted shadows against the flocked wallpaper, painting our path in the sickly color of a dying empire. We reach the entrance to the study. The doors are thick, custom-crafted timber reinforced with steel plating, designed to withstand a siege.

"Stand back," I instruct Elena, pulling a compact block of specialized C4 from the utility pouch strapped to my thigh.

I press the malleable explosive against the center seam of the double doors, molding the compound around the internal deadbolts. I extract a blasting cap, burying the small cylinder into the putty before unspooling the detonation wire. The process requires a practiced, clinical focus. A fraction of an inch off, and the shaped charge blows backward into the corridor instead of directing the kinetic force into the locking mechanism. I spent years perfecting this exact art on the grimy streets of Boston, learning how to dismantle fortresses.

I retreat a few yards, pulling Elena behind the structural cover of a marble bust resting on a mahogany pedestal. I wrap my arm around her waist, pressing her back against my chest, shielding her from the impending blast radius.

"Cover your ears, mia bella," I warn.