Page 25 of Ruined Through Obsession

He rips the compact, suppressed pistol from the leather, holding it up into the dim glow of the courtyard lanterns with a triumphant scoff.

"Thought you were coming unarmed to a peace summit, little bird?" he mocks, ejecting the magazine and tossing the bullets onto the cobblestones.

I let out a harsh, irritated sigh, perfectly feigning the annoyance of a woman caught in a lie. "A woman traveling alone on these treacherous roads requires precautions. Keep the weapon. I have no use for it inside."

The guard buys the performance completely. He tucks my confiscated pistol into his own belt, his ego massively inflated by the belief that he just disarmed the foolish, paranoid niece. His misogyny is so gloriously predictable. He nods to the men behind him, and they pull the heavy oak doors open, granting me unimpeded entry into the cavernous belly of the estate.

I walk through the corridors, my posture impeccably straight. The villa smells of damp earth, expensive cigar smoke, and polished mahogany. I reach the central dining hall, a massive room boasting a vaulted ceiling decorated with fading Renaissance frescoes. A sprawling, rectangular dining table dominates the space, illuminated by a grand crystal chandelier.

Sitting at the far end of the table, nursing a glass of expensive Barolo, is the architect of Enzo’s worst nightmares.

Roberto Severato looks sickeningly refined. He wears a pristine, tailored white suit that contrasts violently with the filthy, sadistic rot festering inside his soul. His silver hair is swept back flawlessly, and his eyes track my approach with a calculating, predatory interest. He looks like a respected statesman, a benevolent patriarch, but knowing the horrors he inflicted upon a sixteen-year-old boy in a Boston basement makes my blood boil with a homicidal wrath.

I am going to watch you bleed out on this beautiful floor.

"Elena Vitiello," Roberto greets. He does not stand up to greet me. It is a calculated power play, designed to remind me that he views himself as the superior sovereign. "My deepest condolences on the tragic loss of your uncle. The streets of Palermo are weeping."

I pull out a high-backed wooden chair opposite him and sit down, arranging the skirts of my silk dress. "The streets of Palermo are panicked, Don Severato. They do not weep for fools."

Roberto pauses, his wine glass hovering inches from his mouth. A spark of genuine surprise flashes in his pale eyes, intrigued by my lack of conventional grief. "A bold statement to make about your own bloodline."

"I deal in facts, not sentiment," I reply, leaning forward slightly, resting my manicured hands on the polished mahogany. "My uncle was a coward who trusted a traitor. Salvatore Russo orchestrated the bombing in the vineyard to remove me from the board, and then he put a bullet in my uncle's chest to usurp the throne. I returned the favor by putting a bullet between Salvatore's eyes."

I feed him the lie we constructed, wrapping the deceit in enough truth to make it undeniably authentic. Roberto tilts his head, a sickeningly patronizing smile curving his lips. He looks at me the way a man looks at a prized mare, appreciating the spirit, but fully intending to break it.

"You are a remarkably resilient girl, Elena," Roberto murmurs, setting his glass down. "But killing a rogue Underboss does not stabilize a fractured empire. The Sicilian Capos are circling like sharks. A syndicate requires a patriarch. It requires a firm, guiding hand to prevent the entire structure from collapsing into anarchy. You are out of your depth."

Take the bait, you arrogant prick.

"I am acutely aware of my precarious position," I concede, forcing my voice to soften just enough to sound desperate, feeding his archaic delusions. "The Vitiello resources are vast, but my soldiers are disorganized. I cannot fight a war on two fronts, which brings me to the reason for this summit. I know you brought your personal fleet to our shores, Roberto. I know you intend to absorb our ports."

Roberto’s smile vanishes, replaced by a cold, assessing glare. He realizes I am not entirely ignorant of his logistical maneuvers. "And what do you propose we do about it, little bird?"

"I propose a merger," I state smoothly, projecting the aura of a woman pushed into a corner, seeking the shelter of a stronger man. "I will grant you unrestricted access to the Sicilian shipping lanes. I will hand over the European distribution networks my grandfather built, and I will align the Vitiello family under your crown. In exchange, I want your protection. I want your army to secure my borders and crush the dissenting Capos."

I pause, letting a perfectly calculated beat of silence stretch between us, ensuring Enzo is listening to every single syllable I am about to speak.

"But more importantly," I add, injecting my tone with a venomous, manufactured hatred. "I want Boston eradicated. The Consigliere, Enzo... he thinks he can play god in my city. He thinks he can manipulate the chaos to his advantage. I want him dead, Roberto. I want the men who disgraced my family wiped from the fucking map."

Hearing myself demand Enzo’s death sends a bizarre thrill down my spine, because I know the man monitoring my pulse is likely grinning in the dark brush outside the walls, hopelessly addicted to my performance.

Roberto leans back in his ornate chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. His pale eyes gleam with a triumphant, sadistic joy.

"An incredibly generous offer, Elena," Roberto purrs, his arrogance practically suffocating the room. "I always knew you possessed more sense than your uncle. The Boston faction has become a rot within my organization. They forgot who raised them from the dirt. Partnering with you to cleanse the syndicate seems like a mutually beneficial arrangement."

"Then we are agreed," I say, keeping my expression perfectly neutral as victory sings in my veins. "But I will not legitimize this arrangement with a mere handshake. We will sign a formal blood pact, cementing the alliance between our houses."

"A traditionalist," Roberto chuckles, clearly amused. "I accept your terms."

"However," I interject, my voice turning uncompromising and frigid. "I will not sign away my family's legacy while surrounded by your armed mercenaries. It is an insult to the Vitiello crown, and a blatant disrespect to the neutrality of Villa Rosa. If we are to be partners, Don Severato, give me the dignity of a private parley. Send your guards out of the hall. Let us finalize this agreement as sovereign equals."

Roberto glances toward the four heavily armed guards stationed near the entrance of the dining room. He weighs the request. He knows his men patted me down at the gate. He knows they confiscated my only weapon. He looks back at me, seeing a girl in a silk dress, completely isolated and defenseless in the heart of his temporary fortress. His rotting ego cannot fathom a scenario where I pose a physical threat to him.

He raises his hand, waving his fingers toward the heavy oak doors. "Secure the perimeter corridors. Leave us."

The mercenaries do not question the order. They turn on their heels, their boots marching in unison out of the dining hall. The massive doors click shut with a resounding thud, echoing through the cavernous space.

We are completely alone.