Page 29 of Ruined Through Obsession

I lower the Glock, my thumb flicking the safety on before I toss the weapon carelessly onto the mahogany table. I do not spare another glance for the man who tortured me.

I turn around, my boots crunching over the debris, desperate to look at the woman who made this victory possible.

Elena stands near the shattered marble pillar, the ceramic derringer safely tucked away in her garter. The torn black silk of her mourning dress exposes the bloody trench carved into her bicep. The white compression bandage I wrapped around her arm is rapidly turning a frightening shade of crimson. The adrenaline fueling her performance is rapidly bleeding out of her system.

"We did it," I murmur, closing the distance between us with rapid strides.

"The king is dead," Elena replies, her voice softer than usual. A beautiful, wicked smile curves her lips as she looks at my face, recognizing the shift in my soul. She reaches out with her uninjured hand, her fingers brushing the lapel of my dark tactical shirt. "You are free, Enzo."

"I am," I breathe, wrapping my arms gently around her waist, pulling her flush against my chest. "I am going to build an empire with you, mia bella. No more hiding in the shadows. We are taking everything."

She nods, her smile widening for a fraction of a second. "Everything."

Then, her eyes lose their focus.

The wicked, triumphant spark in her dark irises simply vanishes, replaced by a glassy, unfocused vacancy. Her manicured fingers lose their grip on my shirt, her hand sliding limply down my chest. All the color drains from her aristocratic face in a terrifying instant, leaving her skin an ashen, translucent white.

"Elena?" I ask, my brow furrowing in confusion.

Before I can process the sudden shift, her knees buckle.

The strength completely abandons her frame. She collapses forward, dead weight pitching toward the polished hardwood floor.

"Elena!" the scream tearing from my throat as panic erupts in my veins.

I drop to my knees, my arms shooting out to catch her before her head can strike the floorboards. I gather her limp body against my chest, cradling her torso, my brain scrambling to comprehend what is happening. The blood loss. The graze from the mercenary's rifle was worse than she let on, or the staggering drop in adrenaline after the brutal firefight sent her body into shock.

"No, no, no, look at me," I demand, my hands shaking as I tap her pale cheek. Her head lolls against my bicep, her dark hair spilling over my tactical gear. She is completely unresponsive.

I look down at her left arm. The compression bandage is soaked through, the crimson stain spreading rapidly down the torn sleeve of her silk dress. The bullet must have nicked a vein, bleeding her out slowly while she stood there and played the untouchable queen.

"Giancarlo!" I scream at the top of my lungs, my voice cracking with an horrifying desperation. I hit the radio transmitter on my collar with a bloody finger. "Giancarlo, get in here right fucking now! Bring the med kit! We have a man down!"

"Breaching now, Boss," the enforcer barks over the radio, the sound of his heavy boots already pounding down the exterior corridor.

I pull Elena tighter against my chest, rocking her slightly, my hand pressing firmly against the soaked bandage on her arm to stem the bleeding. My hands are coated in her blood, the warm, slick texture sending a jolt of terror straight to my core.

"Stay with me, my queen," I beg, pressing my lips to her clammy forehead, murmuring a stream of frantic promises against her skin. "Do not leave me now. We just won the war. You do not get to leave me now."

The massive oak doors of the dining hall fly open, Giancarlo sprinting into the room with a trauma kit slung over his massive shoulder. He takes one look at the dead bodies, the executed patriarch, and the Consigliere kneeling in the blood, screaming for his sovereign.

"I have you," I whisper to her, lifting her limp body into my arms, refusing to let the darkness take the only light I have ever known.

21

Elena

A biting, agonizing sting drags my consciousness out of the black abyss. I force my eyelids open, blinking against the harsh, artificial light illuminating the ceiling of the safehouse.

I lie flat on the crisp white sheets of the mattress. My ruined dress has been cut away from my left shoulder, leaving me clad only in my black lace undergarments. The searing burn in my bicep flares again, sending a jolt of fire down to my fingertips.

Enzo sits on the edge of the mattress, his broad, muscular torso stripped bare. He holds a curved surgical needle in his calloused fingers, threading black filament through the torn flesh of my arm with a practiced precision. His eyes are narrowed in terrifying concentration, his jaw is locked so tight the muscles feather beneath his skin.

Giancarlo stands near the bedroom doorway, his massive frame blocking the exit. The enforcer holds a basin of warm water and a stack of blood-soaked rags, his scarred face twisted into a grim scowl.

"She is awake, Boss," Giancarlo states.

"I see that," Enzo replies. He does not look away from my wound, tying off a knot in the surgical thread with flawless efficiency. "Give me the status of the cleanup."