Page 31 of Ruined Through Obsession

"I love you," I cry out, my hips bucking upward to chase the friction of his hand. "I love you, Enzo. Please. I need you."

He withdraws his fingers, the sudden loss of pressure drawing a frustrated whimper from my mouth. He moves forward, aligning the broad head of his cock against my slick entrance.

He drives his hips forward, sinking into my tightness with one smooth, impossibly deep thrust, all the while holding my gaze.

The stretch is magnificent. The tearing, searing fullness steals the oxygen right out of my lungs. I throw my head back against the pillows, my fingernails digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders as he fills me to the hilt. Enzo grinds his jaw, the veins in his neck straining as he fights to control the overwhelming sensation of our bodies fucking.

"Fuck," he swears. He holds himself still for a suspended, agonizing second, letting my inner walls adjust to his impressive girth. "You feel so goddamn good."

He begins to move. He withdraws almost fully before slamming back into me, establishing a pace that shakes the sturdy frame of the bed. The wet, slapping sound of our skin colliding reverberates obscenely in the hushed room, a dirty, degrading symphony that fuels the feral fire burning between us. I wrap my right leg around his narrow waist, locking my heel against his hip to pull him even deeper, taking every single inch he offers.

Enzo leans over me, bracing his forearms on either side of my head to avoid putting any pressure on my stitched bicep. He captures my mouth in another tender kiss, his tongue mimicking the thrusting of his hips. The pleasure coils incredibly tight in my lower belly, twisting higher and higher with every strike. He maps the curves of my breasts, his thumbs brushing my hardened nipples, the dual assault drives me straight toward the end of my sanity.

"Look at me," he commands, tearing his mouth away to stare down into my glazed, ecstatic eyes. Sweat drips from his forehead, landing on my flushed skin. "You are my queen. You rule this island, but you belong to me. Tell me you belong to me."

"I belong to you," I sob, the confession torn from my throat in a ragged, breathless plea. "Only you, Enzo."

The words act as a catalyst, and I shatter around his cock. My internal muscles milk him in a series of frantic, repetitive spasms. A loud, shameless scream rips from my lips, my vision whiting out as the blinding waves of climax wreck my body.

My release snaps his remaining control. Enzo roars my name, and drives his hips upward, burying himself as deep as physically possible, and empties his hot climax inside my core with a series of shuddering, violent thrusts. His massive frame trembles above me, the tension finally draining from his muscles as he pours his soul into mine.

He collapses against my chest. He is careful to keep his mass shifted away from my injured arm, wrapping his arms securely around my waist to hold me flush against his side. We lie tangled on the crisp white sheets, our breathing is loud in the enclosed space, our bodies are slick with a sheen of cooling sweat.

The war in Palermo is officially over. The traditionalist factions are eradicated. Don Vitiello is rotting in a body bag, and Roberto Severato’s reign of terror is permanently extinguished. I claimed my throne today, standing in the blood of my enemies, but the true victory lies in the arms of the man holding me in the dark. Enzo proved my assumptions wrong. He showed me that true power resides in the partnership of two equals willing to burn the world to protect each other.

Enzo shifts his weight, pulling the silk duvet up over our bare bodies, tucking the fabric securely around my shoulders to ward off the chill of the night. He presses a soft kiss against the sweat-dampened skin of my temple, his thumb brushing a stray lock of raven hair behind my ear.

"The island is yours, mia bella," he murmurs against my skin.

I close my eyes, the exhaustion finally pulling me down into a dreamless, restorative sleep. I am safe.

22

Enzo

Elena is sleeping on her side, her face relaxed, her dark hair pooling across the pillowcase. I sit on the edge of the mattress, running a thumb over the fresh white bandage wrapped around her bicep. She confessed her love to me last night. Affection was a vulnerability that got you killed. Roberto taught me that love was a weakness to be exploited, an opening for an enemy to slip a knife into your ribs.

Elena proved him wrong. She offered her heart not as a fragile liability, but as a fierce vow to the man who dismantled her enemies. I lean down, pressing my lips to her warm shoulder.

The next three days blur together.

Elena stays in the safehouse to heal, guarded by two men I trust. I take Giancarlo and the remaining tactical operators out into the blistering Sicilian heat to purge the island of the lingering rot. We hunt down the remaining Vitiello loyalists and the mercenaries Roberto brought across the Atlantic.

On the second afternoon, we breach a shipping warehouse near the southern docks. Giancarlo kicks the rusted metal door off its hinges, leading the assault squad inside. Five of Salvatore Russo's former lieutenants scramble for cover, firing blindly into the blinding sunlight pouring through the doorway.

I step through the threshold, raising my customized submachine gun and tracking the movement of a man diving behind a stack of wooden crates. I squeeze the trigger, sending a burst of hollow-point rounds tearing through the wood and into his chest. He collapses instantly. Giancarlo drops two more with his rifle.

The last surviving lieutenant drops his weapon, falling to his knees on the oil-stained concrete. He raises his trembling hands, begging for mercy in rapid Sicilian dialect. I cross the floor, my boots crushing scattered shell casings. I look down at his terrified face. He funded the bombs that nearly killed the woman sleeping in my bed.

I press the muzzle of my handgun to his forehead and pull the trigger. The gunshot rings out, finalizing the purge. The island is finally cleansed.

I return to the safehouse on the third night, my shirt stained with dirt and copper. I walk into the makeshift office, pulling the encrypted satellite phone from my pocket. I punch in the authorization codes, waiting as the signal bounces across secure offshore relays.

Niccolò answers on the first ring. "Enzo."

"It is finished," I state, leaning my hip against the edge of the wooden desk. "Roberto is dead. I put a bullet in his chest myself. The Vitiello leadership is eradicated. The traditionalists are gone."

A stretching pause fills the connection. In the background, I hear the shifting of a chair and Alessio's unmistakable voice asking a question. Niccolò relays the news to his brother. The blood brothers are mute. Roberto was a monster who terrorized his own bloodline, but he was still the man who gave them life. The grief is complicated, a twisted knot of relief and sorrow that I understand but cannot share. For me, Roberto was just an abuser. For them, he was a father.