Page 38 of Ruined Through Obsession

"I purged my own bloodline to secure this empire. I watched the men who betrayed my family rot in the dirt, and I stepped over their corpses to claim my birthright. If the American Commission wishes to send their fragile, outsourced mercenaries to my island, I welcome the target practice. I will mount their heads on the rusted gates of the southern ports and broadcast the execution to every single boss residing in New York. Do not ever mistake my diplomatic grace for a lack of homicidal capability."

Alessio’s wicked grin slowly transforms into a mask of genuine respect. He recognizes the fire burning in my words, acknowledging that the woman sitting across from him possesses the exact, cold-blooded ruthlessness required to govern a territory as treacherous as Palermo.

Niccolò steepled his fingers beneath his chin and look past me, his dark eyes locking onto the Consigliere standing like a sentinel at my back.

"You brought a monster into my home, Enzo," Niccolò observes, a rare, appreciative smirk softening the harsh lines of his jaw.

"I brought a Queen, brother," Enzo corrects him smoothly, which sends a rush of heat straight down my spine. "And I strongly suggest the American hierarchy learns to bow, because her patience for archaic traditions is remarkably thin."

"The Commission is mobilizing to formally challenge the integration," Niccolò states, shifting the discussion toward actionable strategy. "They summoned a tribunal in downtown Boston for tomorrow evening. They intend to leverage the Volkov capital to force a vote, demanding we sever our ties with the Vitiello faction or face a coordinated, multi-family assault on our northern boundaries."

"Then we will attend the tribunal," I announce, rising from the leather chair with a smooth, purposeful motion. "If they refuse the diplomatic surrender, we will obliterate their infrastructure and slaughter them in the streets. Either way, Palermo remains mine."

Niccolò frowns and shares a look with Alessio.

What does that mean?

26

Enzo

The fractional frown marring Niccolò’s features is a wordless, complex language I have spent a long time translating. He exchanges a fleeting glance with Alessio, a swift conversation passing between the two men who rule the Boston underworld. I know exactly what algorithms are running through Niccolò’s brain. He is calculating the body count. He is running the logistics of marching a newly crowned Sicilian queen into a tribunal packed full of archaic, misogynistic mob bosses who view women as collateral rather than conquerors.

He wonders if the Mediterranean shipping lanes are worth the vast amount of ammunition we will expend defending her throne from the Commission’s wrath.

My brothers respect violence, and they undeniably recognize the display of power Elena just exhibited by detailing the execution of her own traitorous lieutenant. But Niccolò is the reigning Don, a sovereign tasked with securing Massachusetts' borders against an impending Russian siege. Backing Elena means officially tearing up the traditional rulebook and throwing the pieces into the faces of the most vicious patriarchs on the eastern seaboard.

I step away from the shadows, abandoning my stationary position behind Elena’s chair, closing the distance to the polished mahogany table. The movement draws the immediate focus of both my brothers, their eyes tracking the sudden shift in my demeanor.

"You are hesitating, brother," I state. "You are looking at the impending tribunal and wondering if the volatile integration of the Vitiello cartel justifies the blood we will invariably spill tomorrow night."

Niccolò steeples his fingers, maintaining his composure, though a spark of intrigue flares in his gaze. "The Commission is looking for an excuse to strike, Enzo. They are terrified of our expansion, and utilizing the Volkov Bratva capital gives them the financial backing to fund a proxy war. Parading a female Don into their sacred council is akin to throwing a lit match into a pool of gasoline. I am simply evaluating the structural integrity of our defenses before we ignite the inferno."

"The inferno is already burning," I counter smoothly, bracing my hands flat against the glossy wood of the table, leaning forward to project my dominance. "The Volkovs sent mercenaries to our shores long before Elena claimed her crown. They want to absorb our territories and fracture our alliances. We cannot placate the old-guard bosses by attempting to play within the confines of their outdated, pathetic traditions. The only way to command their respect is to show them we possess the superior firepower and the superior intellect."

I turn my head slightly, my eyes locking onto the beautiful woman sitting beside me.

"Elena is not a diplomatic liability, Niccolò," I declare, shifting my focus back to the Don, ensuring my tone conveys the reality of my allegiance. "She is the key to boxing the Commission into an inescapable corner. She controls the European ports, and she holds the logistical power to starve the Russian supply lines before their weapons ever reach the Atlantic. But more importantly, she is my equal."

Alessio leans back in his leather chair, crossing his tattooed arms over his massive chest, a wicked, knowing smirk spreading across his face as he observes my uncharacteristic passion.

"I am drawing a line in the sand right now," I continue, refusing to yield a single inch of territory in this negotiation. "If the Commission attempts to strip her of her title, or if any boss in that tribunal dares to disrespect her presence, they will answer to my gun. Challenging Elena’s authority in Sicily is equivalent to challenging the Consigliere himself. Her throne is my throne, and I will gladly tear this city apart brick by brick to ensure she keeps it."

My brothers stare at me, absorbing the magnitude of my declaration. I just staked my coveted position, my legal career, and my life on the woman sitting at the table. I officially merged my destiny with hers, demanding that the Severato empire recognize her not as a foreign entity seeking a treaty, but as a permanent extension of our own family.

Niccolò’s gaze shifts from my face to Elena’s, assessing the unified front we present. He sees a man who finally found a reason to step out of the pristine shadows, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a queen who refuses to flinch in the face of a massacre.

A genuine smile softens the harsh, austere lines of the Don’s jaw. He reaches across the table, picking up a crystal tumbler of scotch, raising the amber liquid in a gesture of profound, brotherly approval.

"I always wondered what it would take to ignite the fire inside you, Enzo," Niccolò murmurs, his voice resonating with finality. "It appears the answer was a Sicilian mastermind wearing a crimson suit."

Niccolò takes a sip of the liquor, setting the glass down with a resounding, definitive clack that seals our pact.

"The Vitiello cartel is formally recognized," the Don decrees, ratifying her position and cementing the international alliance without a shred of lingering doubt. "We march into the Commission tribunal tomorrow evening as a united superpower. Enzo, you will prepare the blackmail portfolios. Alessio, organize the tactical strike teams and secure the perimeter of the meeting hall. If those archaic bastards refuse to bow to the new Don of Palermo, we will paint the streets with their blood."

"It will be an honor to facilitate their ruin," Alessio purrs, cracking his knuckles with a savage, unrestrained enthusiasm.

"We are finished here," Niccolò concludes, rising from his chair to signal the end of the council. "Go home, brother."