Page 45 of Ruined Through Obsession

He pins me against the slick marble wall, his hands gripping my hips with force. It is a stunning, beautiful callback to the first time we sought refuge in a bathroom, hiding from the wreckage of a car bomb in Sicily, finding our initial salvation in the heat of the water and the friction of our bodies.

"You are La mia Fenice," Enzo whispers against the damp skin of my neck, his hot breath mingling with the rising steam. "My beautiful, destructive phoenix."

I whimper, my head falling back against the tile as his mouth trails downward, his teeth scraping the sensitive curve of my collarbone, and sucks the pale flesh.

His large hands part my thighs, lifting my right leg to wrap it securely around his waist. I am already soaking wet, my body weeping for the invasion, craving the friction that will anchor me to the present.

He lines his rigid length at my entrance, holding my gaze with a burning intensity. He drives his hips forward, sinking into my tight, clinging sheath with one thrust.

I whimper, my fingernails biting into the wet, corded muscles of his back as he fills me to the hilt.

I meet every single thrust with my own hips thrusting upward to take him even further inside, matching his aggression stroke for stroke. The scalding water beats against our intertwined bodies, amplifying the sensation of his skin sliding against mine.

Our tongues tangle in a messy exchange of saliva and breath. I bite his lower lip, tasting the heat of his mouth, my hands sliding down to grip the firm swell of his ass to dictate the depth of his penetration.

"Enzo, please," I beg, my inner walls clamping down around his girth in a series of frantic, involuntary spasms. "I am so close."

"Give it to me," he demands, his thrusts turning erratic, his jaw locked tight as he chases the edge of his own release.

30

Enzo

The weeks leading up to this afternoon pass in a chaotic, adrenaline-fueled blur of offshore wire transfers, territorial restructuring, and the bizarre juxtaposition of planning a wedding. Elena treats floral arrangements and catering contracts with the same efficiency she applies to our international shipping lanes. She terrifies the event planners, staring them down with her dark irises until they scramble to fulfill her exact specifications, and every time she issues a command regarding the imported orchids or the vintage champagne, my chest tightens with an overwhelming pride. She refuses to conform to any archaic bridal traditions, tossing aside seating charts that feature sycophantic Capos or opportunistic politicians.

I adjust the cuffs of my bespoke Tom Ford tuxedo, standing in the groom's antechamber of the secluded basilica hidden within the forested outskirts of Massachusetts. The room boasts ancient mahogany paneled walls and imported leather seating, offering a hushed, insulated environment away from the sprawling courtyard where my men are currently holding the perimeter. I glance at my reflection in the gilded mirror, assessing the man staring back at me.

The brass latch on the door clicks, interrupting my scrutiny.

I turn around, expecting my brothers or Giancarlo to deliver a security update, but the individuals crossing the threshold catch me off guard.

Caterina and Livia step into the antechamber. Caterina wears a stunning, tailored sapphire gown that highlights the lines of her cheekbones, carrying a bottle of Macallan 18 and three crystal tumblers with the swagger of a woman who owns every room she enters. Beside her, Livia radiates a serene, compassionate warmth in a flowing blush-colored dress.

"We bribed the guards to look the other way," Caterina announces, setting the crystal tumblers onto a nearby side table and popping the cork on the vintage scotch. "Alessio and Niccolò are currently outside terrorizing the valet staff, which gives us exactly ten minutes to interrogate the groom before you march out to the altar."

"I was under the impression it was bad luck for the bride to see the groom, not the sisters-in-law," I reply, walking over to accept the glass Caterina holds out to me.

"Elena makes her own luck, Enzo, and you know it," Livia murmurs, offering a genuine, affectionate smile as she takes her own glass. She looks at me with a perceptive, knowing gaze that manages to pierce right through the intimidating facade I usually project. "We wanted a moment with you, away from the men and the guns. We wanted to welcome you to the other side of the war."

I take a slow sip of the amber liquid, allowing the burn to coat my throat as I study the two formidable women who fundamentally altered the trajectory of my family.

They tamed the beasts, I muse. They walked into a blood-soaked empire and forced my brothers to remember their humanity.

"I watched the two of you dismantle the walls Niccolò and Alessio built, and I assumed you were magnificent anomalies. I thought I was destined to remain the solitary architect, pulling the strings in the dark so my brothers could enjoy the light you brought them. I never anticipated finding a woman capable of matching my own monstrosity."

Caterina laughs. She leans against the edge of the table, her dark eyes flashing with understanding. "You thought you had to carry the sins of the Severato bloodline all by yourself, Enzo. You took the brunt of Roberto’s madness, and you turned your heart into a fortress of ice to ensure you never get hurt again. But ice inevitably melts when you introduce it to a wildfire, and Elena is a blazing inferno."

"She is," I agree, the mere mention of her name sparking a rush of hot blood straight to my groin. “I am standing here today because she refused to let me rot in my own isolation."

Livia steps forward, her hand reaching out to gently squeeze my forearm. "You are a good man, Enzo. You are a king, and you deserve a queen who recognizes the brilliance of your soul. Elena sees you. She sees every fractured piece of your past, and she loves you because of those pieces, not in spite of them."

"Your father's ghost is finally vanquished," Caterina adds, raising her glass in a solemn, victorious salute. "Roberto failed. He tried to build unfeeling machines, and instead, he created three men who worship their wives and protect their empires with unparalleled loyalty. We defeated him, Enzo. All of us."

I look at the two women standing before me, absorbing the magnitude of their acceptance. I raise my crystal tumbler, tapping it gently against theirs in a resonant chime of solidarity.

"To burning the past," I vow, swallowing the remainder of the scotch.

"To ruling the future," Caterina corrects, a wicked smirk curving her lips.