12. Elena
Elena
I stare at Enzo, letting the ridiculousness of his command hang in the space between us.
He stands there in his now freshly acquired dress shirt-thanks to my wardrobe-projecting an arrogant, immovable authority that usually bends men to his will.
But I am not one of his soldiers, and I refuse to be treated like a precious porcelain ornament he needs to lock inside a display case while he orchestrates the destruction of my family.
"I am not staying behind," I tell him, leaving no room for debate.
"You have the blueprints, Enzo. You have the electrical grids and the camera blind spots.
What you do not have is the foundational knowledge of a woman who spent the first eighteen years of her life roaming those exact halls.
He renovated the east wing, yes, but he did not touch the original masonry in the servant quarters.
Those corridors are a maze that look like dead ends to anyone who doesn't know to press the loose stones near the baseboards.
I know the rusted hinges that will squeak and alert the guards.
I know the floorboards on the second landing that groan under a man's boot.
Blueprints show you the walls, but they do not show you the traps. "
Enzo studies me, his icy blue eyes tracking the defiant set of my jaw and the uncompromising posture of my shoulders.
A slow, dark smirk curves his lips, an expression of genuine approval that sends a thrilling jolt down my spine.
He sees the logic in my defiance. He recognizes that I am not seeking danger for the thrill of it, I am offering a tactical advantage that could mean the difference between his survival and his slaughter.
"Fine," Enzo agrees smoothly. "You take the point on the interior infiltration. But you stay glued to my side the entire time. If things go sideways, you do not play the hero."
"Deal," I murmur, satisfied that he respects my intelligence enough to bring me into the fray.
The next forty-eight hours dissolve into a frantic blur of logistical preparation and agonizing anticipation. We remain confined to my safehouse, surviving on lukewarm coffee and adrenaline, waiting for the Severato machine to mobilize.
On the second night, a specific, coded knock rattles the reinforced front door.
I draw my Glock, aiming the barrel at the center mass of the doorway while Enzo slides the deadbolt back.
The door swings open to reveal Giancarlo, Enzo’s most trusted enforcer.
The massive, heavily tattooed man steps into the gloom of my living room, hauling two enormous black canvas duffel bags over his broad shoulders.
He drops the bags onto the floorboards with a resounding thud, the distinct clatter of assorted firearms and tactical ordinance echoing through the cramped space.
"Boss," Giancarlo greets, a rugged grin splitting his bearded face as he takes in the sight of Enzo.
"Good to see you haven't bled out in the gutters.
I sat in that miserable hotel room for days watching the local news, waiting for the Sicilian authorities to fish your corpse out of the harbor.
I should have known the Boston reaper wouldn't go down that easy. "
"It takes more than a vineyard bombing to put me in the ground," Enzo replies, clapping his enforcer on the shoulder. "Is the transport secured?"
"Three unmarked vans parked exactly where your contact said they would be," Giancarlo confirms, his gaze shifting past Enzo to land on me.
He takes in my dark jeans, my fitted black sweater, and the weapon resting securely in my grip.
He offers a respectful nod, acknowledging my presence without a shred of the typical misogynistic condescension I experience from the men in my uncle's ranks.
"The assault squad made landfall an hour ago.
We are loaded up and waiting for the signal. "
"Good," Enzo says, unzipping the first duffel bag to reveal a staggering arsenal of suppressed submachine guns, breaching charges, and sleek black tactical gear. "Did you bring what I asked for?"
"Fresh clothes, right on top," Giancarlo replies, stepping back to give his boss room. "I know you hate operating in a dirty suit."
Enzo pulls a bundle of black clothing from the bag, finally discarding the ruined, blood-stained garments he has worn since the assassination attempt.
He changes, the sleek, functional gear molding to his muscular frame, transforming him from a sophisticated corporate attorney into the terrifying predator the underworld whispers about.
He looks like a nightmare crafted from shadows and malice, a brutal executioner preparing to march into a warzone.
He turns to the second bag, extracting a custom-fitted Kevlar vest. He walks over to where I am standing by the table and tosses the body armor onto my chest. I catch it, adjusting the rigid plates against my torso as Enzo steps into my personal space.
His rough, calloused hands brush my knuckles aside, taking over the task of securing the Velcro straps across my ribs.
He pulls the straps tight, ensuring the protective plating covers my vital organs, his knuckles grazing the sides of my breasts in a way that sends a flush of heat blooming across my skin.
"Check your weapon," Enzo commands, his face inches from mine, his eyes burning with a possessive fire.
I eject the magazine from my Glock, verifying the stacked rows of brass cartridges before slamming it back into the grip. I rack the slide, chambering a round with a satisfying, metallic clack. "Loaded. Safety off the second we clear the gates."
Enzo reaches up, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck, tilting my head back to expose my throat.
He maps the dark, blooming bruises he left on my skin two nights ago, a vicious smile playing on his lips.
"We cut the power at the junction box. We wait forty-five seconds for the grid to die.
We blow the service doors, and we push straight for the study.
You guide me through the servant corridors, Elena.
You do not hesitate, and you do not stop moving until he is trapped. "
"I know the plan, Consigliere," I whisper, my blood singing with the promise of vengeance.
Enzo dips his head, capturing my mouth in a bruising, demanding kiss. He pulls back, his thumb swiping across my lower lip, his gaze locked onto mine.
"Let's go take your throne," he says.
I sit in the passenger seat of the lead transport van, the rugged terrain of the Sicilian hills jolting the suspension as Giancarlo navigates the unlit, winding dirt roads.
Enzo sits in the back with eight of his most lethal operators, the interior of the vehicle smells strongly of gun oil, sweat, and impending death.
Nobody speaks. The Severato men do not require last-minute motivational speeches or arrogant posturing.
They are professionals, functioning with a terrifying, synchronized cohesion that makes my uncle's hired mercenaries look like amateur street thugs.
Giancarlo kills the headlights a mile away from the compound, relying on night-vision optics to steer the van into the dense tree line bordering the northern perimeter.
The tires crunch softly against the gravel as we roll to a halt, the massive, fortified concrete walls of the Vitiello estate looming in the darkness like an impenetrable fortress.
We slip out of the vehicles, the humid night air immediately clinging to my skin.
Enzo moves to the front of the formation, signaling for Team Alpha to peel off toward the junction box hidden in the brush.
I rack a round into the chamber of my Glock, the sound swallowed by the ambient noise of the crickets and the rustling leaves.
Three minutes later, the towering floodlights illuminating the compound walls flicker and die. The entire estate plunges into pitch blackness.
"Go," Enzo orders through the localized comms unit strapped to his chest.
We sprint across the manicured lawn, closing the distance to the eastern service entrances. Two of Giancarlo's operators slap blocks of C4 against the reinforced steel hinges of the doors, stepping back and engaging the detonators.
The explosion is a concussive, deafening blast that shatters the tranquility of the Sicilian night. The steel doors blow inward, twisting off their frames in a cloud of smoke and pulverized concrete.
The Severato squad pours through the breach before the smoke can even begin to clear, bringing the ruthless efficiency of the Boston underworld straight into the heart of my family's empire.
The ground floor erupts into chaotic, blinding violence.
Muzzle flashes strobe in the darkness, illuminating the terrified faces of the mercenaries as they scramble to respond to the invasion.
The suppressive fire from Enzo's men is unrelenting, dropping the guards with precise double-taps to the chest and head.
There is no mercy, no hesitation, just an eradication of the obstacles standing in our path.
"Elena, move!" Enzo shouts over the roar of the gunfire, grabbing my arm and pulling me behind the cover of a shattered marble pillar.
I nod, orienting myself in the smoky, blood-slicked grand foyer. I point toward the archway leading into the kitchens, bypassing the sprawling main staircase where the bulk of the Vitiello security forces are currently funneling downward to engage Giancarlo's squad.
"Through the pantry," I instruct, keeping my posture low as I dart across the open space, my boots slipping slightly on the polished tiles.
Enzo covers my six, his submachine gun spitting a deadly barrage of bullets to suppress a pair of guards attempting to flank us from the dining room.
We burst through the swinging wooden doors of the kitchen, the air inside thick with the scent of spices and the metallic tang of fresh blood from a guard already bleeding out near the commercial stoves.
I rush past the sprawling butcher blocks, pushing open a nondescript door designed to blend into the oak paneling. It reveals a narrow, unlit spiral staircase meant exclusively for the domestic staff.
"This bypasses the second-floor landing," I whisper, taking the steps two at a time, my lungs burning as I push my body to its physical limits. "It dumps us directly into the east wing corridor, twenty yards from my uncle's study."
Enzo follows close behind, his massive frame taking up the entirety of the cramped stairwell.
We hit the top landing, pausing for a fraction of a second to listen to the chaotic symphony of destruction tearing through the main house below us.
The screams of dying men and the continuous chatter of automatic weapons confirm that Giancarlo is keeping the garrison occupied, leaving the path to Don Vitiello relatively undefended.
I push the hidden door open, stepping out into the opulent, carpeted expanse of the east wing. The backup generators finally kick on, bathing the hallway in a sickly, amber emergency glow.
We take three steps toward the reinforced oak doors of the study before a figure steps out from an adjoining guest room, a customized assault rifle raised and pointed directly at Enzo's exposed flank.
I freeze, my blood turning to ice in my veins.
It is Marco.
The grizzled, gray-haired guard has been on the Vitiello payroll since I was a little girl.
He taught me how to saddle my first horse in the stables out back.
He sneaked me extra portions of dessert from the kitchens when my father placed me on strict diets.
He is a fixture of my childhood, a man who showed me countless small kindnesses in a world devoid of warmth.
Marco’s eyes widen in shock as he registers my face, the barrel of his rifle wavering for a fraction of a second. "Elena?" he breathes, the confusion evident in his rough voice. "What are you doing? He is a Severato."
He does not lower his weapon. His loyalty to the paycheck Vitiello signs overrides his affection for the disgraced niece. His finger tightens on the trigger, preparing to put a burst of incendiary rounds into the man protecting me.
I raise my Glock, squaring my shoulders, and squeeze the trigger.
The gunshot is deafening in the confined corridor. The hollow-point bullet strikes Marco squarely in the center of his forehead. His head snaps back, a spray of crimson painting the expensive flocked wallpaper behind him, and he collapses onto the Persian rug like a discarded ragdoll.
The smell of burnt gunpowder fills my nostrils, mixing with the sudden, metallic scent of blood pooling around Marco's boots.
I stare at his lifeless body, my hands perfectly still, my breathing controlled.
I just murdered a man I have known for a decade to protect the rival boss I spent the night with, cementing my treason in undeniable bloodshed.
Enzo lowers his own weapon, stepping over the corpse to stand beside me. He looks down at Marco, then turns his icy, calculating gaze toward my face, evaluating my reaction to the kill.