15. Enzo
Enzo
The unmarked transport van jolts over the uneven, unpaved roads leading away from the Vitiello estate, the worn suspension groaning in protest as Giancarlo pushes the engine to its limits.
I sit in the passenger seat, the glow of my encrypted laptop casting a harsh, pale light over the dashboard.
In the back, the surviving operators of the Severato assault squad are busy checking their magazines and tending to minor grazes.
We burned the fucking castle down, I muse, glancing in the rearview mirror to catch a glimpse of the woman sitting just behind me.
Elena stares out the tinted window at the passing Sicilian countryside, her face illuminated by the occasional passing streetlight.
She just executed her own uncle. She shot him in the chest, watching the life drain from his eyes, and she did not shed a single tear.
She sits there with her spine straight, her hands resting calmly in her lap, looking every bit the ruthless sovereign she was born to be.
The chaotic, blinding high of our encounter on the mahogany desk still thrums in my veins.
"The local authorities are definitely going to notice the fireworks show we left behind," Giancarlo remarks, keeping his eyes fixed on the winding road ahead.
His massive hands grip the steering wheel with a relaxed confidence.
"I give it twenty minutes before the fire department and the Carabinieri swarm the hill.
By the time they sift through the rubble, we will be ghosts. "
"Make sure the boys scatter the transport vehicles in different sectors of Palermo," I instruct, returning my focus to the laptop screen.
"I want zero evidence linking the Boston faction to the massacre tonight.
As far as the underworld is concerned, Don Vitiello was eliminated by an internal coup. Elena is the sole surviving heir."
"Consider it done, Boss," Giancarlo grunts, taking a hard left turn that throws us toward the outskirts of the city.
I pull a flash drive from my tactical vest and insert it into the side port of my terminal.
Before we abandoned the study, I used a portable scanner to copy the encrypted ledger Elena discovered in the hidden safe.
I launch my decryption software, my fingers flying across the keys as I route the data through three separate offshore servers to mask my digital footprint.
The handwritten ciphers and nautical identifiers begin translating into plain text across my screen, verifying the terrifying reality Elena deduced back in the estate.
I met with my godfather right here in Palermo just weeks ago.
He smiled at me, drank expensive wine, and tried to get into my head.
It was all a masterful, manipulative lie.
The ledger proves Roberto used Salvatore’s rebellion as a convenient smokescreen.
While I was busy hunting down Volkov mercenaries and dealing with the Vitiello bounty, Roberto was actively positioning his own personal guard across the island, securing the shipping ports for a hostile takeover.
He wants to crush Boston and absorb Sicily in one fell swoop, turning himself into an untouchable emperor.
We reach the safehouse thirty minutes later. The dilapidated exterior remains untouched, the shadows of the alleyway providing excellent cover as we slip through the reinforced front door. Giancarlo dismisses the squad, ordering them to secure the perimeter and vanish into the surrounding blocks.
Once the deadbolt slides into place, the cramped living room feels suffocatingly small. Elena walks straight to the kitchenette, turning on the faucet to wash the grime and gunpowder from her hands. She scrubs her skin with a bar of cheap soap, her movements methodical and precise.
I toss my laptop onto the battered wooden table and unstrap my Kevlar vest, letting the heavy armor drop to the floorboards. I retrieve a half-empty bottle of whiskey from the counter, pouring two generous glasses, and walk over to where she is drying her hands on a ragged towel.
"Drink," I order, handing her the glass. "The adrenaline is going to crash soon. You will need this to take the edge off."
Elena accepts the whiskey, taking a long, unhesitating swallow.
The amber liquid burns down her throat, bringing a flush of color back to her pale cheeks.
She sets the glass down and turns to face me, her dark eyes pinning me in place.
She does not look exhausted or fragile. She looks like a woman demanding answers.
"I do not understand the endgame," she says, her brow furrowing in genuine confusion.
"Roberto is the Don of the Severato syndicate.
Niccolò and Alessio are his sons. You are his Consigliere.
You all control Boston together. Why is he so obsessed with tearing down his own empire?
Why is a father waging a secret war against the boys he raised? "
The question hangs in the cramped room, a dangerous probe into the most guarded, ruined corners of my mind.
I am a man built on secrets. I survive by hiding my vulnerabilities behind perfectly tailored Italian suits and a Harvard law degree, projecting an image of an untouchable, aristocratic attorney.
I never speak of the gutters that forged me.
I never talk about the blood-soaked alleyways or the agonizing horrors I endured before earning my place at the table.
But I am looking at a queen who just murdered her own flesh and blood to protect our alliance. She handed me the keys to her kingdom. She deserves the ugly, unvarnished truth.
Fuck it.
I set my empty glass on the counter, running a rough hand over my jaw. "He does not view us as his sons, Elena. We are assets. We are weapons he forged to protect his throne, and now he is terrified that his weapons are growing too powerful to control."
I step away from the kitchenette, pacing a short line across the scuffed floorboards, the memories clawing their way out of the dark vault in my brain.
"I was not born in a silk-lined crib like the Capos in your family," I begin with a grating rasp.
"I was a street rat. A nobody. I ran numbers for the local crews, collected debts, and took the beatings when the bosses needed a scapegoat.
I was a foot soldier, completely disposable.
When I was sixteen, a rival crew decided to make an example out of me.
They dragged me into a basement, strapped me to a chair, and tortured me for three days.
They broke my ribs, shattered my fingers, and left me bleeding out in a rain-soaked alleyway to die. "
Elena does not interrupt.
"I was lying in the trash, choking on my own blood, waiting for the reaper," I continue, closing my eyes for a fraction of a second as the phantom pain flares in my chest. "A luxury town car pulled up to the curb.
Roberto Severato stepped out. He wore a pristine white suit, and he looked like a fucking god descending from the heavens.
He looked down at my ruined body, extended his hand, and offered me a place in his family.
He told me he could give me power. He told me I would never be a victim again. "
A bitter, humorless laugh scrapes my throat. "I was a dumb, desperate kid. Where else could I go? I kissed his hand, pledging my life to the Severato crown. I thought I was being saved."
I stop pacing, turning to lock my gaze with hers.
"It was worse than the streets," I confess, the words tasting like ash on my tongue.
"Roberto did not want a child. He wanted a dog he could beat into submission.
He took Niccolò, Alessio, and me, and he locked us in a gilded cage of psychological and physical torment.
If we failed a task, he broke our bones.
If we showed a fraction of weakness, he locked us in the dark until we lost our minds.
He pitted us against each other, forcing us to fight for scraps of his approval.
He has this rotting darkness inside his soul, a sadistic need to inflict pain on the people who are supposed to trust him.
He broke us down so he could mold us into perfect, sociopathic killers who would execute his will without question. "
I expect her to soften. I expect the Vitiello princess to offer me a sympathetic look, to reach out with a shaking hand and offer useless platitudes about my survival. Women always want to fix the broken pieces. They want to cry for the abused boy and coddle the scars covering my torso.
Elena does absolutely nothing of the sort.
Her dark eyes turn into chips of freezing, unforgiving ice.
The temperature in the room seems to plummet as a terrifying, homicidal wrath radiates from her pores.
She does not pity me. She matches my internal darkness with her own vindictive fury, her jaw setting into a tight line of pure aggression.
"Where is he?" she demands with a beautiful hiss that makes my cock twitch in my trousers. "Where is this pathetic excuse for a man hiding on my island?"
"I must assume he has a fortified compound somewhere here, he will have lots of men," I reply, mesmerized by the violence swimming in her gaze.
"I do not give a fuck if he surrounds himself with a literal dragon," Elena snaps, taking a step toward me, her hands curling into tight fists at her sides.
"He took a desperate child from an alleyway and turned his salvation into a torture chamber.
He manipulated you, he abused your brothers, and now he thinks he can waltz into Sicily and steal my ports?
No. He does not get to leave this island alive, Enzo. I will not allow it."
I cannot stand the distance between us for another second.
I close the gap, my hands shooting out to grip her hips, hauling her flush against my body.
She collides with my chest, a breathless gasp escaping her lips, and I crash my mouth down onto hers.
I part her lips with an aggressive insistence, my tongue sweeping inside her mouth, tasting the fiery burn of the whiskey mixed with her own natural, addictive sweetness.
"Fuck, you are magnificent," I groan against her mouth, my hands sliding up her back to tangle in the messy strands of her dark hair. I angle her head, deepening the kiss, my tongue sliding against hers in a wet, filthy rhythm that mimics the way I fucked her on that mahogany desk.
Elena whimpers, a needy, gorgeous sound that vibrates against my lips.
She loops her arms around my neck, rising on her toes to press her hips firmly against my groin.
The friction of her grinding against my rigid erection sends a blinding flash of heat straight to my brain.
I bite down on her lower lip, pulling the plush flesh between my teeth, sucking hard enough to elicit another filthy moan from the back of her throat.
"Enzo," she breathes, pulling back just a fraction of an inch, her chest heaving against mine, her lips slick with our shared saliva. "I swear to you right now. You are not fighting him alone."
I trace the curve of her jaw with my thumb, my gaze dropping to her bruised, kiss-swollen mouth. "He has an army, Elena. He has the backing of the old guard."
"And I am the Don of Sicily," she fires back, her eyes blazing with authority.
She slides her hands down my chest, her fingers gripping the lapels of my dark shirt, anchoring me to her.
"The remaining Vitiello men answer exclusively to me now.
Every soldier, every Capo, and every gun on this island belongs to my crown.
And I am pledging the entirety of my forces to your cause. "
I stare at her, struck by the magnitude of her vow. She is handing me the keys to a kingdom she literally just bled to acquire.
"We are going to rip his fucking throat out," Elena promises with a sultry purr that seals the blood pact between us. "Roberto Severato dies in Palermo. I will personally build his pyre."
"Then we go to war, my queen," I whisper, crashing my mouth back onto hers, letting the blinding, consuming heat of her promise burn away the last remaining shadows of my past.