17. Enzo
Enzo
The sprawling architectural blueprints for Villa Rosa cover every available inch of the scuffed kitchen table, the faded blue ink charting a massive estate nestled deep within a treacherous Sicilian valley.
I lean over the paper, a red marker in my right hand, slashing aggressive lines across the designated access roads.
Giancarlo stands across from me, his massive, tattooed arms crossed over his chest, his brow furrowed in fierce concentration as he absorbs the tactical layout of tomorrow's slaughterhouse.
"The northern ridge is our best vantage point," I instruct, circling an elevated plateau overlooking the central courtyard of the villa.
"I want three suppressed sniper teams dug into the brush before the sun comes up.
They will have a clear line of sight on the main gates and the cobblestone driveway.
Roberto is an arrogant bastard, but he is not stupid.
He will bring an advance guard to sweep the perimeter before his personal vehicle breaches the gates.
Our shooters do not engage until the target is inside the dining hall with Elena. "
Giancarlo nods, tapping a thick finger against the eastern wall of the compound.
"The masonry here is older, mostly limestone and crumbling mortar.
I can plant microscopic surveillance cameras in the cracks of the courtyard pillars and wire them directly to your encrypted tablet.
You will have eyes on every rat that scurries onto the property.
What about the explosives? If we blow the main gates, we risk trapping ourselves inside the blast radius. "
"We are not blowing the gates," I correct him, tracing the route from the dining hall to the rear gardens.
"We wire the secondary exit corridors. When Elena gives the signal, we detonate the rear walls, cutting off their retreat into the valley.
We funnel them back into the courtyard where the snipers will pick them off like fish in a barrel.
I will be inside the villa, waiting in the adjoining parlor.
Once the first charge goes off, I breach the dining room. "
"I will personally oversee the C4 placement," Giancarlo confirms, grabbing a spare radio off the counter. "The boys are restless. They want blood for the vineyard bombing, Boss. By tomorrow night, the Severato patriarch will be a memory."
The enforcer offers a grim, respectful nod before slipping out the front door to coordinate with the squad.
The moment Giancarlo leaves, the pristine, tactical armor I wear begins to fracture.
I stare at the blueprints, but the blue ink blurs, morphing into the horrifying, grime-stained concrete of a Boston basement.
My hands grip the edges of the wooden table so hard my knuckles turn bone-white, the wood groaning in protest under the strain.
I can smell the rotting copper of my own blood.
I can feel the agonizing crunch of my fingers breaking under the weight of a steel pipe.
And stepping out of the shadows, wearing a pristine white suit that mocked the filth I drowned in, is my father.
You belong to me, boy. I own your pain. I own your breath.
A ragged, uneven gasp tears from my throat as the phantom pain rips across my chest. My heart thrashes against my ribs in a frantic, terrifying cadence.
I am the Consigliere. I am the man who calculates odds and slaughters Capos without blinking, but the mere prospect of standing in the same room as the monster who forged me unravels the seams of my sanity.
He conditioned me to fear him. He programmed a visceral, paralyzing terror into my DNA using isolation and torture, and tomorrow night, I have to look into his eyes and pull the trigger.
"Enzo."
The voice is a commanding, beautiful whip that snaps through the haze of my panic.
I blink, my vision clearing just enough to see Elena standing on the opposite side of the table. She wears a simple black silk robe, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulders in a messy, captivating cascade.
She walks around the table, stepping directly into my personal space. She grabs the lapels of my dark shirt, her grip surprisingly strong, and shoves me backward until my spine hits the peeling plaster of the kitchen wall.
"Look at me," she demands, her dark eyes flashing with fire.
"He is in my head," I confess, the admission scraping raw against my throat. "I can feel the cold concrete. I can hear his fucking voice laughing at me."
"His voice is a ghost, and ghosts cannot hurt you," Elena fires back, rising onto her toes to force her face inches from mine.
"You are not a bleeding sixteen-year-old boy in an alleyway.
You are the man who burned my uncle's estate to ash.
You are the predator who owns the Boston underworld.
Tell me where you are, Enzo. Right now."
"I am in Palermo," I rasp, my hands coming up to grip her waist, desperately needing the tactile proof of her existence.
"Who is standing in front of you?" she asks, her voice dropping into a sultry, demanding purr.
"My queen," I whisper.
"Damn right," she says, right before she crashes her mouth against mine.
Her tongue slips past my teeth, tasting of mint and wicked intent. She does not kiss me like a woman seeking romance, she kisses me like a sovereign claiming her territory. I groan, opening my mouth wider to grant her unrestricted access, my tongue tangling with hers in a wet, filthy rhythm.
She bites down on my lower lip, her teeth sinking into the plush flesh until I taste a drop of copper.
The sting is magnificent, a searing anchor that tethers my spiraling mind directly to the present.
I slide my hands down her waist, gripping the swell of her ass through the thin silk of her robe, lifting her off the floor.
She wraps her legs tightly around my waist, her wet center pressing directly against the rigid, aching length of my erection trapped behind my denim jeans.
"Fuck, you taste so good," I growl against her mouth, walking us backward until I press her against the edge of the kitchen counter.
"Then eat," she challenges, her breath hitching as I drag my open mouth down the column of her throat.
I suck the sensitive skin right over her collarbone, swirling my tongue over the purple bruises I left days ago, marking her all over again.
She whimpers, a needy, gorgeous sound that feeds the starving beast inside my chest. I push the silk robe off her shoulders, letting the fabric pool around her elbows, exposing the pale, beautiful curves of her breasts.
I take a hardened nipple into my mouth, sucking hard, rolling the sensitive peak between my teeth while my fingers slide underneath the silk covering her thighs.
She is soaking wet for me, a slick, inviting heat that makes my brain short-circuit. I slip two fingers inside her tight passage, and she arches her back, a filthy moan ripping from her throat.
"You are so fucking wet," I praise her, pumping my fingers in a relentless, driving motion that mimics the thrust of my hips. "Tell me who you belong to, Elena."
"You," she gasps, her fingernails digging crescent moons into the muscles of my shoulders. "Only you, Enzo. Harder. Please."
I increase the pace, my thumb aggressively circling the swollen nub of her clitoris.
Her hips buck wildly against my hand, chasing the blistering friction.
She is a magnificent creature of violence and lust, a woman who demands the darkest, most ruined parts of my soul and matches them with her own.
I watch the pleasure contort her beautiful face, my own arousal straining painfully against my zipper.
"I am going to tear him apart for what he did to you," Elena sobs, the orgasm crashing over her in a brilliant wave. Her inner walls clamp down around my fingers, her body shivering violently as she rides out the intense climax.
I hold her against my chest, burying my face in the crook of her neck, my heart finally beating in a normal, controlled rhythm. The ghosts are banished, replaced by the reality of the woman breathing in my arms. She anchored me.
"I am right here," I murmur, kissing the sweat-dampened skin of her temple. "I am not going anywhere."
The following evening, the safehouse resembles a subterranean armory preparing for a siege.
I stand by the battered wooden table, expertly sliding a fresh magazine into the grip of my customized Glock.
The metallic clack of the chamber racking a round sounds like music to my ears.
My black tactical trousers and fitted sweater blend seamlessly into the impending night, a modern suit of armor designed for a bloodbath.
The bathroom door opens, and Elena steps out, stealing the oxygen straight from my lungs.
She wears a designer mourning dress, the midnight-black fabric clinging to the curves of her hips before flowing gracefully to her ankles.
The neckline is modest, a deceptive display of aristocratic grief, while a dangerous slit travels up her left thigh, offering unrestricted mobility.
Her dark hair is pinned back in a sleek, elegant style, highlighting the sharp, patrician lines of her face.
She looks like a grieving widow stepping out of a cathedral, but the calculating, homicidal fire burning in her eyes tells an entirely different story.
She is a Trojan horse wrapped in Italian silk.
"The couriers confirmed Roberto received the invitation," Elena announces, slipping a compact, suppressed pistol into the custom holster strapped to her thigh, the weapon hidden perfectly by the draping fabric of her dress.
"He agreed to the parley at Villa Rosa. He demanded I arrive alone, unarmed, and wait in the central dining hall. "
"He will search you at the doors," I warn, crossing the room to stand in front of her. "His guards will pat you down. They will find the thigh holster."
"I know," she replies, a wicked, knowing smirk curving her painted lips.
"I am going to let them find it. If I walk into a sit-down with the most dangerous man in Boston without a weapon, he will instantly suspect a trap.
Discovering a small, defensive pistol will satisfy his paranoia.
He will confiscate the gun, pat himself on the back for disarming the foolish little girl, and lead me straight to his table. "
Her brilliance is staggering, a ruthless manipulation of Roberto’s inherent arrogance. I reach out, my calloused fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
"I have a gift for you," I say, pulling a tiny, transparent adhesive square from the pocket of my tactical trousers. Embedded within the center of the patch is a microscopic computer chip, no larger than a grain of rice.
Elena narrows her eyes, inspecting the device resting on my index finger. "Giancarlo mentioned the audio transmitters, but that does not look like a microphone, Enzo."
"It is a biometric tracker," I admit. "It monitors your heart rate, tracks your adrenaline spikes, and broadcasts a real-time GPS signal directly to my encrypted tablet. Turn around."
She does not move. She crosses her arms over the bodice of her black dress, a stubborn, defiant glare hardening her features. "We discussed this. I am walking into Villa Rosa as an equal, not a tagged asset. I do not need a babysitter monitoring my pulse while I negotiate with a tyrant."
"You are getting the tracker," I growl, closing the final inch of space between us, my imposing frame forcing her to tilt her head back.
"I am sending the only woman I love into a room with a sadistic psychopath.
I am allowing you to play bait in a game where the loser ends up in a shallow grave.
You demand autonomy, and I respect your right to orchestrate this ambush, but I refuse to apologize for my obsessive need to ensure you do not become a casualty of my family's war.
If your heart rate spikes into a panic, or if that GPS signal moves toward the exit, I am blowing the walls down early. "
The only woman I love.
The confession slips from my lips naturally, a profound, undeniable truth that I never expected to speak aloud.
I spent my entire life avoiding emotional attachments, viewing love as a catastrophic liability that enemies could exploit.
Now, staring at the fierce, beautiful sovereign willing to risk her own life to help me execute my abuser, I realize love is the most terrifying, powerful weapon in my arsenal.
Elena's defiant posture softens, her dark eyes widening slightly as the magnitude of my words washes over her. The irritation melts away, replaced by a breathtaking vulnerability she rarely allows the world to see.
She uncrosses her arms and silently turns her back to me, sweeping her dark hair over her left shoulder to expose the nape of her neck.
I step forward, pressing the microscopic adhesive patch directly against the sensitive skin right below her hairline. The tracker binds to her flesh, practically invisible to the naked eye. I lean down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss over the exact spot.
"The audio bug is stitched into the lace collar of your dress," I murmur, my hands resting on her hips. "I will hear every breath you take. I will hear every word he says."
Elena turns back around to face me, her expression hardening back into the ruthless, calculating mask of the Don of Vitiello family. She reaches up, her manicured fingers smoothing the lapels of my dark shirt.
"You wait for my signal, Consigliere," she instructs. "When I say the word, you burn the fucking roof down on his head."
"I will paint the walls with his blood," I promise.
I turn away, grabbing the encrypted tablet and my submachine gun from the kitchen table
As I walk toward the reinforced front door, I make a vow to myself, if that bastard looks at her wrong, if he raises his voice, if he even breathes in her direction incorrectly, the strategy burns.
The plan becomes void, and I will slaughter every single breathing soul in that villa just to watch him choke on his own arrogance.
I slide the deadbolt back, throwing the door open to reveal the suffocating, humid Sicilian night.
"Let's go kill a king," I say, leading my queen into the dark.