18. Elena
Elena
The winding, treacherous roads of the Sicilian valley offer nothing but impenetrable darkness, the headlights of my solitary town car slicing through the thick evening fog.
I sit in the leather backseat, watching the ancient, limestone walls of Villa Rosa materialize through the gloom.
The estate is a sprawling monument to old money and forgotten truces, an isolated fortress nestled among rolling hills and dying vineyards.
Tonight, it will serve as an execution block.
I smooth my hands over the midnight-black silk of my mourning dress, feeling the microscopic biometric tracker adhering to the skin at the nape of my neck.
Every inhale I take, every frantic beat of my heart, transmits directly to the encrypted tablet Enzo holds in the shadows.
He is out there, lurking in the brush with his snipers, a terrifying apex predator waiting for my command.
The audio bug stitched flawlessly into the lace collar of my bodice acts as our invisible tether
The car tires crunch over the gravel driveway, rolling to a halt before the massive, iron-wrought gates of the courtyard.
Showtime.
I step out of the vehicle, the humid night air instantly clinging to my bare skin.
My black heels click against the ancient cobblestones, announcing the arrival of the Vitiello sovereign.
Five of Roberto Severato’s elite mercenaries block the carved wooden doors of the main house.
They wear tactical gear, their suppressed assault rifles resting aggressively against their chests.
They look at me not with the respect owed to a Don, but with the condescending amusement of wolves cornering a stray lamb.
"Stop right there, princess," the lead guard barks, a hulking brute with a jagged scar running down his jawline. He steps forward, blocking my path, his hand resting on the grip of his sidearm. "Nobody sees the boss without a thorough search."
"I am the head of the Vitiello family," I state, my voice dripping with an aristocratic disdain that immediately wipes the smirk off his face. I raise my arms away from my sides, offering him a frigid, unimpressed glare. "Make it fast. I do not like being kept waiting in the damp."
The brute sneers, stepping into my personal space.
He runs his rough, calloused hands down the sides of my ribcage, checking for a wire, completely missing the microscopic technology hidden in the lace.
His palms slide aggressively over my hips, moving down to the dangerous slit running up my left leg.
He pushes the silk aside, his fingers brushing the bare skin of my thigh before hitting the leather strap of my custom holster.
He rips the compact, suppressed pistol from the leather, holding it up into the dim glow of the courtyard lanterns with a triumphant scoff.
"Thought you were coming unarmed to a peace summit, little bird?" he mocks, ejecting the magazine and tossing the bullets onto the cobblestones.
I let out a harsh, irritated sigh, perfectly feigning the annoyance of a woman caught in a lie. "A woman traveling alone on these treacherous roads requires precautions. Keep the weapon. I have no use for it inside."
The guard buys the performance completely.
He tucks my confiscated pistol into his own belt, his ego massively inflated by the belief that he just disarmed the foolish, paranoid niece.
His misogyny is so gloriously predictable.
He nods to the men behind him, and they pull the heavy oak doors open, granting me unimpeded entry into the cavernous belly of the estate.
I walk through the corridors, my posture impeccably straight.
The villa smells of damp earth, expensive cigar smoke, and polished mahogany.
I reach the central dining hall, a massive room boasting a vaulted ceiling decorated with fading Renaissance frescoes.
A sprawling, rectangular dining table dominates the space, illuminated by a grand crystal chandelier.
Sitting at the far end of the table, nursing a glass of expensive Barolo, is the architect of Enzo’s worst nightmares.
Roberto Severato looks sickeningly refined.
He wears a pristine, tailored white suit that contrasts violently with the filthy, sadistic rot festering inside his soul.
His silver hair is swept back flawlessly, and his eyes track my approach with a calculating, predatory interest. He looks like a respected statesman, a benevolent patriarch, but knowing the horrors he inflicted upon a sixteen-year-old boy in a Boston basement makes my blood boil with a homicidal wrath.
I am going to watch you bleed out on this beautiful floor.
"Elena Vitiello," Roberto greets. He does not stand up to greet me. It is a calculated power play, designed to remind me that he views himself as the superior sovereign. "My deepest condolences on the tragic loss of your uncle. The streets of Palermo are weeping."
I pull out a high-backed wooden chair opposite him and sit down, arranging the skirts of my silk dress. "The streets of Palermo are panicked, Don Severato. They do not weep for fools."
Roberto pauses, his wine glass hovering inches from his mouth. A spark of genuine surprise flashes in his pale eyes, intrigued by my lack of conventional grief. "A bold statement to make about your own bloodline."
"I deal in facts, not sentiment," I reply, leaning forward slightly, resting my manicured hands on the polished mahogany.
"My uncle was a coward who trusted a traitor.
Salvatore Russo orchestrated the bombing in the vineyard to remove me from the board, and then he put a bullet in my uncle's chest to usurp the throne.
I returned the favor by putting a bullet between Salvatore's eyes. "
I feed him the lie we constructed, wrapping the deceit in enough truth to make it undeniably authentic. Roberto tilts his head, a sickeningly patronizing smile curving his lips. He looks at me the way a man looks at a prized mare, appreciating the spirit, but fully intending to break it.
"You are a remarkably resilient girl, Elena," Roberto murmurs, setting his glass down.
"But killing a rogue Underboss does not stabilize a fractured empire.
The Sicilian Capos are circling like sharks.
A syndicate requires a patriarch. It requires a firm, guiding hand to prevent the entire structure from collapsing into anarchy. You are out of your depth."
Take the bait, you arrogant prick.
"I am acutely aware of my precarious position," I concede, forcing my voice to soften just enough to sound desperate, feeding his archaic delusions.
"The Vitiello resources are vast, but my soldiers are disorganized.
I cannot fight a war on two fronts, which brings me to the reason for this summit.
I know you brought your personal fleet to our shores, Roberto. I know you intend to absorb our ports."
Roberto’s smile vanishes, replaced by a cold, assessing glare. He realizes I am not entirely ignorant of his logistical maneuvers. "And what do you propose we do about it, little bird?"
"I propose a merger," I state smoothly, projecting the aura of a woman pushed into a corner, seeking the shelter of a stronger man.
"I will grant you unrestricted access to the Sicilian shipping lanes.
I will hand over the European distribution networks my grandfather built, and I will align the Vitiello family under your crown.
In exchange, I want your protection. I want your army to secure my borders and crush the dissenting Capos. "
I pause, letting a perfectly calculated beat of silence stretch between us, ensuring Enzo is listening to every single syllable I am about to speak.
"But more importantly," I add, injecting my tone with a venomous, manufactured hatred.
"I want Boston eradicated. The Consigliere, Enzo...
he thinks he can play god in my city. He thinks he can manipulate the chaos to his advantage.
I want him dead, Roberto. I want the men who disgraced my family wiped from the fucking map. "
Hearing myself demand Enzo’s death sends a bizarre thrill down my spine, because I know the man monitoring my pulse is likely grinning in the dark brush outside the walls, hopelessly addicted to my performance.
Roberto leans back in his ornate chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. His pale eyes gleam with a triumphant, sadistic joy.
"An incredibly generous offer, Elena," Roberto purrs, his arrogance practically suffocating the room.
"I always knew you possessed more sense than your uncle.
The Boston faction has become a rot within my organization.
They forgot who raised them from the dirt.
Partnering with you to cleanse the syndicate seems like a mutually beneficial arrangement. "
"Then we are agreed," I say, keeping my expression perfectly neutral as victory sings in my veins. "But I will not legitimize this arrangement with a mere handshake. We will sign a formal blood pact, cementing the alliance between our houses."
"A traditionalist," Roberto chuckles, clearly amused. "I accept your terms."
"However," I interject, my voice turning uncompromising and frigid.
"I will not sign away my family's legacy while surrounded by your armed mercenaries.
It is an insult to the Vitiello crown, and a blatant disrespect to the neutrality of Villa Rosa.
If we are to be partners, Don Severato, give me the dignity of a private parley.
Send your guards out of the hall. Let us finalize this agreement as sovereign equals. "
Roberto glances toward the four heavily armed guards stationed near the entrance of the dining room.
He weighs the request. He knows his men patted me down at the gate.
He knows they confiscated my only weapon.
He looks back at me, seeing a girl in a silk dress, completely isolated and defenseless in the heart of his temporary fortress.
His rotting ego cannot fathom a scenario where I pose a physical threat to him.
He raises his hand, waving his fingers toward the heavy oak doors. "Secure the perimeter corridors. Leave us."
The mercenaries do not question the order. They turn on their heels, their boots marching in unison out of the dining hall. The massive doors click shut with a resounding thud, echoing through the cavernous space.
We are completely alone.
The trap is irrevocably set. I slide my right hand under the edge of the mahogany table, my fingers brushing against the cold glass of my encrypted phone hidden within a concealed fold of my underwear.
"You are making a very wise decision tonight, Elena," Roberto says, reaching for the open bottle of Barolo to refill his glass, completely oblivious to the invisible crosshairs currently resting on his chest. "I will teach you how a true empire is managed.
The boys in Boston were flawed experiments.
Too much emotion, too much erratic anger.
But you and I... we are going to build something spectacular. "
You are going to die choking on your own blood.
"To a new era, Don Severato," I say, offering him a polite smile.
Roberto raises his glass, the red wine catching the light of the crystal chandelier like a pool of fresh blood. "To the future, my dear."
"To burning the past," I reply, holding his pale, sadistic gaze without a fraction of fear.
Beneath the table, my thumb presses the send icon, transmitting the single, pre-arranged code word to the reaper waiting in the dark.
Burn.