21. Elena
Elena
A biting, agonizing sting drags my consciousness out of the black abyss. I force my eyelids open, blinking against the harsh, artificial light illuminating the ceiling of the safehouse.
I lie flat on the crisp white sheets of the mattress. My ruined dress has been cut away from my left shoulder, leaving me clad only in my black lace undergarments. The searing burn in my bicep flares again, sending a jolt of fire down to my fingertips.
Enzo sits on the edge of the mattress, his broad, muscular torso stripped bare.
He holds a curved surgical needle in his calloused fingers, threading black filament through the torn flesh of my arm with a practiced precision.
His eyes are narrowed in terrifying concentration, his jaw is locked so tight the muscles feather beneath his skin.
Giancarlo stands near the bedroom doorway, his massive frame blocking the exit. The enforcer holds a basin of warm water and a stack of blood-soaked rags, his scarred face twisted into a grim scowl.
"She is awake, Boss," Giancarlo states.
"I see that," Enzo replies. He does not look away from my wound, tying off a knot in the surgical thread with flawless efficiency. "Give me the status of the cleanup."
"The crews are finishing the job at Villa Rosa," Giancarlo reports, shifting the basin in his hands.
"The bodies of the mercenaries and the traditionalist guards are loaded into the transport vans.
We dumped the remains in the Mediterranean.
The local authorities accepted the bribes we wired them.
They will report the explosion as a catastrophic gas leak.
Nobody is going to ask questions about the gunfire. "
"What about the Capos?" I whisper dryly.
Giancarlo turns his dark eyes toward me. "The remaining Vitiello lieutenants received the message, Signora. Don Vitiello is dead. Salvatore Russo is dead. Roberto Severato is dead. The men know the island belongs to you now. They are awaiting your commands."
"Good," Enzo says, snipping the black thread with a pair of sterile scissors. He drops the surgical tools onto a metal tray resting on the nightstand. "Go check the perimeter, Giancarlo. Make sure the exterior deadbolts are secure. Nobody comes within a mile of this apartment tonight."
"Yes, Boss," Giancarlo agrees, turning on his heel and exiting the bedroom. The door clicks shut, sealing us inside a pressurized vacuum of survival and victory.
I turn my head, studying the flawless row of stitches closing the bleeding trench in my arm. The pain is a, but the bleeding has stopped. Enzo picks up a clean gauze pad, taping it securely over the sutured flesh with surprisingly gentle hands.
He did not call a syndicate doctor. He did not transport me to a clandestine medical facility. He patched the bullet wound himself, working with the unquestionable skill of a trauma surgeon.
"You missed your calling in the medical field, Consigliere," I observe, attempting to mask the lingering pain with a smirk. "Your stitches are impeccable."
Enzo does not smile. His handsome features harden into a mask of resolve. He tosses the remaining tape onto the tray, grabbing a damp cloth to wipe the drying blood from his knuckles.
"I did not learn how to suture a bullet wound in a sterile hospital," Enzo murmurs. He stares at the bloody cloth in his hands, his mind seemingly transported to a much darker, horrifying era of his existence. "Roberto did not want a child."
I reach out with my uninjured right hand, my fingers grasping his wrist, encouraging him to release the demons he harbors.
Enzo meets my gaze. "If I failed a task, he broke my bones.
If I showed a fraction of weakness, he locked me in the dark until I lost my mind.
" He turns his hand over, lacing his long fingers through mine.
"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 was a monster," I whisper fiercely. I want to resurrect Roberto Severato just to put another bullet in his skull.
"He broke us down so he could mold us into perfect, sociopathic killers who would execute his will without question," Enzo finishes, his thumb sweeping across my knuckles.
"I learned how to stitch my own skin in the pitch-black corners of a basement, hiding my injuries so the old man wouldn't know he managed to hurt me.
I learned how to patch bleeding arteries to survive.
That is why I can sew your arm together. "
He endured the lashes of a belt and the suffocating terror of isolation, forging himself into a deadly weapon simply to keep breathing. He is not a sociopathic killer. He is a magnificent, self-sacrificing king who absorbed an ocean of agony to protect his family.
I push myself up against the headboard, ignoring the protest of my injured bicep.
I slide my hand up his arm, tracing the raised scars on his shoulder, moving my palm to cup his rough, stubble-lined jaw.
He leans into my touch, an exhale escaping his lips as his eyes flutter shut for a fraction of a second.
"I love you," I vow. "I love you, Enzo. You are the most magnificent, terrifying man I have ever known. You walked into my city, you dismantled my enemies, and you handed me the world. I am giving you my soul in return. You are mine."
Enzo’s eyes snap open. The vulnerability vanishes, instantly replaced by a starving madness that turns his irises into pools of blazing fire.
"You are mine," he growls, a raspy, friction-laced scrape that sends a rush of heat straight to my now moist vagina.
He abandons the blood-soaked cloth, his massive hands gripping my waist. He hauls my body forward, pulling me flush against his scarred chest, taking immense care to position my bandaged arm safely away from his torso. He crashes his mouth down onto mine with a desperate, ravaging necessity.
His tongue pushes past my parted lips, sweeping the interior of my mouth with a dominating, thorough precision.
He sucks my tongue into his mouth, his lips sliding against mine in a frantic exchange of oxygen.
I wrap my good arm around his broad neck, my fingers tangling in the dark strands of his hair, kissing him back with an equal enthusiasm.
He bites down on my lower lip, pulling the plush flesh between his teeth, scraping the sensitive skin just enough to extract a moan from the back of my throat.
I crave the friction. I need the burning, scorching heat of his body to replace the chill of the gun smoke and the terrifying memory of the fire.
Enzo breaks the kiss, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down the long column of my throat.
His teeth graze my collarbone, sucking the pale skin hard enough to leave a purple bruise, marking me as his territory.
His large, calloused hands slide down the curve of my waist, hooking his fingers into the waistband of my black lace panties.
He rips the delicate fabric away with a forceful pull, tossing the ruined scrap of lace onto the floorboards. I am fully exposed to his gaze, shivering on the crisp sheets as the cool air of the apartment washes over my bare skin.
He steps back from the mattress, shedding his dark trousers and boxers with impatient motions.
His muscular thighs flex as he kicks the garments aside, freeing his aching, hard erection.
The sight of his arousal makes my mouth go dry.
He is a breathtaking specimen of masculine power, a warrior branded with the scars of his victories, and he is looking at me with a hunger that could incinerate a city.
He climbs back onto the bed, positioning himself between my spread thighs. His hands grip my knees, pushing my legs wider, opening me fully to his consuming gaze.
"You are so beautiful," he rasps, his eyes darkening as he takes in the slick, swollen proof of my desire. "I watched you stand in that dining hall, manipulating the most dangerous men in the world, and all I could think about was tearing that dress off your body and burying myself inside you."
He reaches down, his fingers finding the weeping center of my heat. He pushes two fingers deep inside my tight passage.
I arch my spine off the mattress, a breathless, sobbing gasp tearing from my lips.
I am soaking wet, my body weeping for the connection, practically begging for the invasion.
He pumps his fingers in a thrusting motion, his thumb circling the sensitive bundle of nerves above my entrance, applying enough pressure that sends brilliant sparks of electricity shooting through my body.
"You are so fucking wet for me," he praises. "Tell me you love me again, Elena. Say the words."
"I love you," I cry out, my hips bucking upward to chase the friction of his hand. "I love you, Enzo. Please. I need you."
He withdraws his fingers, the sudden loss of pressure drawing a frustrated whimper from my mouth. He moves forward, aligning the broad head of his cock against my slick entrance.
He drives his hips forward, sinking into my tightness with one smooth, impossibly deep thrust, all the while holding my gaze.
The stretch is magnificent. The tearing, searing fullness steals the oxygen right out of my lungs.
I throw my head back against the pillows, my fingernails digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders as he fills me to the hilt.
Enzo grinds his jaw, the veins in his neck straining as he fights to control the overwhelming sensation of our bodies fucking.
"Fuck," he swears. He holds himself still for a suspended, agonizing second, letting my inner walls adjust to his impressive girth. "You feel so goddamn good."
He begins to move. He withdraws almost fully before slamming back into me, establishing a pace that shakes the sturdy frame of the bed.
The wet, slapping sound of our skin colliding reverberates obscenely in the hushed room, a dirty, degrading symphony that fuels the feral fire burning between us.
I wrap my right leg around his narrow waist, locking my heel against his hip to pull him even deeper, taking every single inch he offers.
Enzo leans over me, bracing his forearms on either side of my head to avoid putting any pressure on my stitched bicep.
He captures my mouth in another tender kiss, his tongue mimicking the thrusting of his hips.
The pleasure coils incredibly tight in my lower belly, twisting higher and higher with every strike.
He maps the curves of my breasts, his thumbs brushing my hardened nipples, the dual assault drives me straight toward the end of my sanity.
"Look at me," he commands, tearing his mouth away to stare down into my glazed, ecstatic eyes. Sweat drips from his forehead, landing on my flushed skin. "You are my queen. You rule this island, but you belong to me. Tell me you belong to me."
"I belong to you," I sob, the confession torn from my throat in a ragged, breathless plea. "Only you, Enzo."
The words act as a catalyst, and I shatter around his cock. My internal muscles milk him in a series of frantic, repetitive spasms. A loud, shameless scream rips from my lips, my vision whiting out as the blinding waves of climax wreck my body.
My release snaps his remaining control. Enzo roars my name, and drives his hips upward, burying himself as deep as physically possible, and empties his hot climax inside my core with a series of shuddering, violent thrusts.
His massive frame trembles above me, the tension finally draining from his muscles as he pours his soul into mine.
He collapses against my chest. He is careful to keep his mass shifted away from my injured arm, wrapping his arms securely around my waist to hold me flush against his side.
We lie tangled on the crisp white sheets, our breathing is loud in the enclosed space, our bodies are slick with a sheen of cooling sweat.
The war in Palermo is officially over. The traditionalist factions are eradicated.
Don Vitiello is rotting in a body bag, and Roberto Severato’s reign of terror is permanently extinguished.
I claimed my throne today, standing in the blood of my enemies, but the true victory lies in the arms of the man holding me in the dark.
Enzo proved my assumptions wrong. He showed me that true power resides in the partnership of two equals willing to burn the world to protect each other.
Enzo shifts his weight, pulling the silk duvet up over our bare bodies, tucking the fabric securely around my shoulders to ward off the chill of the night. He presses a soft kiss against the sweat-dampened skin of my temple, his thumb brushing a stray lock of raven hair behind my ear.
"The island is yours, mia bella," he murmurs against my skin.
I close my eyes, the exhaustion finally pulling me down into a dreamless, restorative sleep. I am safe.