22. Enzo
Enzo
Elena is sleeping on her side, her face relaxed, her dark hair pooling across the pillowcase.
I sit on the edge of the mattress, running a thumb over the fresh white bandage wrapped around her bicep.
She confessed her love to me last night.
Affection was a vulnerability that got you killed.
Roberto taught me that love was a weakness to be exploited, an opening for an enemy to slip a knife into your ribs.
Elena proved him wrong. She offered her heart not as a fragile liability, but as a fierce vow to the man who dismantled her enemies. I lean down, pressing my lips to her warm shoulder.
The next three days blur together.
Elena stays in the safehouse to heal, guarded by two men I trust. I take Giancarlo and the remaining tactical operators out into the blistering Sicilian heat to purge the island of the lingering rot.
We hunt down the remaining Vitiello loyalists and the mercenaries Roberto brought across the Atlantic.
On the second afternoon, we breach a shipping warehouse near the southern docks.
Giancarlo kicks the rusted metal door off its hinges, leading the assault squad inside.
Five of Salvatore Russo's former lieutenants scramble for cover, firing blindly into the blinding sunlight pouring through the doorway.
I step through the threshold, raising my customized submachine gun and tracking the movement of a man diving behind a stack of wooden crates.
I squeeze the trigger, sending a burst of hollow-point rounds tearing through the wood and into his chest. He collapses instantly.
Giancarlo drops two more with his rifle.
The last surviving lieutenant drops his weapon, falling to his knees on the oil-stained concrete.
He raises his trembling hands, begging for mercy in rapid Sicilian dialect.
I cross the floor, my boots crushing scattered shell casings.
I look down at his terrified face. He funded the bombs that nearly killed the woman sleeping in my bed.
I press the muzzle of my handgun to his forehead and pull the trigger. The gunshot rings out, finalizing the purge. The island is finally cleansed.
I return to the safehouse on the third night, my shirt stained with dirt and copper. I walk into the makeshift office, pulling the encrypted satellite phone from my pocket. I punch in the authorization codes, waiting as the signal bounces across secure offshore relays.
Niccolò answers on the first ring. "Enzo."
"It is finished," I state, leaning my hip against the edge of the wooden desk. "Roberto is dead. I put a bullet in his chest myself. The Vitiello leadership is eradicated. The traditionalists are gone."
A stretching pause fills the connection.
In the background, I hear the shifting of a chair and Alessio's unmistakable voice asking a question.
Niccolò relays the news to his brother. The blood brothers are mute.
Roberto was a monster who terrorized his own bloodline, but he was still the man who gave them life.
The grief is complicated, a twisted knot of relief and sorrow that I understand but cannot share.
For me, Roberto was just an abuser. For them, he was a father.
"Thank you," Niccolò finally says. "You handled the infection we could not stomach excising ourselves."
Alessio grabs the receiver, his voice rougher and louder than the Don's. "When are you flying back to Boston? The Irish are testing the northern borders again, and we need you to draft the new treaties."
"I have matters to handle in Palermo before I book a flight," I explain, staring at the topographical maps scattered across the desk. "The streets are bleeding. There is a massive power vacuum, and the remaining Capos are scrambling to claim the scraps. I need to establish order."
"Then you take the throne," Alessio suggests immediately. "You conquered the territory. You plant the Severato flag on Sicilian soil and fill the vacuum yourself. We can run the European ports through your command."
"No," I refuse, rejecting the proposition without a second thought.
"Placing an American proxy ruler in Palermo is a massive liability.
The locals will never respect a foreigner, and they will fight a hostile occupation until the streets run out of bodies.
This island requires a sovereign who understands the treacherous architecture of these specific streets.
Someone who possesses the legitimate bloodline to demand their respect. "
"Who?" Niccolò asks, his calculating tone returning.
"Elena," I say. "She is the rightful heir. She possesses the intellect and the ruthlessness to hold the territory."
Alessio laughs, a harsh, disbelieving sound. "You want to put a woman in charge of the most traditional, archaic syndicate in Italy? They will slit her throat while she sleeps."
"They will bow to her," I promise, a dark smile curving my mouth. "Or I will kill them all. I will contact you when the coronation is complete."
I disconnect the call, tossing the phone onto the desk. I strip off my ruined shirt, washing the grime from my skin before walking down the corridor to the bedroom.
Elena is sitting up against the headboard, reviewing a leather-bound ledger she salvaged from her uncle's study.
She is wearing a clean button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up carefully to accommodate her bandages.
She looks up as I enter, she is healing remarkably fast, fueled by the intoxicating rush of our victory.
"The streets are clear," I announce, stopping at the edge of the mattress. "Giancarlo is bringing the surviving Capos to the warehouse district in an hour. It is time to secure your position."
Elena closes the ledger, setting it aside. She swings her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet hitting the floorboards. She knows she was born for this exact moment.
An hour later, we stand inside an expansive cargo bay near the eastern docks.
Ten men stand in a loose semicircle, surrounded by Giancarlo and my tactical operators.
These are the surviving lieutenants, the men who surrendered when they realized their bosses were rotting in the earth.
They wear expensive suits, but their postures reek of fear.
They look at me, expecting the American enforcer to issue demands and claim the territory for Boston.
I do not take the center of the room. I step back, gesturing for Elena to step forward.
She walks past me, clad in a tailored black suit. She stops in front of the assembled men, her chin tilted at a proud, aristocratic angle.
"My uncle is dead," Elena declares, her voice ringing across the concrete walls.
"Salvatore Russo is dead. The men who sold our honor to foreign mercenaries are gone.
The Vitiello syndicate is broken, but it is not destroyed.
I am the last surviving heir to my father's bloodline, and I am taking control of this family today. "
The lieutenants shift uncomfortably. A man named Vincenzo, an older Capo with a greying beard, steps forward, his face contorting into a mask of traditionalist outrage.
"With all due respect, Signora," Vincenzo spits, refusing to use her proper title.
"A woman cannot sit at the head of the table.
The Commission will never recognize your claim.
Our men will not take orders from a girl who translates documents for a living.
You must step aside and allow the senior members to vote on a new Don. "
I do not give Vincenzo the opportunity to finish his pathetic rebellion. I draw the Glock from my shoulder holster in a fluid, blurring motion, stepping forward and pressing the cold muzzle directly against the side of his skull. The click of the safety disengaging rings out in the cargo bay.
The other lieutenants freeze, their hands shooting up in gestures of surrender as Giancarlo and my operators raise their rifles, aiming directly at the chests of the remaining men.
"You seem to be confused about the nature of this gathering," I snarl.
"This is not a democracy. There is no voting process.
The woman standing in front of you is the undisputed Don of Palermo.
She owns the ports, she owns the accounts, and she owns your pathetic lives.
Anyone who contests her sovereignty will catch a bullet from my gun before they can blink. "
I shove the barrel harder against Vincenzo's temple, forcing him to his knees. "Bow to your Queen," I command.
Vincenzo trembles, his eyes darting frantically toward the other men for support, but he finds none.
The remaining Capos realize that standing against Elena means facing the wrath of the Severato syndicate.
One by one, they drop to their knees on the grimy concrete, lowering their heads in a synchronized display of submission.
Elena looks down at the kneeling men with a mask of flawless, regal power. She nods, accepting their fealty.
"The new rules take effect immediately," Elena instructs with authority. "You will purge your ranks of anyone loyal to the Volkovs. You will consolidate the shipping manifests and deliver them to my safehouse by morning. Dismissed."
The men scramble to their feet, rushing out of the cargo bay as fast as their legs can carry them, desperate to escape the executioner's block.
I holster my weapon, a rush of pride flooding my veins as I watch her command the room. I close the distance between us, grabbing her waist and pulling her flush against my chest.
"You look incredible when you terrify grown men," I praise her, capturing her mouth in a demanding, bruising kiss that tastes of victory and adrenaline. Her good arm wraps around my neck, her tongue sweeping into my mouth to meet my hunger with passion.
We return to the safehouse, and Elena retreats to the bathroom to wash the grime of the docks from her skin, leaving me alone in the makeshift office to finalize the logistical reports for Niccolò.
I sit down at the desk, pulling my encrypted laptop from my bag. I launch the communication software, intending to draft the treaties that will formally bind Palermo to Boston. But the moment the screen illuminates, a glaring red warning banner flashes across the display.
The automated decryption programs I left running in the background intercepted a massive surge of encrypted chatter originating from the United States. I lean forward, my brow furrowing in concentration as I input my bypass codes to translate the intercepted data.
The text scrolls across the screen in jagged blocks, detailing a series of high-level communications between the elite families of the eastern seaboard.
The American Mafia Commission is mobilizing.
The old-guard bosses, the archaic patriarchs who cling to outdated traditions, received intelligence regarding the events in Sicily.
They know Don Vitiello is dead, and they know the Severato Consigliere placed a woman on the throne.
The messages are laced with outrage and political posturing, claiming that Elena's ascendance invalidates the treaties governing international trade.
But the Commission is not acting alone.
I trace the digital signatures attached to the secure relays, uncovering a terrifying alliance forming in the shadows of New York and Boston.
The remnants of the Volkov Bratva, the fractured Russian mercenaries who survived our initial purge, are funneling resources to the Commission bosses.
The new Bratva Pakhan is utilizing his hidden capital to bribe the American leaders, pushing them to formally contest Elena's claim and declare war on our integrated empire.
They refuse to accept a Queen. They intend to march on Boston, leverage their combined armies, and strip her of her title using force.
I stare at the glowing monitor, a homicidal fury locking my jaw tight. They think they can manipulate the laws to tear down the woman I love. They think archaic traditions will protect them from the wrath of a man who just executed his own father.
I hear the bathroom door open down the hall, the soft sound of Elena's footsteps approaching the office. I reach out and slam the laptop shut, severing the feed.