27. Elena
Elena
I lie on my back, the luxurious silk sheets pooled around my waist, staring up at the ceiling while the rest of Boston begins to wake.
Beside me, the bed is empty, though the indentation on the mattress and the scent of expensive cedarwood clinging to the pillows prove the night was not a figment of my imagination.
He loves me.
The words play on a loop inside my mind, a beautiful truth that fundamentally rewrites the rules of my universe.
Enzo Santoro, the terrifying Consigliere who built walls of ice around his soul to survive a nightmare, looked into my eyes and surrendered his heart without a fraction of hesitation.
He handed me the deed to this sprawling sanctuary, tying his vast empire to my name, but the real prize was the unvarnished confession that slipped past his lips.
A giddy, unfamiliar thrill blooms in my chest, chasing away the shadows of Palermo. I roll onto my side, wrapping my arms around his discarded pillow, breathing in his scent.
"You are smiling at a piece of fabric."
I turn my head. Enzo is standing in the doorway of the master suite, holding two steaming mugs of black coffee.
He is wearing tailored charcoal trousers and a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose his scarred, muscular forearms. His ice-blue eyes track my movements, an adoring smirk curving his mouth as he crosses the room.
"I am smiling because the most dangerous man on the eastern seaboard handed me his entire fortune and told me he loves me," I reply, pushing myself up to lean against the headboard. "It is a rather pleasant way to start a Tuesday."
He hands me a mug, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress. "It is the truth, mia bella. I just needed the ink to dry before I said it out loud."
I take a sip of the scorching coffee, letting the bitter caffeine jumpstart my brain. "Tonight is the tribunal."
"Tonight," Enzo confirms. "Niccolò and Alessio are finalizing the perimeter defense. The meeting is taking place at the Continental, a neutral hotel in the financial district. The Commission booked the subterranean conference center."
"They are going to throw the archaic bylaws in my face," I state, setting the coffee on the nightstand. "They will cite the 1950 treaties, arguing that a woman cannot possess a seat at the table. They will try to invalidate the Sicilian expansion."
"And we are going to choke them with their own hypocrisy," Enzo promises, reaching out to trace the line of my jaw. "You handle the talking. I will handle the blackmail. By the time we leave that room, those old bastards will be begging to kiss your ring."
Hours later, the Boston skyline transforms into a glittering grid of lights as our armored convoy navigates the congested city streets. I wear a tailored black suit with a plunging neckline, my dark hair pinned back in an immaculate, severe twist.
The convoy descends into the secured parking garage of the Continental Hotel, the tires screeching briefly against the concrete before rolling to a synchronized stop.
A dozen Severato soldiers fan out instantly, securing the loading dock with suppressed rifles, their eyes scanning the concrete pillars for any signs of an ambush.
Don Niccolò and Alessio wait near the VIP elevator bank, projecting a unified, intimidating front. Niccolò adjusts the cuffs of his bespoke suit, his dark eyes meeting mine as Enzo and I approach.
"The Commission bosses arrived twenty minutes ago," Niccolò informs us.
"Don Marchesi from New York is leading the inquiry.
He brought a substantial security detail, but our men are holding the primary exits.
They want to make a spectacle of this, Elena.
They want to publicly humiliate the Vitiello name to justify cutting us out of the European shipping lanes. "
"Marchesi is a dinosaur," Alessio scoffs, cracking his knuckles with a wicked grin. "He still runs his extortion rackets using handwritten ledgers. If he speaks out of turn tonight, I am going to rip his fucking tongue out."
"Nobody is ripping anything out until I give the word," Niccolò reprimands his brother, though a hint of amusement softens his features. He turns to me. "The floor is yours tonight, Elena. We back your play."
I offer the Don a respectful nod.
The elevator takes us down into the subterranean levels of the hotel, the steel doors opening to reveal a sprawling, windowless conference room paneled in dark wood.
A massive, circular mahogany table dominates the space, surrounded by a dozen aging patriarchs representing the elite families of the American Commission.
They wear expensive, outdated suits, smoking foul-smelling cigars that quickly pollute the air.
The hushed murmurs die the second we cross the threshold.
Every single pair of eyes snaps toward our group, their gazes dripping with condescension and outrage as they register my presence.
They expected the Severato brothers to attend the hearing to barter on my behalf.
Seeing me walk into the room, my chin tilted at a proud angle, sends a ripple of indignant fury through their ranks.
"Niccolò," an older man with a bulbous nose and a thinning comb-over barks from the opposite side of the table. Don Marchesi. "You bring a woman into a sanctioned Commission tribunal? This is a blatant disrespect to the rules of our assembly."
Niccolò does not answer. He takes a seat, gesturing smoothly toward the empty chair to his left.
I do not wait for an invitation. I walk forward and pull the leather chair out, taking my seat with flawless grace. Enzo stands right behind my shoulder, his imposing frame casting a shadow over the polished wood, while Alessio takes the seat on Niccolò’s right.
"The rules of this assembly dictate that the recognized heads of the major families possess a seat at this table," I announce across the room.
"I am the Don of the Vitiello syndicate.
I control the ports of Palermo, and I govern the Mediterranean trade routes.
I am precisely where I belong, Marchesi.
The only disrespect occurring here is your failure to address me by my proper title. "
A collective gasp of outrage sweeps through the old-guard bosses. A man to Marchesi’s right slams his fist onto the table.
"This is a farce!" the man spits, his face flushing a mottled shade of magenta.
"The Vitiello cartel is a fractured mess.
Your uncle is dead, and you manipulated a foreign Consigliere into propping you up on a stolen throne.
The Commission does not recognize a female Don.
Our bylaws explicitly forbid it. You have no authority to integrate the Sicilian ports with the Boston faction.
We are voting to sanction the Severato family and place a trade embargo on your waters until a proper, male heir is elected in Palermo. "
They are so predictable.
"A proper male heir?" I repeat, leaning forward to rest my manicured hands on the table.
"You mean a man like my uncle, who bankrupted his own family to buy Russian mercenaries?
Or perhaps you prefer a man like your own nephew, Don Rossi, who lost three million dollars of your union funds in a rigged poker game last month? "
Rossi’s face goes bone-white. He opens his mouth, stammering for a defense, but I cut him off without mercy.
"You sit here and lecture me about archaic bylaws and proper governance, while your own syndicates rot from the inside out," I continue.
"You claim I stole my throne? I orchestrated the execution of the traitors who ruined my family.
I purged my ranks of incompetence. I took Sicily through superior strategy and firepower.
What have you done lately, Marchesi? Aside from paying exorbitant bribes to the harbor masters to overlook your sloppy, inefficient smuggling routes? "
"You insolent little bitch," Marchesi snarls, half-rising from his chair, his hand trembling with rage. "You think you can insult the Commission? We have the capital to fund a war that will bury your new empire. The Volkov Bratva is perfectly willing to assist us in reclaiming those ports."
"Ah, yes. The Volkov Bratva," I reply, feigning a look of realization.
"The fractured, leaderless dogs currently bleeding out in the streets because Niccolò executed their previous Pakhan.
You are pooling resources with a foreign syndicate to attack an Italian family, all because your fragile egos cannot stomach a woman outsmarting you. "
I lean back in my chair, turning my head slightly to look at Enzo.
"Consigliere," I request smoothly. "Would you please enlighten these gentlemen regarding the current state of their precious capital?"
Enzo steps forward. He drops a stack of thick, embossed manila folders onto the center of the mahogany table, sliding one directly toward each of the opposing bosses.
"The Volkovs are no longer funding your proxy war," Enzo states.
"During our flight from Palermo, I restructured the digital gateways governing your offshore accounts.
Those folders contain the unredacted routing numbers for your Cayman Island shell corporations, the exact locations of your hidden mistresses, and the itemized ledgers of the union funds you have been embezzling for the past ten years. "
The patriarchs scramble to open the folders. The color drains from Marchesi’s face as he reads the first page, his hands shaking so violently the paper rattles.
"If this tribunal attempts to sanction the Vitiello syndicate, or if a single vote is cast against Elena’s sovereignty today," Enzo continues, looming over the table, "I will transmit every single page of those portfolios directly to the federal authorities.
I will expose your tax fraud, your illegal wiretaps, and your offshore havens.
You will not fight a war against Boston.
You will spend the rest of your miserable lives rotting in a federal penitentiary. "