29. Elena
Elena
The smoke from the incendiary grenades billows across the ruined ceiling of the Continental’s subterranean conference room, painting the surviving lighting fixtures in a sickly, jaundiced yellow.
I stand amidst the wreckage of the massive mahogany table, my tailored black suit dusted with pulverized drywall and the crimson splatter of the men who foolishly believed they could usurp my crown.
Don Marchesi is a mangled corpse slumped over his expensive leather chair, his chest cavity obliterated by the unforgiving crossfire.
Rossi crawls across the imported rug, whining a pathetic, broken sound as he drags a shattered knee through the scattered debris.
I refuse to flinch at the gore. I refuse to avert my gaze from the dying mercenaries littering the floorboards.
Niccolò and Alessio move through the suffocating haze, their weapons raised, securing the perimeter with the efficiency of apex predators.
The surviving members of the American Mafia Commission press their backs against the wood-paneled walls, trapped in a slaughterhouse of their own making.
Their faces are drained of all color, their arrogant, patriarchal delusions eradicated by the undeniable realization that the Vitiello-Severato alliance is an unstoppable force of nature.
Niccolò ejects a spent magazine from his firearm, the brass casing clattering onto the debris with a resounding chime.
"The vote was cast before the interruption," I remind the cowering bosses, my voice slicing through the groans of the wounded. "Do any of you wish to contest the ratification of my throne?"
An older boss from the Chicago faction raises his shaking hands, his palms turned outward in a frantic gesture of surrender. "The Commission sanctions your reign, Don Vitiello. The integration is unanimously recognized. We want no further conflict with your empire."
"See to it that your ledgers reflect this agreement by tomorrow morning," I command, sliding my ceramic derringer back into the concealed holster strapped beneath my jacket.
The service doors at the far end of the corridor swing inward with a crash.
Enzo strides into the ruined conference room, bathed in the aftermath of a coastal storm. Rainwater drips from the dark strands of his hair, washing a pink stream of blood down the lapels of his ruined charcoal suit. His Glock hangs loosely from his calloused grip.
He ignores the groaning Commission bosses. He ignores the bleeding bodies. His eyes sweep the room with frantic calculation until they lock onto my face.
"The Volkov Pakhan is dead," Enzo announces.
"The Russian ranks will devour themselves by sunrise," Alessio observes, a wicked grin curving his mouth as he kicks a piece of shattered wood out of his path. "They have no succession plan."
"Let them starve," Niccolò orders, holstering his weapon with a smooth motion. "We return to the estate. Elena, your throne is secure. Enzo, we have an empire to restructure."
Enzo crosses the room, his boots stepping carelessly over a dead mercenary.
He stops inches away from me, his large hands reaching out to cup my face.
His thumbs sweep across my cheekbones, smearing a trace of soot across my skin, his chest heaving as the adrenaline of the chase slowly bleeds from his veins.
"You are unharmed," he observes, breathing in the scent of my hair.
"I am victorious," I correct him, leaning into the rough, calloused warmth of his touch. "And you kept your promise."
"I will always bring you the world," he vows, pressing a kiss to my forehead.
We abandon the carnage of the Continental Hotel, ascending from the subterranean vault into the crisp, rain-washed air of the Boston night. The ride back to the penthouse is a mesmerizing blur of passing city lights, the homicidal energy of the massacre slowly burning out of my system.
We step out of the private elevator into the expansive, minimalist sanctuary. The floor-to-ceiling windows display the sleeping metropolis.
I kick off my ruined heels, relishing the soft texture of the area rug against my bare soles.
"We are covered in blood and drywall," I point out, shedding my black suit jacket and tossing the garment onto the leather sofa. "The bathroom is calling my name."
Enzo does not immediately follow me toward the corridor. He stands near the sprawling granite kitchen island, his posture remarkably rigid, a sudden, uncharacteristic hesitation softening the austere lines of his face.
"Come here, mia bella," he requests.
I cross the hardwood floorboards, stopping directly in front of him. I expect him to pull me into his arms, to initiate the aggressive, passionate undressing that usually follows our victories. Instead, he reaches into the inner pocket of his ruined suit jacket.
He withdraws a small, square velvet box.
The velvet is worn around the edges, the fabric rubbed smooth.
My heart thrashes against my breastbone.
He does not drop to one knee. He remains standing, his towering frame forcing me to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.
Enzo flips the lid open.
Resting on the faded black satin is a custom-crafted platinum band holding a flawless, brilliantly cut diamond.
It catches the ambient light of the penthouse, scattering prisms of fire across the granite counter.
It is a breathtaking declaration of permanence, a stunning contradiction to the violent machinery of our existence.
"I do not want a temporary alliance, Elena," Enzo states, his eyes burning with devotion that leaves me completely breathless.
"I do not want a treaty that can be renegotiated or a partnership that exists solely on syndicate ledgers.
I want a blood-vow. I want you bound to my soul, sharing my name, ruling this empire by my side until the day I take my last breath. "
I stare at the breathtaking stone, a jagged sob lodging in my throat. I look up at his handsome, battle-scarred face.
"Where did you get this?" I whisper, my fingers shaking as I reach out to trace the edge of the velvet box. "You have been carrying this."
"I bought it years ago," Enzo confesses.
"Long before I ever traveled to Palermo.
Long before I knew your name. I bought it during a time when I was drowning in the merciless machinery of my godfather's making, searching for a single shred of hope that I might one day find a woman capable of matching my darkness.
I locked it in a safe, waiting for an owner I thought I would never find. "
He takes the ring from the satin cushion, dropping the empty box onto the island with a soft clack.
"The ring was waiting for its owner," he murmurs, capturing my left hand in his calloused grip. "And the second you walked into that dining hall and demanded my respect, I knew it belonged to you."
He slides the cool platinum onto my finger. It fits flawlessly.
"I am yours, Enzo," I vow. "I will wear your name as proudly as I wear my crown."
He crushes his mouth down onto mine, a starving, ravenous collision that tastes of rain and triumph. He sweeps me into his arms, carrying me effortlessly down the hallway and into the sprawling master bathroom.
He sets me on my feet, reaching past my shoulder to turn the brass fixtures of the massive walk-in shower. Steaming water immediately cascades from the rainfall showerhead, filling the room with a comforting, humid haze that fogs the expansive mirrors.
We strip away the ruined garments with frantic, impatient motions. He tears the remaining buttons of my blouse, discarding the fabric onto the tiles, while I push the soiled shirt off his broad, heavily inked shoulders.
We step under the scalding spray together. The water washes away the soot and the grime, rinsing the evidence of the massacre down the drain, leaving only our bare, flushed skin.
He pins me against the slick marble wall, his hands gripping my hips with force.
It is a stunning, beautiful callback to the first time we sought refuge in a bathroom, hiding from the wreckage of a car bomb in Sicily, finding our initial salvation in the heat of the water and the friction of our bodies.
"You are La mia Fenice," Enzo whispers against the damp skin of my neck, his hot breath mingling with the rising steam. "My beautiful, destructive phoenix."
I whimper, my head falling back against the tile as his mouth trails downward, his teeth scraping the sensitive curve of my collarbone, and sucks the pale flesh.
His large hands part my thighs, lifting my right leg to wrap it securely around his waist. I am already soaking wet, my body weeping for the invasion, craving the friction that will anchor me to the present.
He lines his rigid length at my entrance, holding my gaze with a burning intensity. He drives his hips forward, sinking into my tight, clinging sheath with one thrust.
I whimper, my fingernails biting into the wet, corded muscles of his back as he fills me to the hilt.
I meet every single thrust with my own hips thrusting upward to take him even further inside, matching his aggression stroke for stroke. The scalding water beats against our intertwined bodies, amplifying the sensation of his skin sliding against mine.
Our tongues tangle in a messy exchange of saliva and breath. I bite his lower lip, tasting the heat of his mouth, my hands sliding down to grip the firm swell of his ass to dictate the depth of his penetration.
"Enzo, please," I beg, my inner walls clamping down around his girth in a series of frantic, involuntary spasms. "I am so close."
"Give it to me," he demands, his thrusts turning erratic, his jaw locked tight as he chases the edge of his own release.