Epilogue
Enzo
The late August sun filters through the sprawling canopy of ancient oak trees, a soft summer breeze rolls off the Massachusetts coastline, carrying the faint scent of salt water and blooming jasmine.
The perimeter of the compound is secured by a highly trained detail of our operators, with their suppressed weapons concealed beneath tailored jackets, but inside these fortified stone walls, the atmosphere is devoid of violence.
I lean my shoulder against the stone pillar of the sweeping veranda, observing the magnificent, chaotic tableau unfolding across the pristine emerald lawn.
This sprawling courtyard used to be a sterile, unforgiving environment, a monument to Roberto Severato’s cruelty.
Today, it is a vibrant, joyous playground that fundamentally proves the generational curse of our bloodline is permanently broken.
A few yards away, Niccolò pushes his four-year-old daughter, Elettra, on a custom-built mahogany swing hanging from a massive oak branch, he is wearing a relaxed linen shirt and smiles openly as his little girl demands to go higher.
Near the edge of the rose garden, Alessio is currently running across the grass, pretending to flee from his two-year-old daughter, Bianca. He dramatically collapses onto the manicured lawn, allowing the giggling toddler to tackle his chest and declare victory.
I watch my brothers, marveling at the transformation we achieved.
My gaze drifts toward the wrought-iron pergola draped in flourishing ivy, locating the true epicenter of my universe.
Elena sits at a circular patio table, sharing a bottle of vintage champagne with Livia and Caterina.
My wife wears a flowing, crimson sundress that exposes the smooth, unblemished skin of her shoulders.
Her dark hair is swept up in a loose twist, a few stray waves framing her cheekbones.
She is laughing at something Caterina just said, her dark irises shining with an intense light.
Even surrounded by the serene beauty of the gardens, she shines the brightest. Over the past two years, Elena transformed the Vitiello syndicate into an untouchable global monopoly.
She governs the Mediterranean ports with an iron fist, utilizing our integrated logistical frameworks to squeeze out every rival faction foolish enough to test her borders.
A sudden, commanding squeal draws my attention away from the pergola.
"Papa!"
I set my tumbler onto the stone balustrade, pushing off the pillar just in time to catch the tiny, sprinting tornado hurtling toward my shins. I reach down, my large hands gripping her waist, and lift my two-year-old daughter effortlessly into the air.
Serafina Santoro squeals with delight, her small hands grabbing the collar of my dark dress shirt.
She possesses her mother’s thick, raven hair and my blue irises, a stunning combination that guarantees I will be executing prospective suitors the moment she turns sixteen.
She wears a pristine white sundress, though the hem is currently stained with grass and what appears to be chocolate frosting from the dessert table.
"You are supposed to be sitting with your mother, principessa," I remind her, resting her tiny hip against my forearm while I tap her nose. "Did you escape the luncheon?"
"No," Serafina protests, her tiny brow furrowing into a scowl that perfectly mirrors the expression Elena utilizes to intimidate uncooperative Capos. "Uncle Alessio said I am a monster. I want to roar."
A raspy chuckle vibrates in my chest. I press a kiss to her soft cheek.
"You are not a monster, little one," I correct her, my voice dropping into a smooth, devoted register. "You are a queen. Queens do not roar at their subjects, they simply command them to bow."
"Bow," Serafina repeats, testing the word on her tongue before a brilliant smile breaks across her face.
She is flawless.
I carry her across the veranda, stepping down onto the grass to the sprawling courtyard. The operators stationed near the wrought-iron gates dip their heads in immediate, respectful acknowledgment as we pass. They revere the Don of Sicily, but they treat her daughter with the exact same devotion.
I approach the pergola, the sound of the women's conversation pausing as my boots crunch against the gravel path.
"You retrieved the fugitive," Elena observes, setting her champagne flute onto the table. A predatory smile curves her painted lips as she assesses the picture I present. "I turned my back for a singular second to review the Marseille shipping reports with Caterina, and she vanished."
"She was seeking tactical advice on how to handle her uncle," I inform my wife, stepping under the shade of the ivy. I bend down, allowing Serafina to slide from my grip and run toward Livia, who immediately offers the child a fresh strawberry from a silver platter.
I step behind Elena, resting my calloused hands on her bare shoulders. My thumbs trace the curve of her collarbone, feeling the smooth warmth of her skin beneath my fingertips. She leans back into my touch, tilting her head so her gaze meets mine upside down.
"Marseille?" I question smoothly. "I thought we finalized the French integration last week."
"The French harbor master attempted to renegotiate the tariffs this morning," Elena replies, her voice dripping with an aristocratic disdain. "He assumed my recent focus on the Boston infrastructure meant my grip on the European docks was relaxing."
"A miscalculation on his part," Caterina notes, swirling her champagne. "What did you do?"
"I froze his offshore accounts and seized three of his personal cargo vessels," Elena answers with a carefree shrug. "He called back an hour later begging to honor the original agreement. The ports remain ours."
"You are a terrifying mastermind, Don Vitiello," I murmur, leaning down to press a worshipful kiss to the side of her neck.
"I am simply maintaining the empire my Consigliere built for me," she counters, reaching up to thread her fingers through the dark strands of my hair.
Livia watches the exchange with a fond, knowing smile, wiping strawberry juice from Serafina’s chin.
"The old-guard bosses still complain about the matriarchy, but they are too frightened of the consequences to ever voice their objections in public.
You two boxed them into a corner they can never escape. "
"They will learn to adapt to the new era, or they will perish in the ashes of their archaic traditions," Elena states, turning her chair around to face me fully.
She stands up, closing the distance between us. She rests her hands flat against the center of my chest.
"We should let the children play," I suggest lowly, my suggestion is exclusively meant for her ears. "My study is unoccupied. I have a sudden, overwhelming desire to review the French tariffs with you in private."
A spark ignites in her irises. "Are you attempting to seduce me away from a family gathering, Enzo?"
"I am attempting to worship my wife," I correct her, my hands sliding down to grip the curves of her waist. "
Elena rises onto her toes, her hands sliding up to frame my face. She looks into my eyes, seeing past the Harvard-educated attorney and the ruthless executioner, recognizing the man who loves her with a consuming devotion.
"You already proved it," she whispers, her lips brushing against mine. "Look around us, Enzo. We survived the monsters. We burned the traitors. We built a dynasty that nothing can touch."
I capture her mouth, initiating a starving, desperate kiss that tastes of champagne and triumph. I sweep my tongue against hers, dominating the exchange while she answers with an equally demanding enthusiasm.
When we finally part, I rest my forehead against hers and mingle my breath with hers.
I look past her shoulder, watching Niccolò and Alessio walking across the lawn with their daughters, the formidable leaders of the Severato empire finding peace in the sanctuary we fought so viciously to secure.
Wherever Roberto is, he would be rolling with so much discomfort because he departed this world with all the pain of the Severato boys.
The blood-soaked streets, the extortion rackets, and the treacherous enemies will always exist beyond these fortified stone walls. The war for power is a ceaseless, unending machine.
But holding Elena in the center of our garden, listening to the joyous laughter of our child, I know the undisputed truth. The Severato dynasty is bulletproof. We conquered the dark, we claimed the light, and we will reign untouched for generations to come.
The end.
Thank you for reading Ruined Through Obsession and stepping into Elena and Enzo's dark, violent, and dangerous world.
If you were drawn to obsession, possessive antiheroes, and the kind of love that leaves scars, turn the page for a sneak peek of Bound Through Betrayal, the story of Alessio and Caterina.
It's the story of an unwilling bride and the ruthless mafia prince who should have stayed away from her. But the moment he touches her, he decides she belongs to him.
He was never supposed to want her, now he refuses to let her go.
Flip to the next page for a sneak peak…