Page 28 of Ruined Through Obsession

"You never should have wished for more, old man," I state, staring down into the terrified eyes of my abuser, preparing to collect the final debt.

20

Enzo

I stand over the man who haunted the darkest corners of my mind since I was sixteen years old. My customized submachine gun hangs at my side on its tactical sling, replaced by the Glock I hold in my right hand. The polymer grip bites into my calloused palm. My finger rests lightly against the trigger guard.

The crystal chandelier sways above us, the shattered prisms casting chaotic, dancing prisms of light across the blood-slicked hardwood floor.

Roberto is trapped. The untouchable patriarch, the sadistic god of the Boston underworld, is currently cowering in an ornate wooden chair, surrounded by the bleeding corpses of his elite mercenaries. The pristine white fabric of his tailored suit is ruined, stained with the wine he dropped and the crimson splatter of the men who died trying to protect his rotting ego.

I stare down the barrel of my weapon, looking directly into his eyes.

I expect to feel the familiar, paralyzing terror that usually grips my throat whenever I am in his presence. I expect the phantom pains of shattered ribs and broken fingers to paralyze my lungs. But as I look at the wide, frantic twitch of his eyes, at the pathetic tremble of his manicured hands, the terror simply dissolves. It evaporates into the humid Sicilian air, leaving behind a profound, clarifying disgust.

This shivering, pathetic creature is the monster I used to pray to?

He is not a deity. He is just a greedy, vicious old man who refuses to die gracefully.

"Look at this room," I command. "Look at the fucking mess you caused, Roberto. Death follows you everywhere you go, leaving nothing but corpses in your wake."

Roberto swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. He attempts to push himself further back into his chair, trying to put an extra inch of distance between his skull and the muzzle of my gun. "Enzo, you have to listen to me. This is a misunderstanding. We can rebuild the alliance."

"There is no alliance," I sneer, taking a slow, predatory step forward. "You were banished. Niccolò gave you mercy when he stripped you of your throne in Boston. He spared your life because you are his biological father, and he exiled you to this island to live out your days in peace. But that was not enough for you, was it? You are too greedy. You could not stomach the idea of watching your own sons sit on the throne and rule the empire better than you ever did."

"I built that empire!" Roberto spits, a flash of his trademark arrogance momentarily piercing through his fear. "I made Boston what it is! Niccolò and Alessio are soft! They lack the vision to expand the territory!"

"Niccolò and Alessio are your own flesh and blood," I roar, the rage boiling over, fueled by decades of watching him abuse the brothers I love. "You brought them into this world, and you treated them like disposable foot soldiers. You tried to put a bullet in Livia’s head just to keep Niccolò on your twisted leash. You thought murdering the woman he loved would make him a more compliant Don. You are a disease. You destroy everything you touch because you cannot stand the thought of anyone being happy while your soul rots from the inside out."

The mention of Livia’s attempted assassination makes Roberto’s jaw clench. He knows that was the catalyst for his downfall. He tried to manipulate the board, tried to orchestrate tragedies to keep his biological sons dependent on his approval, and it backfired spectacularly. They stripped him of his title and threw him across the Atlantic.

But Roberto could not leave well enough alone. He allied with Salvatore Russo. He funded the Volkov mercenaries to attack our home, and he planned to absorb the Sicilian ports, preferring to kill every single person he raised rather than watch us succeed without him.

"I gave you everything," Roberto hisses, his pale eyes narrowing into vicious slits as he attempts to utilize the psychological warfare that worked so well when I was a child. "You ungrateful bastardo. You think you are a king because you hold a gun? You are nothing but a stray dog I pulled from the gutter. Feccia della strada! A pathetic street rat."

He leans forward, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair, his upper lip curling into a sneer of pure venom. "You think you belong with them? With Niccolò? With her?" He gestures wildly toward Elena, who is standing near the marble pillar, watching the confrontation. "You will never belong, Enzo. You are a serpente. A snake that bites the hand that feeds it."

"I should have left you to choke on your own blood in that alleyway," Roberto snarls, a sick, frantic desperation lacing his words as he realizes the insults are failing. "I should have put a bullet in your brain the day I found you. You are a violent, rabid animal, Enzo. I molded you. I carved that violence into your marrow. It will never leave you. It will haunt you for the rest of your miserable existence, and eventually, you will destroy every beautiful thing you will ever have, because destruction is the only thing you truly understand!"

"You are right about one thing," I agree smoothly, my expression completely devoid of mercy. "I am a monster. I am the exact, ruthless predator you built in your basement. But I do not serve you anymore."

I raise the Glock, aligning the tritium sights perfectly with the center of his chest. I do not aim for the head. I want him to feel his heart stop. I want him to experience the exact, agonizing fraction of a second where his body realizes his reign is officially over.

"You are no longer a Don," I state, delivering the chilling monologue that officially ends his legacy. "You are no longer a Severato. I revoke your title. I revoke your name. You are stripped of every honor, every territory, and every protection the syndicate affords."

"Enzo, wait—" Roberto gasps, raising his hands in a final, pathetic plea.

"I revoke your right to draw breath in my world," I finish.

I pull the trigger.

The gunshot cracks through the dining hall, a deafening boom that bounces off the vaulted ceilings and the ruined frescoes. The hollow-point round tears through the lapel of his white suit, obliterating his sternum and ripping through his heart with devastating kinetic force. The impact throws him backward into the ornate chair. His head snaps back, his mouth falling open in a soundless scream, before his eyes roll up into his skull.

Roberto Severato slumps forward, his chin resting against his bleeding chest, his arms dangling lifelessly at his sides.

The toxic root of the Severato bloodline is permanently severed. The generational curse is broken.

A massive, unimaginable burden lifts from my broad shoulders, evaporating the decades of conditioned terror and abuse that weighed me down. My lungs expand, pulling in the first truly free breath of air I have experienced since I was sixteen years old. The boogeyman is dead. He is just another bleeding corpse ruining an expensive rug.