Page 44 of Ruined Through Obsession

"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.