Flesh And Blood: His Dark Obsession

Valentina POV

The next morning, I walked down the long, dimly lit corridor of the private wing, my footfalls silenced by the thick runners on the floor. My heart hammered against my ribs from the memory of his trembling hands, but my mind was completely clear.

From the shadows of a marble pillar, a stiletto-heeled shoe shot out.

I tripped and crashed hard onto the hardwood floor, the impact sending a shock through my bones.

Pain shot up my knees.

Camilla stepped out of the shadows, a cruel smirk twisting her painted lips.

She looked down at me with pure venom in her eyes.

She pressed the sharp heel of her shoe directly onto the back of my hand.

I gasped as the metal tip dug into my skin, a pressure that threatened to pierce the vein below.

"Did you really think a cheap maid uniform would hide that corpulent body?" Camilla whispered, grinding her heel harder.

I grabbed her ankle with my free hand, ready to rip her leg out from under her.

"Low-level trash like you will never share the Don's bed," she hissed.

"Enough."

The Matriarch's voice echoed through the corridor like a gunshot.

Camilla froze and quickly pulled her foot back.

The Matriarch marched over and shoved Camilla hard by the shoulder, her authority needing no announcement.

"You dare disrespect my guest in the private wing?" the Matriarch snapped.

"She is just a rat from the streets," Camilla argued, her face turning red with a blotchy, indignant fury.

"Get out of my sight before I have my men remove your tongue," the older woman threatened, her tone deadly quiet.

Camilla glared at me and stormed down the hall, her heels striking the marble with furious clicks.

The Matriarch knelt beside me and examined my bleeding hand.

"Come with me," she said, pulling me into a nearby sitting room.

She opened a first-aid kit and began cleaning my wound with a practiced, almost dismissive efficiency.

"Why is he so terrified?" I asked, watching the blood soak into the cotton swab. "I saw his eyes. It wasn't just anger. It was pure panic."

The Matriarch sighed heavily, a sound that seemed to carry the sorrows of a generation.

"It is an Omertà secret," she said softly. "His last two wives did not just betray him. They were rival spies sent by the Russian syndicate. They had toxin capsules surgically implanted beneath their skin. One released the poison with a bite. The other had a timed subcutaneous release. They both died in his bed, their bodies convulsing as the toxins activated. Enzo barely survived. He woke up in a hospital bed, his nervous system half-destroyed, the images of their death throes burned into his mind. Now, he sees every woman who has been cut open as a potential delivery system for death." A sickening chill ran down my spine.

I looked down at my own lush chest, the pieces of his fractured mind suddenly arranging themselves into a coherent picture.

I understood now.

His lethal paranoia was not just cruelty. It was a desperate need to survive.

My determination solidified into something cold and hard within me.

"I am going to prove I am real," I told her.

The Matriarch smiled thinly and handed me a crystal tray with a bottle of aged whiskey and a single glass.

"He is in his study," she said. "Do not back down."

I took the tray and walked to the end of the hall, my purpose a straight, unwavering line.

The study door was slightly ajar.

I pushed it open.

The room was filled with the rich, intoxicating smell of cigar smoke and old leather.

Enzo sat behind a massive mahogany desk, staring at syndicate maps, looking every inch the sovereign of this dark world.

He looked up, his jaw instantly tightening when he saw me.

"I told you to stay out of my sight," he warned, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

I ignored his command.

I walked straight toward him, my eyes locked on his, determined he would see no fear in them.

I stepped around the desk.

Instead of setting the tray down, I intentionally caught the toe of my shoe on the thick Persian rug.

I stumbled forward.

The tray clattered to the floor, and I fell directly into his lap.

Enzo let out a sharp curse.

His large hands instinctively grabbed my waist to steady me.

His fingers burned through the thin fabric of my uniform, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

For one second, he held me tight, his chest rising and falling rapidly against mine.

Then the terror hit him again.

He tried to push me away, his hands shaking with a sudden, violent tremor.

I did not let him.

I grabbed his large, scarred hands with all my strength.

I slammed his palms directly onto my bare chest, right above the neckline of my apron.

"There is nothing but flesh and blood here," I declared, my voice steady and fierce.

Enzo froze.

His eyes widened as he felt the soft, heavy weight of me beneath his hands.

"There is nothing hidden inside me," I said, pressing his hands harder against my skin. "Nothing that will poison you."

His breathing turned ragged.

A dangerous heat flared in his slate-gray eyes, battling the ghosts of his past.

He stared at my lips, his thumb twitching against my collarbone.

But the phantom memory of convulsing bodies must have hit his brain, severing the connection between us.

His violent reflexes took over.

He shoved me hard.

I flew backward and crashed onto the Persian rug.

My elbows hit the floor with a sharp crack.

Enzo stood up, each heavy breath he took seeming to strain the buttons of his shirt.

He was fighting his own feral urges, and he was losing.

"Guards!" he roared.

Two soldiers rushed into the study, their sidearms already drawn.

"Take this woman to the basement interrogation rooms," Enzo commanded, refusing to look at me. "She will scrub the blood-stained floors until her hands bleed."

He paused, his jaw ticking with a tightly coiled fury.

"And put Camilla Vincenzo in charge of overseeing her punishment."

The soldiers grabbed my arms and pulled me to my feet.

I did not fight them this time.

I looked back at Enzo as they dragged me toward the door.

He was gripping the edge of his mahogany desk so hard his knuckles were white.

His breathing was ragged, and his fists were trembling.

I smirked in the shadows of the hallway.

He was breaking. And I would make sure the next time he touched me, he would never let go.