Bound by my blood

Chapter thirteen

The car rolls to a slow stop outside a small, discolored house. The paint is peeling, the walls stained with the passage of time. The front window is broken—someone has attempted to patch it up with a piece of damp, curling cardboard, but it does little to hide the damage.

A quiet ache settles in my chest.

I've always had everything I needed—shelter, warmth, security. I never had to wonder where my next meal would come from, never had to worry about my family's survival. But here, in places like this, people fight for every scrap of stability.

Mamma and Babbo worked relentlessly to uphold the mafia's reputation, ensuring our members were the best in their respective fields, paying them well for their loyalty and skill. Perhaps that made life a little easier for some. But for others? The ones who had to steal, kill, and destroy just to put food on the table—it must have been hell.

For my family, this life had always been a choice. For others, it was a necessity.

The car door creaks as Alceu steps out, his movements sharp, alert. I follow his lead, my heels clicking against the cracked pavement. Unlike him, I'm unarmed. Not that I need to be—if anything were to happen to me, Vincenzo would be the one to pay the price. That alone is enough protection.

As I move toward the house, Vincenzo's voice cuts through the silence.

"Alexa, wait here," he commands, his tone brooking no argument. "This woman just lost her son. She won't want you there."

I don't even acknowledge his words. Instead, I skip ahead, leaving him and Alceu behind.

If she lost her son, she needs comfort, not the presence of a cold, unfeeling mafia boss. What good would Vincenzo do here? He has all the warmth of a frozen corpse.

As I reach the door, I pause, waiting as Vincenzo joins me. He shoots me a sharp glare before knocking.

A loud crash erupts from inside.

Then a muffled cry.

My breath catches. "What was that?" I whisper, but Vincenzo is already moving.

His hand goes to his gun, and before I can react, he shoves me behind him.

"Stay behind me, Alexa," he orders, his voice deadly quiet.

Then, with one swift kick, the door splinters off its hinges, crashing to the ground with a deafening bang.

If whoever was inside didn't know we were here before, they do now.

A weak, broken whimper draws my attention, and before I can think, I rush forward, ignoring Vincenzo's sharp curse.

A woman lies sprawled on the floor, blood seeping from a deep gash on her forehead. Tears streak her face as she pushes herself backward, her breathing shallow, frantic.

I drop to my knees beside her, hands raised in a placating gesture. "Ma'am, I'm not going to hurt you. Can I help you?"

Her fearful eyes dart between me and the kitchen. My stomach twists.

Whoever did this is still here.

I should have stayed behind Vincenzo. I should have thought.

Slowly, I glance back at him. He's still by the door, gun raised, his eyes locked onto the kitchen entrance.

Carefully, I shift, subtly gesturing toward the source of her fear. There.

Vincenzo nods once. I look away before whoever is inside notices.

Turning back to the woman, I take in the details I hadn't before—her dilated pupils, the way her body trembles violently, her grey-tinted lips.