Bound by my blood

Chapter eighteen

"I'm going out," I inform Vincenzo coldly, my voice void of warmth or patience.

He had only just returned from wherever he disappears to every morning, his suit still crisp, his tie slightly loosened. Not a hair out of place. As if he hadn't just left me stewing in my own anger and resentment from last night.

Not that he cared.

He hadn't apologized. He hadn't kissed me. He hadn't even bothered to check on me when I skipped dinner, deliberately isolating myself in our massive, suffocating house.

I'd taken a long shower, hoping the hot water would wash away the feeling of his hands on my skin—the remnants of whatever twisted game he had started. I had finished what he started, but it didn't make me feel any better. It only made the emptiness worse.

"Where are you going? Who's going with you?" Vincenzo asks, his voice impassive, his eyes glued to his phone like the insufferable bastard he is.

I notice he does that a lot—never looking up when I speak. When anyone speaks, really. As if whatever is on his screen is more important than the people around him.

"It's none of your business," I shrug, feigning indifference. I know if I tell him, he'll send his men to shadow me, suffocating me even more than these four walls already do.

I need out.

The walls of this house feel like they're closing in on me, pressing against my ribs, making it hard to breathe. I spent years earning my medical degree, years pushing myself through sleepless nights and brutal exams. And now? Now I sit in a gilded cage, doing nothing but existing.

I want to do something with my life. I want to help people in the only way I know how.

"I'm your husband," he snaps, his voice sharp with irritation, but he still doesn't look at me.

I don't react.

"Alexandria," he repeats, and this time his tone is thunderous. "I am your husband!"

I let out a cold, humorless laugh. "You certainly don't act like it, so don't use that as an excuse. All you need to know is that I'm going out. And I'm going alone."

His entire demeanor shifts.

Suddenly, his phone is forgotten. His fists clench on the tabletop, knuckles going white. His jaw tightens, muscles ticking. His entire body is coiled rage.

"Alexandria," he growls, standing abruptly, his chair scraping against the marble floor. "You are my responsibility. How the fuck am I supposed to protect you when you're running around like a goddamn fool?"

I arch a brow, amusement curling in my chest despite the firestorm of tension in the room.

"Be careful," I say, my voice laced with mockery. "Someone might overhear you and think you actually care about me. Or—" I pause, letting my lips curl into a cruel smirk. "God forbid—love me."

The air shifts.

A dangerous glint flashes in his dark brown eyes.

And then, he moves.

Before I can react, he's in front of me, towering over me like a predator sizing up its prey. I swallow hard, instinctively lowering my gaze.

His scent—woodsy, masculine, and laced with expensive cologne—fills my senses, suffocating me.

"Don't be foolish, Alex," he murmurs, voice low and sharp as a blade. His fingers grip my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. "I do not love you. I don't even want you near me."

His grip tightens, just for a second.

"You are merely a business deal," he sneers. "A pawn that will make me—and my mafia—more powerful. That is your only purpose."

A dull ache spreads through my chest, but I don't let it show.

I steel myself. I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.

"I understand," I whisper, my voice barely audible.

His eyes flicker.

For a moment—just a split second—I see it. The storm beneath his cold exterior.

Then, just as quickly, it's gone.

"Good," he mutters, releasing me abruptly and stepping back. His mask of indifference slides effortlessly back into place. "You are not leaving this house without someone watching you."

I nod, expression unreadable.

Without another word, he turns on his heel and stalks toward his office, slamming the door behind him.

I wait.

Pressing my ear against the door, I listen.

At first, there's only silence.

Then—a woman's moan.

My stomach twists, but I force myself to feel nothing. Of course. It's not like I expected loyalty from him.

Rolling my eyes, I move swiftly, silently.

Tiptoeing toward the garage, I glance over my shoulder one last time before pressing down on the control panel. The garage door lifts soundlessly, revealing a lineup of luxury cars.

I snatch the keys to the white Lamborghini Aventador from the hook, my fingers curling around them like they hold my freedom.

Sliding into the driver's seat, I grip the leather-wrapped steering wheel and take a steadying breath.

I can do this.

The second I twist the key in the ignition, the engine purrs to life. I wince as the door slams shut behind me—too loud. I freeze, my pulse hammering.

But no one comes.

No footsteps. No shouting.

This is too easy.

I shift into gear, rolling down the long driveway toward the back gate.

As I near the exit, I lower the window and flash a sweet, innocent smile at the young guard standing there.

"Ciao, puoi aprire il cancello?" I ask smoothly, tilting my head just enough for his gaze to flicker to my cleavage.

(Translation: Hi, can you open the gate?)

His Adam's apple bobs. "Sì, Miss," he stammers, quickly pressing the button.

Pathetic.

I pull down the mirror, applying a coat of lip gloss as the gate starts to open.

Then, just as the gap widens enough for my escape, a shout pierces the air.

A group of men—Vincenzo's men—screaming at the guard to close the gate.

My heart jumps into my throat.

I shove the mirror up, slam my foot on the gas, and swerve through the opening.

The boy stares after me, confusion etched on his face, while the men—too slow to react—watch in defeat as I disappear down the road.

A reckless, giddy laugh bubbles up in my throat.

I did it.

But the victory is short-lived.

Vincenzo is going to murder me when I get home.

So, I might as well make the most of my freedom.

First stop—the mall. Then, the nearest hospital.