Bound by my blood

Chapter twenty

"Vincenzo Lombardo, you fucking asshole! Get your ass down here right now!"

My voice ricochets off the high ceilings, a furious echo tearing through the opulence of the Lombardo estate. The weight of my bag crashes onto the marble floor, the slap of leather against stone punctuating my rage.

The heavy wooden door to the control room creaks open, but it's not Vincenzo who emerges. Instead, it's Angelo. His broad frame moves hesitantly toward me, dark eyes cautious, like he's approaching a wounded animal poised to attack.

"Where the fuck is that son of a bitch that is my husband?" I snap, my pulse pounding in my throat.

Angelo exhales slowly, his expression unreadable. "He's still out looking for you," he answers, then tilts his head slightly. "What's wrong?"

I don't bother replying. My blood is boiling too much for words. Instead, I whirl around, my heels striking the floor in quick, sharp steps as I head for the kitchen. The air is thick with the scent of freshly baked bread and something spiced simmering on the stove, but I don't stop.

I make my way down into the dimly lit cellar, the coolness wrapping around my heated skin like a taunt. My fingers trail across the dusty labels of vintage wines until I find something dark, something strong.

I rip the cork out, bringing the bottle to my lips without hesitation. The first swallow burns, but I welcome the sting, the numbing effect settling into my bloodstream.

Angelo follows, stopping at the base of the stairs. He watches me with a mix of concern and wariness.

"Maybe that's not the best idea," he sighs, stepping forward to take the bottle from me.

I slap his hand away with a sharp glare. "Fuck off, Angelo. Like you care."

The wine sloshes in the bottle as I pull it back to my lips, gulping it down like it's water. A dull ache presses at the back of my skull, but I don't stop.

I toss the empty bottle onto a shelf and grab another, not bothering to check what it is. I just need something—anything—to quiet the storm inside me.

As I ascend the stairs, I strip off my jumper, letting it fall to the steps behind me. The air kisses my bare skin, sending a shiver down my spine. I don't care. Let him see me like this. Let him know what it feels like to burn.

Grabbing the remote, I flick through the channels until Grey's Anatomy fills the massive screen, its soft dialogue a sharp contrast to the chaos in my mind. I stretch across the pristine white sofa, fingers curling around the new bottle, taking lazy sips.

Angelo disappears, but I hardly notice. My mind is focused on one thing.

Vincenzo.

I want him here. I want him to feel it. To see it. To suffer.

A car door slams outside. My heart stutters before I smother the reaction. I force myself to my feet, determination settling into my bones like steel.

I unbutton my jeans, sliding them down my legs before shoving them under a cushion. My body hums with liquid courage, my limbs loose as I strut toward the main hall, the chilled air caressing my bare skin.

I round the corner and find them—five of his men, talking in hushed voices, oblivious to my approach.

Until they see me.

Laughter dies in their throats, their eyes widening, muscles tensing.

"Hello, boys." My voice is silky, dripping with something dangerous.