Bound by my blood

Chapter twenty-three

Alexa's POV

"That went well. What are we doing for the rest of the day?" I ask as soon as the mayor and his family disappear down the grand marble steps of the estate.

Vincenzo rolls his shoulders back, his crisp white dress shirt pulling taut across his broad chest. "I've got work to do," he says, voice clipped, as if the mere thought of leisure is offensive. "You can do whatever you want in the house, but if you desperately need to go out, take some guards." With that, he strides into his office without waiting for my reply.

I blink. "Wow. Romantic."

Instead of leaving him to his oh-so-important business, I follow him inside. His office is as intimidating as the rest of the house—towering bookshelves filled with ancient leather-bound volumes, a mahogany desk large enough to command an army from, and deep, luxurious chairs that seem to swallow whoever dares to sit in them. It smells of expensive cologne, aged wood, and a faint trace of gunpowder.

I collapse onto the leather couch in the corner, sinking into its plush surface. Vincenzo barely spares me a glance as he picks up a thick file, his sharp jawline tense in concentration.

"I'm bored," I declare, drawing out the words.

No response.

I swing my legs over the arm of the couch, tilting my head dramatically. "And I don't want to go out with a small army tailing me."

Still nothing. He simply flips a page. The only sound in the room is the faint rustle of paper and the quiet hum of the air conditioning.

I huff, scrolling mindlessly through Instagram on my phone. But there's nothing remotely interesting—just business profiles and a handful of college acquaintances I barely talk to.

Mamma and Babbo have drilled it into me not to post anything personal. "It's an easy way for your enemies to track you," they always warned. It makes social media feel more like a graveyard of carefully curated images rather than a way to connect.

I sigh. Loudly.

Still no reaction.

Alright, Vince. You want to ignore me? Let's see how long that lasts.

Rolling onto the floor, I start stealthily crawling toward his desk, my movements slow and deliberate. He doesn't react immediately, but I notice the slight twitch of his lips—the way his eyes flicker downward for a fraction of a second before forcing themselves back onto the document in front of him.

He knows I'm up to something.

I reach his chair and squeeze under his arms, effectively blocking his view of the file. His exhale is both amused and exasperated, but before I can move away, he captures me in his arms.

With a smooth, practiced motion, he shifts me against his chest, tucking my head into the crook of his neck. His warmth envelops me instantly, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath my cheek strangely soothing.

"This file better be important," I mumble, my voice slightly muffled against his shirt.

"It is," he says smoothly. "Otherwise, you wouldn't have so many clothes on."

I roll my eyes, unsurprised that his mind immediately went there. "Pig."

He chuckles, his breath warm against my hair.

"I'm bored," I repeat, shifting slightly to look up at him. His dark eyes, so cold and calculating with everyone else, soften just a fraction as they meet mine.

"I know, guaio," he mutters. "After I finish this, we'll go out somewhere. Then you won't need all those guards you despise."

That answer is enough for now. His scent—pine, coffee, and something distinctly Vince—surrounds me, making it impossible to keep my eyes open. His broad shoulder is comfortable, and his body radiates a steady heat that lulls me into a state of drowsiness.

Maybe just a quick nap before we go out...

"Rest, la mia moglie fastidiosa," he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to my temple. His voice is barely above a whisper, meant only for me. "I won't be long."

The last thing I hear before sleep claims me is the rhythmic sound of his heartbeat beneath my ear.

---

Vincenzo's POV

I glance down at the woman curled up in my arms. She shifts slightly, her dark lashes fluttering against her cheek, and the soft scent of vanilla and strawberries fills the air. A small grin tugs at my lips. I've always liked the way she smells—sweet and warm, like something forbidden.

Alexa lets out a faint, barely-there snore, and I chuckle quietly.

I was supposed to be working, but my attention keeps drifting to her. Even in sleep, she commands the room.

A knock at the door makes me glance up, my amusement fading.

"Come in," I say, keeping my voice low to avoid waking her.

Angelo enters first, but it's my padre who catches my attention. Salvatore wheels himself inside, his sharp gaze landing on Alexa's sleeping form with immediate disapproval. His jaw tightens, his wrinkled hands curling over the armrests of his wheelchair.

"We can come back later if you're busy," Angelo starts, but padre cuts him off.

"No," he snaps. "We don't have time to waste. And the girl is asleep. Though, I don't approve of you letting her laze around when she should be helping the maids. That is her duty as your wife."

I bite back my irritation.

My father has always been like this—rigid, controlling. In his world, women exist to serve. When he ruled the Sicilian Mafia, they weren't allowed to be anything but obedient daughters, wives, and mothers. It disgusts me.

But arguing with him now is pointless.

"What do you need?" I ask instead, keeping my tone neutral.

Angelo sits down, his expression grim. "More shipments have been stolen. And two more men were murdered the same way as before."

I grit my teeth. Seven of my men. Dead.

The air in the room thickens with unspoken violence. My fingers twitch against Alexa's back, my mind already conjuring ways to make whoever is responsible pay.

"Who do you think it is?" I growl.

"I think it's the girl's family," padre says, voice like steel. "They own most of Italy. It must drive them mad that they don't own Sicily and Palermo. That's why their daughter came here so willingly."

I stiffen. No. That doesn't sit right with me.

"No," Angelo disagrees immediately. "I've been watching them like you told me to. They're holding up their end of the alliance—unlike us."

Padre scoffs. "That's what they want you to believe. But if they were truly innocent, why was the Phantom flown into Sicily by the Italian Mafia?"

My jaw clenches. "The Phantom? What does that have to do with anything?"

"They work closely with the Italians," padre says, his gaze sharp. "Their timing is... interesting, don't you think?"

I don't like coincidences.

"Angelo, check the dark web for any bounties in Sicily. Find out everything you can about the Phantom." My voice is low, controlled, but my blood runs hot.

Padre watches me carefully. "And what will you do?"

"I'll watch Alexa." My hold on her tightens slightly. "We're going out tonight—I'll use the opportunity to gather information. Padre, we'll update you if we find anything significant."

Both men nod and leave swiftly.

As soon as the door clicks shut, I exhale slowly, running my fingers through Alexa's long, raven hair.

My father's accusations linger in my mind.

I really, really hope her family has nothing to do with this.