Bound by my blood

Chapter twenty-four

Alexandria's p.ov:

I run my fingers through my tousled hair, trying to smooth the wild strands into something presentable before we step out of the office. The last thing I need is someone whispering about my dishevelled appearance after leaving my husband's office. Rumours spread like wildfire in his mafia, and I have no interest in fuelling them.

The drama that would follow isn't worth the headache. His group of adoring fangirls would probably rejoice at any sign of discord between us. If they had their way, they'd toss me off a cliff and into the ocean without hesitation—no doubt imagining themselves as my replacement. And honestly, it wouldn't surprise me if one of them actually tried.

Vincenzo appears beside me, his presence a magnetic force that I could never quite resist. He smirks, eyes trailing over me with a knowing glint.

"You look fine, guaio," he murmurs, his voice laced with amusement. "Stop fretting. Now, where do you want to go? I was thinking of Bella Vita. It's one of mine, so I know the food won't disappoint."

"Okay, let me get changed into something more appropriate, and then we can go," I reply, patting his chest affectionately before making my way upstairs.

Inside my walk-in closet, I pull off the white dress and toss it into the laundry basket. My fingers skim over my collection of outfits until I settle on a black-and-white oversized blazer with a bold checkered pattern. I spritz on my signature perfume, then brush my teeth before slipping into black high-waisted shorts and a lacy bralette. The blazer drapes elegantly over my frame, cinched at the waist by my Gucci belt to keep it in place.

To complete the look, I step into knee-high, heeled boots and reapply my lipstick—a deep red shade that makes my lips look fuller. One last glance in the mirror, and I'm satisfied.

When I descend the stairs, I find Vince and Angelo deep in conversation. Angelo is the first to notice me, his expression warming as he offers a respectful nod.

"You look stunning, Mrs. Lombardo."

I smile in response as he steps away, leaving Vince to rake his gaze over me.

"You look amazing, guaio, but that dress is too short," he remarks, eyes darkening slightly as he tugs me closer.

I beam up at him. "It's not a dress."

His smirk widens. "Then it's still too short."

Ignoring him, I let him guide me toward one of his many cars. He opens the door for me, and just as I slide inside, I feel a playful smack on my ass. I shoot him an unimpressed look, but he just chuckles, rounding the car to get in the driver's seat.

I gasp dramatically, hand flying to my chest. "Oh, my God. Do you feel okay? You're driving yourself around for once."

He rolls his eyes, but the ghost of a smirk plays on his lips.

We drive in comfortable silence, the hum of the engine and the soft melodies from the radio filling the space between us. The night air is crisp, and for a brief moment, I let myself relax against the leather seats, enjoying the rare moment of peace.

But when we pull up to the restaurant, my mood sours. A cluster of paparazzi waits outside like vultures circling a fresh kill.

I inhale sharply. I hate the paparazzi—the way they shove cameras in my face, searching for the slightest misstep to twist into a scandal. They stalked me even before I married Vince, lurking outside university classrooms, pretending to be students just to snap photos of me during lectures.

Vince must sense my discomfort because he slides on his sunglasses and turns to me. "Wait here."

I stare at the ground as he steps out, only looking up when he opens my door. Immediately, he wraps an arm around me, shielding me from the blinding flashes.

The paparazzi swarm, shouting questions, their voices overlapping in a chaotic mess.

"Alexa! How does it feel to be married to the most feared man in Sicily?"
"Mr. Lombardo, any truth to the rumors about—"
"Alexa! Smile for us!"

Vince's grip tightens ever so slightly. "Are you okay?" he murmurs under his breath, his voice low and only for me.

I nod, barely.

The hostess—a kind-looking blonde—greets us warmly at the entrance. "Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Lombardo. This way, please. We've prepared a private room for you."

Vince's hand settles on the small of my back as he guides me through the restaurant. The air is thick with the aroma of fresh pasta, garlic, and aged wine. Laughter and soft conversations fill the space as diners enjoy their meals.

A table of young women giggles as we pass, their eyes trailing after Vince with thinly veiled interest. Meanwhile, an older woman dining alone casts us a sharp glance before returning to her glass of red wine.

At another table, an American couple leans over their menus, struggling to decipher the Italian names of the dishes. I wonder how they met. Are they in love? Did they come here for a romantic getaway? Maybe he's planning to propose.

The blonde hostess leads us into a dimly lit private dining room, placing two menus on the table before retreating.

Vince pulls out my chair, and I sink into it absentmindedly. He pushes me in before taking his seat across from me.

Another flawlessly dressed blonde soon enters, setting down a bucket of ice with a bottle of red wine. She says something to Vince, but I don't hear her—I'm too focused on her.

What is it with him and immaculate blondes?

Maybe that's his usual type. Maybe I don't fit the mold. Maybe—

"Penny for your thoughts?" Vince's voice pulls me back.

"Hmm? No. My thoughts are worth more than a penny," I hum, reaching for the wine, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze.

What was I thinking, sleeping on him? Twice. What if he thinks I'm clingy? Weird?

I sip the wine, hoping it'll drown the ridiculous thoughts swirling in my head.

"Stop staring at me," I mumble, eyes flickering down to my lap.

"I can't help it," he says smoothly. "You beguile me."

I tilt my head, trying not to let my lips curve into a smile. He watches me with that same lazy smirk, mischief flickering in his dark eyes. One minute, he's cold and unreadable; the next, he's playful and charming. Keeping up with him is exhausting.

"The wine is nice," I say, desperate to change the subject.

"Just nice?" he teases.

How else do you describe wine? I was never a huge fan before moving to Sicily, and now I feel ridiculous trying to critique it. I'd honestly rather be eating McDonald's with a chocolate milkshake, but I obviously can't say that.

"It's pleasant. Sweet."

He nods, but his gaze sharpens. "You're quiet tonight, guaio."

"I'm fine," I say quickly, but his narrowed eyes tell me he doesn't buy it.

I focus on the menu, pretending to be enthralled by the font.

The sound of his chair scraping back echoes in the room. A second later, he's beside me, one warm hand settling on my knee.

"You know I don't like repeating myself," he murmurs, his breath ghosting over my skin. "What's wrong?"

I exhale shakily, refusing to meet his gaze. His fingers trail up, tilting my chin so I have no choice but to look at him.

"Nothing is wrong," I whisper. "Your restaurant is just... very fancy."

His lips press into a thin line before he makes a decision. In one smooth motion, he pulls me to my feet.

"We can fix that," he mutters, guiding me toward the back exit.