Bound by my blood

Chapter thirty-three

Vincenzo's p.o.v:

The club buzzes around me, the low hum of music and chatter melding into a background noise that barely registers. My padre sits at the bar, his voice low and dangerous as he speaks to someone on the phone. The conversation seems to be about something important, but I don't care to listen. I'm not even sure why I'm here. I never wanted to be here with anyone. I wanted to be at home, at our home with Alexa, curled up on the couch, watching Grey's Anatomy with a glass of wine in hand.

I imagine her sitting next to me, stealing sips from my glass like she always does, playfully arguing with me over who gets the last piece of popcorn. She used to steal my wine, but I would always let her. It made her happy. Maybe I would've let her have a glass too tonight, if it meant her smile would return.

But no, she would never be safe with me. That much was clear the moment I made the decision to bring her into this world, the moment I made the choice to take her with me, despite the dangers that come with being close to a man like me. The business deal made that undeniable. That night when the gunshots rang out—I could have lost her. And it would have been my fault.

Angelo, sitting across from me, glances at me briefly before turning his attention back to his scotch. He's the only one who knows the truth. The only one who knows that I hadn't lost my memories, that my condition was all a farce to make Alexa leave me. To make her go home. Her words from that night at the hospital echo in my mind, like a broken record.

"No, you've got to stay with me. You hear me? Stay awake, love. My home is with you."

I tell myself she didn't mean it. She said it because she thought I was going to die, because she thought I was already gone. Hell, I thought I was going to die too.

But now, every time I replay her voice in my head, it stings in a way I can't explain. It would have been worth it if it meant she could live, if it meant she could stay safe.

The shrill buzz of my phone cuts through the tension in the room, pulling me from my thoughts. I shove the random women who was trying to climb onto my lap away, irritated, and quickly answering the call. What I hear on the other end sends a jolt through my body. Shouting. Thuds. My first instinct is to hang up, thinking it's a prank or someone who's dialled the wrong number.

That is until I hear her voice—Alexa.

"Vince," her voice is urgent, breathless, and I can practically hear the panic in her tone, "You need to leave. Go somewhere safe, anywhere. Don't tell anyone. You've got a rat. They're going to kill you."

Then, the line cuts off abruptly.

My blood runs cold. I curse under my breath and try to redial her number, but it goes straight to voicemail. How does she know? How does she know there's a rat in the gang?

I glance around the club, my eyes scanning every face, every shadow for any sign of danger. But there's nothing—no one seems out of place.

Angelo catches my eye, his phone tucked away as he hangs up on someone else. He stands and walks over to me quickly, his demeanour already shifting into something more serious. His eyes scan the room as he passes, and I notice he's casually swapping people's purses and wallets with stones and pebbles as he walks by.

I've never asked how he's gotten so good at pickpocketing, but right now, I don't care.

"Alexandria called me," Angelo mutters in a low voice, slipping his phone and a wad of cash into his pocket, "I've got enough to leave. We need to go now."

I don't hesitate. We both slip out the back, moving quickly, as if we're already being hunted.

In the car, the silence between us is thick, both of us lost in thought. I want to make the call to the pilot, to get things moving, but instead, I tap in the number to my pilot's phone, telling him to meet us at the airport and be ready to leave as soon as we arrive. The conversation is brief, clipped—short enough to avoid anyone intercepting or tracking the call.

"What did Alexa say to you?" I finally ask, the question hanging in the air between us as Angelo navigates through the city streets. The tires hum against the pavement, and I can feel the tension pulling at my chest.

"Not much," Angelo responds, his voice steady but laced with the weight of the situation, "She said we had a rat. That you'd probably be stubborn and not leave. Told me to drag you to America by your ear if you refused."

He lets out a low chuckle, but there's no humour in it, "Specifically New York. She said not to tell anyone."

My mind races. New York? Why?

"Why New York?" I mutter aloud, my brows furrowing, "Her family must hate me."

Angelo shrugs, his eyes never leaving the road. "I'm sure they do. But she's got a plan. She said she'll meet us somewhere, so she must not hate you that much."

I don't know how to feel about that. The hurt I saw on Alexa's face after I yelled at her in the hospital still haunts me. The words I said to her cut deeper than I realized. But if she's willing to meet us, maybe there's still a chance—maybe she doesn't hate me after all.

As we approach the runway, I feel a small spark of hope—hope that maybe this whole nightmare isn't over, that there's still a way back for me.

Angelo skids the Porsche to a stop, and we both jump out, making our way to the private jet. The pilot is already in the cockpit, waiting. We board briskly, the doors shutting behind us with a heavy thud.

I sink into the plush seat of the plane, exhaling deeply. As we take off, the city below growing smaller, I cling to one thought: She doesn't hate me. There's still a chance. And as long as there's a chance, I'll fight to keep her safe, even if it means leaving everything behind.

I just hope it's not too late.