Bound by my blood

Chapter thirty-eight

My hair is frizzy from the sweltering heat of the small kitchen, the air thick and sticky as I stir the pot. The scent of Mamma's soup albondigas fills the room, the rich, comforting smell wrapping around me like a warm embrace. My stomach growls loudly, and I can feel the hunger building as I sit on the cool, tiled floor by the oven, waiting for the dish to finish.

I've been experimenting with the family recipes, tweaking them and adding my own twist to some, while leaving others just the way they've always been. In a way, cooking is like a science experiment to me—the measuring, the mixing, the testing of flavors—it's all part of the process, and I love every second of it.

There's something immensely satisfying about getting the measurements just right, the balance of flavors clicking into place. Being cooped up in the house has actually reignited my passion for cooking, and now I've been crowned the "chief" in the kitchen since none of the men can manage to cook anything edible, let alone anything that tastes good.

Suddenly, the alarm on my phone blares, snapping me out of my thoughts. I jump to my feet, my heart racing a little with excitement, and I quickly open the oven door. The steam rises in a cloud of fragrant warmth, and I pull the dish out carefully, placing it on the counter.

The smell is almost unbearable—so good that it makes my mouth water instantly. I'm near salivating when the boys pile in, loud and full of energy. Angelo and Jax are deep in conversation, discussing some new training exercise they're planning, while Vince stays silent, his eyes trained on me.

I feel the heat creep up my neck, my cheeks flushing as I push a stray lock of hair behind my ear. I try to focus on the floor for a moment, regaining my composure, but I can't help the slight blush on my face.

Finally, when I manage to pull myself together, I glance up to find Vince smirking at me, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he sips from the water glass I had set up for them at the dining table. His gaze feels almost too intense, but I quickly look away, pretending not to notice.

"I hope you guys have showered!" I tease, my voice light but carrying a mock sternness. "I'm not going to sit here and let your stench ruin my meal."

When no one answers, I turn to face them, hands on my hips, my expression shifting to one of mock disapproval. I hold my gaze steady, trying my best to look serious, but it's hard with the boys acting so casual.

Jax gulps visibly, his eyes darting to the kitchen knife resting on the counter beside me, his grin turning sheepish. He glances back at me, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"We're starving, okay?" Jax pleads, his voice tinged with desperation. "We promise we won't do it again, but please—can we eat while it's still warm?"

I roll my eyes, letting out an exaggerated sigh.

"You know where everything is, and if I catch any of you coming to another meal smelling like you just ran a marathon, I swear, I'll beat you up," I warn with mock seriousness, though I can't quite keep the amusement out of my tone. "Then I'll get Mamma involved. You know how she feels about meal times."

Jax shudders visibly at the mention of Mamma's strict rules at the dinner table. Her attention to detail during meals is legendary—and terrifying. No one dares break her rules, especially when it comes to how food is treated.

She had thrown a knife at Babbo once because he was on call at the table when she came in from a mission... the knife had been one of her poisonous ones. However, she had purposefully thrown it a few inch away from his hand as it never hit him. Mamma never misses her target by accident.

No one ever dared to break one of her rules again. Not after that time.

Babbo used to tell the story—how Mamma had thrown a knife at him one evening when he'd been on a call at the dinner table, just as she returned from a mission. The knife had been one of her poisonous ones, the kind she always carried. But Mamma, being Mamma, never missed her target by accident. The knife had landed just inches away from his hand, deliberately close, but never touching him. It was a warning.