Chapter thirteen
The car rolls to a slow stop outside a small, discolored house. The paint is peeling, the walls stained with the passage of time. The front window is broken—someone has attempted to patch it up with a piece of damp, curling cardboard, but it does little to hide the damage.
A quiet ache settles in my chest.
I've always had everything I needed—shelter, warmth, security. I never had to wonder where my next meal would come from, never had to worry about my family's survival. But here, in places like this, people fight for every scrap of stability.
Mamma and Babbo worked relentlessly to uphold the mafia's reputation, ensuring our members were the best in their respective fields, paying them well for their loyalty and skill.
Perhaps that made life a little easier for some.
But for others? The ones who had to steal, kill, and destroy just to put food on the table—it must have been hell.
For my family, this life had always been a choice. For others, it was a necessity.
The car door creaks as Alceu steps out, his movements sharp, alert. I follow his lead, my heels clicking against the cracked pavement. Unlike him, I'm unarmed. Not that I need to be—if anything were to happen to me, Vincenzo would be the one to pay the price. That alone is enough protection.
As I move toward the house, Vincenzo's voice cuts through the silence.
"Alexa, wait here," he commands, his tone brooking no argument. "This woman just lost her son. She won't want you there."
I don't even acknowledge his words. Instead, I skip ahead, leaving him and Alceu behind.
If she lost her son, she needs comfort, not the presence of a cold, unfeeling mafia boss. What good would Vincenzo do here? He has all the warmth of a frozen corpse.
As I reach the door, I pause, waiting as Vincenzo joins me. He shoots me a sharp glare before knocking.
A loud crash erupts from inside.
Then a muffled cry.
My breath catches. "What was that?" I whisper, but Vincenzo is already moving.
His hand goes to his gun, and before I can react, he shoves me behind him.
"Stay behind me, Alexa," he orders, his voice deadly quiet.
Then, with one swift kick, the door splinters off its hinges, crashing to the ground with a deafening bang.
If whoever was inside didn't know we were here before, they do now.
A weak, broken whimper draws my attention, and before I can think, I rush forward, ignoring Vincenzo's sharp curse.
A woman lies sprawled on the floor, blood seeping from a deep gash on her forehead. Tears streak her face as she pushes herself backward, her breathing shallow, frantic.
I drop to my knees beside her, hands raised in a placating gesture. "Ma'am, I'm not going to hurt you. Can I help you?"
Her fearful eyes dart between me and the kitchen. My stomach twists.
Whoever did this is still here.
I should have stayed behind Vincenzo. I should have thought.
Slowly, I glance back at him. He's still by the door, gun raised, his eyes locked onto the kitchen entrance.
Carefully, I shift, subtly gesturing toward the source of her fear. There.
Vincenzo nods once. I look away before whoever is inside notices.
Turning back to the woman, I take in the details I hadn't before—her dilated pupils, the way her body trembles violently, her grey-tinted lips.
Shock.
"Ma'am, I need you to lie down and elevate your legs, okay?" My voice is calm, steady. It's automatic—the years of medical training ingrained in me, buried beneath layers of mafia politics and bloodstains.
She barely reacts, too weak to move. Gently, I help her down, explaining my every action. "I need to remove your top—it's too tight. It'll help you breathe."
She gives a barely perceptible nod. Once it's done, I cover her with a thin blanket I find draped over the couch, keeping her from going into hypothermia.
Then, I move to stop the bleeding. Tearing a strip from my shirt, I wrap it carefully around her head, applying enough pressure to slow the blood flow.
"You're going to be okay," I murmur, my fingers brushing against her clammy skin. "Just keep breathing. I won't let anything happen to you."
Her lips tremble. "M-my son..."
I freeze.
Her son.
She doesn't know.
Her voice is barely a whisper. "He'll be back soon... I need to be here..."
I swallow hard, forcing a reassuring smile. "Just focus on resting, alright?"
From the kitchen, the muffled thud of a silenced gunshot breaks the air.
The woman flinches, her entire body tensing. She struggles to sit up, panic seizing her.
"You need to leave," she gasps. "He'll hurt you!"
I press a gentle hand to her shoulder, urging her back down. "It's okay," I assure her, but her eyes widen with renewed fear.
I frown.
Then, I feel it—him.
A dark presence looms behind me.
I don't need to turn around to know Vincenzo is standing there.
The woman sees him first, her gaze snapping up, her breath hitching.
Then, she bows her head in silent reverence.
"You really need to stay lying down, ma'am," I start, but Vincenzo cuts me off.
His rough, calloused hand covers my mouth. "Enough, Alexa. You're smothering her." His voice is amused, but I can feel the warning beneath it.
I bite him.
Hard.
With a curse, he jerks his hand back, glaring. "Did you just—"
"Don't touch my face," I snap, sticking my tongue out at him as I push myself to my feet.
He glares harder. "You never seemed to mind it before, my love." His voice is low, taunting.
I roll my eyes, knowing exactly how much he hates it when I ignore his provocations.
A low growl rumbles from his chest, but I turn my attention back to the woman.
"The cut is deep," I inform her. "You might need stitches."
She barely acknowledges me. Her attention is fixed solely on Vincenzo.
"Mr. Lombardo," she rasps, her Sicilian accent thick with panic. "What are you doing here? Is Sammy alright?"
Vincenzo's jaw tightens. His next words come out stiff, controlled. "I'm sorry, Joy."
Her breath shudders.
He pulls a small envelope from his pocket, handing it to her. "These are the rest of his earnings for his five-year contract."
Her fingers tremble as she takes it. "Where is he?"
The moment the words leave her lips, she knows.
Her face crumples. A strangled sob rips from her throat.
Vincenzo stands rigid, his expression unreadable. But when I meet his eyes, I see it—the storm brewing beneath the surface.
I step forward, placing a hand on her shoulder. "We found him outside one of our warehouses," I say softly. "We're here to help with whatever you need."
Her cries grow louder. I murmur soothing words, rubbing her back in comfort.
Vincenzo pulls a second piece of paper from his pocket—his business card.
"We offer our condolences," he says. "This is my number if you need anything."
I hesitate. Then, as Vincenzo turns to leave, I grab a pen and scribble my own number on the back of his card.
Joy's voice wobbles. "I can't live without my son."
My heart clenches.
I pull her into a firm embrace. "You can," I whisper. "And when it feels like you can't, call me."
She clutches onto me, her frail body shaking.
I hold her a moment longer before stepping back.
Then, without another word, I follow Vincenzo out into the night.