Chapter twenty
"Vincenzo Lombardo, you fucking asshole! Get your ass down here right now!"
My voice ricochets off the high ceilings, a furious echo tearing through the opulence of the Lombardo estate. The weight of my bag crashes onto the marble floor, the slap of leather against stone punctuating my rage.
The heavy wooden door to the control room creaks open, but it's not Vincenzo who emerges. Instead, it's Angelo. His broad frame moves hesitantly toward me, dark eyes cautious, like he's approaching a wounded animal poised to attack.
"Where the fuck is that son of a bitch that is my husband?" I snap, my pulse pounding in my throat.
Angelo exhales slowly, his expression unreadable. "He's still out looking for you," he answers, then tilts his head slightly. "What's wrong?"
I don't bother replying. My blood is boiling too much for words. Instead, I whirl around, my heels striking the floor in quick, sharp steps as I head for the kitchen. The air is thick with the scent of freshly baked bread and something spiced simmering on the stove, but I don't stop.
I make my way down into the dimly lit cellar, the coolness wrapping around my heated skin like a taunt. My fingers trail across the dusty labels of vintage wines until I find something dark, something strong.
I rip the cork out, bringing the bottle to my lips without hesitation. The first swallow burns, but I welcome the sting, the numbing effect settling into my bloodstream.
Angelo follows, stopping at the base of the stairs. He watches me with a mix of concern and wariness.
"Maybe that's not the best idea," he sighs, stepping forward to take the bottle from me.
I slap his hand away with a sharp glare. "Fuck off, Angelo. Like you care."
The wine sloshes in the bottle as I pull it back to my lips, gulping it down like it's water. A dull ache presses at the back of my skull, but I don't stop.
I toss the empty bottle onto a shelf and grab another, not bothering to check what it is. I just need something—anything—to quiet the storm inside me.
As I ascend the stairs, I strip off my jumper, letting it fall to the steps behind me. The air kisses my bare skin, sending a shiver down my spine. I don't care. Let him see me like this. Let him know what it feels like to burn.
Grabbing the remote, I flick through the channels until Grey's Anatomy fills the massive screen, its soft dialogue a sharp contrast to the chaos in my mind. I stretch across the pristine white sofa, fingers curling around the new bottle, taking lazy sips.
Angelo disappears, but I hardly notice. My mind is focused on one thing.
Vincenzo.
I want him here. I want him to feel it. To see it. To suffer.
A car door slams outside. My heart stutters before I smother the reaction. I force myself to my feet, determination settling into my bones like steel.
I unbutton my jeans, sliding them down my legs before shoving them under a cushion. My body hums with liquid courage, my limbs loose as I strut toward the main hall, the chilled air caressing my bare skin.
I round the corner and find them—five of his men, talking in hushed voices, oblivious to my approach.
Until they see me.
Laughter dies in their throats, their eyes widening, muscles tensing.
"Hello, boys." My voice is silky, dripping with something dangerous.
Their gazes dart to the floor instantly, as if looking at me is a sin they'll burn for. I roll my eyes.
I step into the center of them, letting the heat of their stunned silence fuel me. I press my body against the closest one, his muscles locking up under my touch.
He doesn't move. Doesn't breathe.
I reach up, gently grabbing his chin, tilting his face toward mine. His throat bobs, his Adam's apple betraying his nervous swallow.
The door swings open.
Something shatters.
I don't react. I don't need to.
Instead, I lean in, pressing my lips to the man's in a slow, deliberate kiss.
He freezes.
I pull back just as slowly, locking eyes with him before smirking. The taste of red wine lingers on my tongue as I take another sip, deliberately licking my lips.
Then, I turn toward the door.
Vincenzo stands there, his stance rigid, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles have gone white. His jaw is locked, his dark eyes burning with something terrifyingly lethal.
Good.
I blow him a kiss, my smirk widening as I spin on my heel and strut back toward the living room, the bottle still dangling from my fingers.
"ALEXANDRIA."
His roar is thunderous, shaking the very foundation of the house.
I throw myself onto the couch, legs draped over the armrest, gaze glued to the TV as if he isn't a storm about to descend on me.
He storms in, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle the walls.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" His voice is sharp, cutting through the air like a whip. "Walking around like that? Pressing yourself against my men?"
His fist collides with the wall, a sickening crack splintering the drywall.
I leap to my feet, the fire inside me reigniting.
"I haven't done anything wrong!" I scream back. "You do worse every single day! You think I don't know about your sluts? Don't fucking lecture me about boundaries!"
His eyes flash dangerously. "You. Are. Mine."
I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "And I told you—I don't share either! But you fucked Tiffany, didn't you? Or was that just another nameless whore to add to your collection?"
His brows knit together in confusion. He doesn't know who I'm talking about.
Of course, he doesn't.
That stings more than it should.
"You're being a childish brat," he spits. "Grow the fuck up."
The words hit like a slap.
My fists clench at my sides. "You treat me like a child, so I'll act like one. I spent years earning my medical degree, and you banned every hospital from hiring me!"
His nostrils flare. "So that's what this is about?"
He takes a step closer, his voice dropping. "My mother had a job, Alexandria. And she was murdered because of it. She was alone. She had no one to protect her. I won't let that happen to you."
The fire inside me flickers, just for a second.
I didn't know that.
But it doesn't change a damn thing.
I exhale shakily, my body suddenly exhausted. "Then let me die." My voice is quiet now. "I'm not that important anyway. I feel like I'm suffocating, Vince. I don't want to just be 'Vincenzo's trophy wife.' I want something of my own."
Silence.
His stare burns into me, but I don't dare meet his eyes.
Then, I feel it—the warmth of his palm resting gently on my knee.
His voice is softer now. "I won't ever let you die."
My throat tightens.
"You may not feel important, but you are. You're not just my wife. You're Alexandria Rayne Lombardo. Queen of the Sicilian Mafia. Princess of the Italian Mafia."
His fingers tighten slightly.
"You are everything."
A lump rises in my throat.
And for the first time in a long time...
I don't know whether to fight him—or fall apartin his arms.