Half a Lifetime Later—My Mafia Princess is Finally Mine

"You were promised to me, Alessia, not even death can change that." Alessia Capone was born a mafia princess, powerful last name, perfect future and zero control. At just fourteen, her parents sold her into a blood-soaked engagement with Rino Lombardi, the cold, dangerous heir of Italy’s most feared criminal empire. He was obsessed from the moment he saw her. She hated him before he even spoke. To escape that fate, she ran straight into the arms of another man. A man who turned out to be worse than her worst nightmare. Now, decades later, Rino Lombardi is back. Widowed. Ruthless. More powerful than ever. And still maddeningly obsessed with the one woman who got away. He made a vow to himself. If he can’t have her willingly, he’ll burn the world until she begs to come home. But Alessia is no longer the young girl he once knew. She’s a queen in her own right. She’ll never kneel, never submit, not even to the devil she once escaped. ...Or will she? Because the man she swore to hate may be the only one she’s ever truly belonged to. And this time, he’s not asking. Preface DEDICATION 🌺 This story is for the women who’ve been told their time has passed. The ones who’ve been told that love has an expiration date. That passion has a deadline. I wrote this for you because you still deserve the butterflies. The soft moments and the sinful ones. The second chances and the wild, all-consuming kind of love. You’re not past your prime, you are the prime and anyone who can’t see that? They’re not the main characters in this story. So grab your wine, take off your bra, and settle in. We’re rewriting the damn narrative. ⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰ DISCLAIMER This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental and unintentional. This book, including all its content, is protected by copyright laws. All rights are reserved by the author, and no part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or otherwise utilized in any form or by any means—whether electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the express written permission of the copyright holder. Unauthorized use, reproduction, or distribution of this work is prohibited and may result in legal action. Copyright © 2025 by Jane Doe Writings. All rights reserved. ⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰ TRIGGER WARNINGS! The following book contains imagery that some readers may find distressing. This book contains multiple explicit scenes that graphically simulate sexual assault, although every encounter is fully consensual. •Strong Language •Graphic Violence and Gore •Murder/Assassination •Torture •Gun Violence •Explicit Sexual Scenes This is a dark romance, which means love is messy, pain is part of the journey, and healing comes at a cost. Please take care of yourself while reading, and know that it’s okay to step away if anything becomes too overwhelming. Your safety and comfort matter more than any chapter. ⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰ POINT OF VIEWS - POVs. This book is written in dual point of view. That said, not every chapter will alternate perspectives. The POV shifts will happen organically, when it makes the most sense for the storyline. Sometimes you’ll stay with one character for several chapters if that’s where the emotional weight or action is strongest. ⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰ UPDATES SCHEDULE I don’t have a fixed update schedule for this book, you’ll definitely be getting updates, just maybe not every single day. Sometimes I might miss a day or two, and sometimes you’ll get two updates in a row. It all depends on my crazy schedule. Please know I’m doing my absolute best to keep things consistent while juggling exams, hospital rotations, and everything in between. Your patience and support mean the world to me, every comment, like, and read keeps me going, even on the tough days. ⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰ AUTHOR'S NOTE Thank you so much for choosing to read my story, truly, it means the world to me. There are so many incredible books out there, and the fact that you decided to spend time with mine is something I don’t take for granted. If you enjoy the story, I would absolutely love to hear your thoughts. Your feedback not only helps me grow as a writer but also keeps me company during those long, solitary hours when it’s just me, my coffee, and my characters emotionally ruining each other. Thank you again for being here. I can’t wait to share more of this journey with you. ⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰ With all my love, Jane Doe Writings. X O X O 💖 Chapter 1 - I was sold. Alessia ─ ∘❉∘ ─ Age 14 | Liguria, Summer I should’ve worn the Dior sandals. Not because the leather on my Ferragamos pinched, though they did, but because the grass in Liguria had a strange way of swallowing heels whole, no matter how delicately I walked. And I was walking delicately like a young lady just like my mamma told me to. But my patience was already fraying like the hem of my linen skirt. The one I’d insisted on having tailored in Milan just for this trip, only to realize, after stepping foot on the Lombardi estate, that absolutely no one here understood what real fashion looked like. Except maybe Signora Lombardi, who had a flair for red lipstick and drama. Still, she wasn’t exactly competition. She had to be at least forty. Salvatore walked ahead of us, his back straight, like it always got when we visited fellow crime families. He was twenty-four and already thought he ruled the world. He certainly ruled our house back in Chicago, Mamma let him. Papà tolerated it. I found it all very annoying. Especially because Salvatore had grown into this quiet, brooding capo-in-training ever since Isabella married him and gave birth to those two sticky-faced cherubs currently running across the Lombardi lawn like miniature monsters. Vincenzo was four years old, and he was dragging Adriano barely one year old by the hand, both of them squealing nonsense, their dark hair shining in the sunlight. My nephews. As if I needed any more reasons to feel ancient at fourteen. “Alessia,” Isabella called sweetly from behind her sunglasses, “don’t stray too far, darling. This place is enormous.” Exactly why I wanted to explore. I threw her a perfectly practiced smile, the kind that stretched just enough to be polite without being honest, and wandered left toward the path with the tall cypress trees, where I knew no one could see me. This chateau was massive. Old and sprawling, with ivy curling up cream-colored stone walls and balconies that seemed to lean forward. I spotted a garden maze across the hill and darted toward it, ignoring the bite of gravel under my soles. I didn’t care if my shoes were ruined. Mamma would just buy me another pair or ten. Maybe in crocodile leather this time. Pink with diamonds. The maze was taller than me, taller than most grown men, even. Which was perfect. I stepped inside. Cool shade fell over me as I walked deeper, fingers brushing the hedges. Birds chirped somewhere overhead, and the air smelled like basil and roses. And then I heard something, a click and a flick of a lighter and then deep Inhale. I stopped and turned the corner. Then I saw a boy, sitting on a half-crumbling marble bench, slouched, legs sprawled wide, collar popped. He had messy dark hair, too many rings for someone his age, and a cigarette dangling between two fingers. He saw me and panicked. The cigarette vanished so fast I half-thought he’d eaten it. He scrambled to crush it behind the bench, nearly elbowing a hedge in the process. Then he straightened up, brushed invisible lint off his shirt, and gave me a lazy smirk that made my skin crawl and tingle all at once. “You lost, princess? This part of the garden’s off-limits,” he said. “Says who?” He grinned, “Me.” “And why would I listen to you?” He gestured around with both arms like an idiot, “My maze. My estate. My inheritance. You’re trespassing.” “I’m a guest,” I sniffed. “There’s a difference. Learn it.” He tilted his head, eyes scanning me from my satin headband down to my pearl bracelet, then to my scuffed Ferragamos. “Very shiny,” he said. “You don’t look like the kind of girl who walks anywhere.” “I don’t,” I said, lifting my chin. “But I make exceptions for mazes and for escaping boring people.” He clutched his heart dramatically, “Ouch.” I started to turn around. He was definitely the kind that thinks girls should be flattered when boys breathe near them. Ugh. “I’m Rino,” he said quickly. I looked over my shoulder. “Was I supposed to gasp?” He laughed, “Most girls do.” “Most girls have brain damage.” That only seemed to encourage him. He stood, and I hated that he was tall, “What’s your name, principessa?” “No.” “No?” I raised an eyebrow. “I don’t give my name to strangers who reek of tobacco.” “Whatever,” he said, smiling. “I’ll find out anyway.” I rolled my eyes and walked past him, deeper into the maze, refusing to give him another glance. “Don’t get lost,” he called after me. “The last girl never made it out.” I stopped, turned slowly, and gave him my sweetest, deadliest smile. “Maybe she stayed because she thought you’d improve. Newsflash: you haven’t.” He whistled, “Brat.” “Creep.” “Future husband?” I gagged so dramatically I nearly pulled a muscle. Then I walked away. And of course, he ran after me. We were toe-to-toe now. “You talk like you’re used to people doing what you say,” he said. “I am.” “Bet no one ever tells you no.” “Bet no one ever means it when they tell you yes.” That stopped him for half a second, “You always this mouthy, or am I just lucky?” “I’m usually worse.” He leaned in, “I like girls with bite.” I wrinkled my nose, “I like boys with brains. Guess we’re both out of luck.” He grinned, “You know, I was gonna be polite. Let you get lost in the maze and pretend I didn’t see you. But now…” “Now what?” I dared. “Now I’m thinking I might follow you.” I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw God, “Follow me and I scream.” “Promise?” “Try me.” He stared at me for a long second, then laughed again so loud it startled a bird out of the hedge. “See you around, princess,” he said, backing away with both hands raised. “Try not to fall in love with me.” “In your dreams.” I turned and walked off, heels snapping against the stone path. I heard him. Whistling some obnoxious tune as he disappeared deeper into the maze. Then I heard voices floating faintly through the hedges. Men talking business, not meant for girls. I stopped. I crouched, ears tilting toward the sound. I wasn’t supposed to listen to Papà and Salvatore conversations. I definitely wasn’t supposed to eavesdrop on them with the Lombardis. But when you grow up in the Capone family, curiosity isn’t a sin, it’s a weapon. “She’s fourteen,” Salvatore hissed, “It’s a vacation, not a betrothal.” I felt my stomach twist with fear, I hated when they talked about me like I was something to be arranged, discussed, maneuvered. I hated it. I stayed there a little longer, crouched in the dirt like a thief in Chanel. The voices dipped lower, muffled, shifting direction but the damage was done. Fourteen. Betrothal. I stood up slowly, brushing leaves off my skirt, it was always the same story, wasn’t it? Smile. Sit straight. Be quiet. Be valuable. I walked out of the maze, by the time I reached the villa again, I saw Isabella, she was lounging on a sunbed with Adriano in her lap, rubbing circles into his tiny back. Vincenzo was on the floor with a toy gun. “Where have you been, stella?” Isabella asked without looking up. “Taking a walk,” I said, sugar-sweet. “Getting some fresh politics while we are here.” That made her head tilt, “The Lombardis were asking about you,” she said after a pause. “It’s impolite to keep our hosts waiting like that. And wandering their home without permission?” Her fingers gently tapped Adriano’s back. “Not very elegant, Alessia.” I stepped closer, “I didn’t realize I needed a chaperone to stretch my legs.” She finally looked at me, “You’re not in Chicago,” she said. “This isn’t your garden.” “Does it matter?” I said softly. “If I’m just going to be married off like a new patio set?” The look on her face told me she knew exactly what I was talking about. “I heard Salvatore,” I continued, “I know what this ‘vacation’ really is.” She reached up and adjusted Adriano’s wild hair, “You’re too young to be worrying about things like this.” “And yet I’m just old enough to be offered,” I snapped. Adriano stirred a little in her lap, and she gave me a warning glance. The sound of leather soles on limestone mad eboth of our attention turn towards it. Don Arturo Lombardi walked at the front, tall and straight-backed, with rings on every finger. His navy suit was perfectly pressed. Beside him, Signora Elisabetta Lombardi, his wife. Flanking them came my father, Don Vittorio Capone, and my Mamma walked slightly behind him, Donna Marcella Capone. “Alessia,” Salvatore said, “There she is.” Mamma’s eyes found me first. Her head tilted slightly, like she was scanning for signs of defiance. I gave her my sweetest smile, she hated when I smiled like that. “Ah,” Arturo said when he saw me. “Finalmente.” I walked toward them, pearls glittering at my ears, the summer breeze catching the hem of my silk skirt just enough to make me look like I floated. “Don Lombardi,” I said, dipping my head, “Apologies for disappearing. Your gardens are… distracting.” His mouth twitched into a smile. “No apology necessary,” he said. “Men of politics talk too much. I’d sneak away too if I were you.” “Oh, I wasn’t sneaking,” I replied, letting my eyes flash toward Salvatore. “Just observing.” Elisabetta’s eyes didn’t leave me. She was measuring me the way women in our families did. “How old are you now?” she asked. “Fourteen,” I answered. Mamma rested her hand on my back, “Our youngest. Vittorio’s only daughter. Salvatore’s baby sister.” “She’s grown well,” Arturo said, “Broad across the hips. Tall for her age. She’ll bear strong sons.” Heat slammed into my face. “She walks with pride,” Elisabetta said next, “Carries herself well. Better posture than I expected from an American girl.” Her fingers reached out, brushed a stray curl from my cheek like I was a mannequin in a store window. “Has she bled yet?” she asked. My stomach twisted. “She has,” Mamma said smoothly, as though she were describing a new pair of shoes. “Alessia was walking by ten months, reading by four. Her education is impeccable.” “She’ll also need discipline,” Elisabetta said to no one in particular. “Rino is not a boy to be managed easily. He requires obedience.” Rino. No. No no no no— Rino. The boy in the maze. The cigarette. The smirk. “Try not to fall in love with me.” That thing was their son? My future? Arturo kept speaking, “It’s time our families stood closer than blood alone. The Outfit and the Old World. Chicago and Liguria. Your daughter will bridge it. My son will carry it forward.” Elisabetta lifted my chin with one finger, forcing me to meet her eyes. I wanted to rip her hand away and scream, I’m not yours but I didn’t. Don Arturo turned back toward Papà. “It’s settled, then. The agreement is clear. She’ll marry Rino when she is of legal age. Let them court, as tradition allows but the match is made.” Papà extended a hand, “The Outfit stands with the Lombardis.” Arturo took it. The deal was sealed. The alliance struck. The deal was sealed. And I was sold. Chapter 2 - Fearless little bitch. Rino ─𖤝─ Age 16 | Poolside, Lombardi Estate, Liguria I leaned back on the lounge chair, sunglasses half-down my nose, bottle of beer sweating between my fingers, water glinting behind me. Fabio flicked his cigarette over the edge of the stone and whistled low. “You’re in a good mood, Lombardi. What’d you do this time, steal another priest’s daughter?” I smirked, “Worse.” Gerardo, already half-drunk and burned to hell, leaned forward. “You get laid again?” “Not yet.” I took a long pull from the bottle, “But my parents found me a bride.” The boys went dead quiet for half a beat. Then fucking chaos. “No fucking way.” “Shut up.” “You’re joking, an arranged marriage?” I let the corner of my mouth twitch into that grin they all hated. “They want an American,” I said, “Capone blood. Chicago Outfit royalty.” Gerardo nearly choked, “The Capones? You’re not serious.” “Don Arturo is very serious,” I said, pulling my sunglasses off and tossing them onto the table beside me. “Apparently he wants a foothold in America. And the Capones are the golden ticket. You want to smuggle money, run ships, guns, girls, whatever, the Outfit gives you the runway. We give them old-world power, they give us new-world muscle.” Fabio shook his head, “Jesus. You’re not even out of school and they’re tying you to an empire.” “I was born tied to it,” I muttered, flicking ash off my cigarillo. “They’re just making it legal now.” Gerardo grinned. “What’s she like? The girl?” I stretched, arms up behind my head, every muscle flexing slow under the sun, “She’s fourteen.” Fabio muttered, “Holy shit.” I shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I didn’t pick her. My mother did.” “Is she hot at least?” “Oh, she’s Capone hot,” I said, dragging the words. “Glossy little thing. Italian-American princess. Big brown eyes, smart mouth.” “She coming today?” “She’s invited.” I grinned. “And her mother will make her come. Marcella Capone wants me to look at her daughter like she’s priceless.” “And will you?” Gabriele asked. I smiled darkly. “Only if she makes it interesting.” They laughed. “She gonna swim?” Fabio smirked. “You think she’ll wear something innocent or—?” “She’ll pretend it’s innocent,” I said, dragging my gaze toward the garden path that wound around to the pool gate. “Maybe, a pretty little one-piece. A look her mother picked out for me.” “And you?” Gabriele asked, grinning. “What’ll you do?” I grinned back, “I’ll stare until she blushes. Maybe offer her a drink. Maybe drop something into the pool and ask her to get it.” Fabio cackled. “You’re an asshole.” “She’s fourteen,” Gerardo said again, half-laughing. “She’ll be legal in a few years,” I said. “And mine for a lifetime.” They both stared. “Damn,” Fabio said. “You sound like you already own her.” I leaned back, lifting the beer to my lips. “I will.” I was halfway through my second beer and halfway bored of pretending to give a shit about Fabio's story about crashing his uncle’s Porsche when I heard the click of heels on stone. I looked up and there she was. Alessia Capone. Her mother was walking beside her. One hand rested on her daughter’s lower back, steering her like a racehorse being shown off before auction. And Alessia looked pissed. She wore a white bikini. Clean-cut and modest enough to be mother-approved, but clingy enough to turn heads. Her skin glowed like she’d never known work, only moisturizers and expensive oils. Her dark hair was braided tight over one shoulder, and her sunglasses were way too big for her face. “Well, well,” I murmured, setting my bottle down and standing slowly. “Look what the sea dragged in.” The boys turned, followed my gaze, and immediately started whispering. I heard Fabio murmur “Holy shit,” and Gerardo mutter something about American girls being built different. I walked forward She didn’t see me at first, she was too busy pretending to look everywhere but at the pool. And when Marcella nudged her toward the sunbeds, she finally turned and saw me. And her whole body locked up. We were three feet apart. Four, maybe. Close enough for her to smell the cologne I’d stolen from my father’s bathroom. Close enough for me to see the red blooming at the tips of her ears. “Well, if it isn’t my American bride,” I said, drawing out the last word. “I’m not your anything,” she snapped. Oh yeah. I liked her. Marcella gave her a gentle warning pinch at the waist, “Alessia.” But I held up a hand. “Let her talk, Signora. I like a little fight.” She opened her mouth to say something else but Mamma’s arrival made her shut her mouth. “Elisabetta,” Marcella greeted, fake kiss on each cheek. “She was so excited to come.” I almost choked. Excited? Alessia looked like she wanted to push me in the pool and drown me. “Get her a drink,” Mamma said, flicking her hand like I was a waiter. “Make her feel welcome.” I smiled, still watching Alessia. “Oh, I plan to.” She sat on the edge of the sunbed like she was in church, knees crossed, arms folded, not speaking unless spoken to and even then, only with monosyllables. Fabio offered her a drink. She declined. Gerardo cracked a joke. She ignored it. Princess Capone, so perfectly stiff like if she made one wrong move, the whole performance would shatter and expose her for what she was, a girl trapped in a game she didn’t agree to play. I got bored of it pretty fast. So I waited. Waited until her mother got distracted chatting with my mother. Waited until the conversation turned toward politics, power, property, all the things that bored little girls to death. That’s when she stood up. Too hot. Too proud to ask to go inside. So she walked toward the far edge of the pool, like she needed to breathe something her mother hadn’t pre-approved. And I followed quietly, barefoot. She didn’t hear me. She didn’t see me until I was right behind her, just as she reached the ledge where the tiles dipped into the water. I smiled, “Nice view, Capone.” She jumped, spun around so fast her braid hit her in the face. “What do you want?” she snapped, scowling. “I want you wet...” “What?” And then I nudged her, just the lightest press of two fingers on her shoulder because she was already near the edge. And she went down, straight into the deep end with a loud splash. I took a step back, grinning as water exploded up around her, soaking the tile, hitting my ankles. Fabio saw it first. “Oh shit—” Gerardo broke into laughter then all of us were laughing with me being the loudest because she came up sputtering, hair plastered to her face, eyes burning with murder. The white bikini clung to her. Her braid had come loose. “Are you stupid?!” she shouted, water dripping down her cheeks like tears she’d never let me see. I bit back a howl. “Oh, come on,” I said, smirking down at her. “You looked hot. Thought I’d help you cool off.” “You’re a bastard!” “My parents marriage certificate would disagree,” I said, shrugging. She swam toward the edge, murderous, clawing her way up onto the tile like a girl born to kill kings. I held out a hand. She slapped it away. The boys were still laughing. Even Marcella had looked over now, though she was trying not to react. Elisabetta just raised an eyebrow. “You think this is funny?” Alessia spat. “Very,” I said. “You should see your face.” She stood there dripping, shaking, and I fell a little bit in love with the way she didn’t cry. She didn’t run. She didn’t scream for her brother or her father or her mother. She just glared at me with those molten Capone eyes, spine straight, soaked to the bone and unbowed. And I thought, yeah. This one’s gonna be fun to break. “Need a towel, principessa?” I said. She walked toward me. I heard Fabio whisper another “Oh shit” under his breath. Marcella stood, and Mamma narrowed her eyes. She stopped in front of me, too close. I looked down at her, water still dripping from her lashes. She reached up. And slapped me across the face. My head whipped to the side, cheek stinging, sunglasses flying clean off my face and skidding across the tile like they couldn’t believe what had just happened either. “Don’t you ever touch me again,” she said, loud enough for every Capone and Lombardi to hear. Then she turned on her heel, braid sticking to her back, wet footprints trailing behind her like a declaration of war. I ran my tongue across the inside of my cheek, tasting the sharp bite of humiliation and grinned. I heard my mother hiss my name. I dragged my fingers slowly over my jaw, tracing the spot where her hand had landed. It hadn’t even hurt, really. She was fourteen. But the shock of it had detonated something in me I didn’t know I liked. I couldn’t stop replaying it. Fearless little bitch. And now I couldn’t stop staring at the spot she left from. She didn’t care that I was Rino fucking Lombardi. She didn’t care that I could end her family’s deal with a single word. She looked at me like I was dirt. And now every nerve under my skin felt wired. What the hell was that? She humiliated me. And all I could think was: Do it again. Chapter 3 - Like a queen Alessia ─ ∘❉∘ ─ I was still soaked. The white bikini clung to me, and the chill of the air-conditioning hadn’t done a thing to stop the heat boiling under my skin. I paced the length of the guest room. Each slap of my wet heel against the marble was a reminder that I had been pushed..That I had fallen. That I had been laughed at like some brainless, half-naked American girl on display. That smug, entitled, infuriating bastard. He thought he could humiliate me in front of his friends, and I’d what? Just take it? No, I slapped him and he smiled. I wanted to rip his teeth out for it. I should’ve drowned him instead. A knock hit the door once then it opened before I could speak. I froze. In walked Elisabetta Lombardi, spine straight, pearls on her throat, eyes cold and right behind her still shirtless, still smirking was him. Rino. He had the audacity to wink at me the moment our eyes met. “Alessia,” Elisabetta said smoothly, “I brought Rino to apologize for his inappropriate behavior.” I opened my mouth to reply but she held up a finger. “And it would be wise,” she added crisply, “for you to apologize as well. Slapping your future husband in front of his peers was not only disrespectful, it was deeply embarrassing for both our families.” I stared at her. My hands curled into fists. Rino had crossed his arms over his chest now, leaning against the wall. His mouth twitched, just slightly, watching me in silence. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, “Did I ruin your precious male pride when I hit you? Maybe next time I should just drown myself quietly in your pool to spare the embarrassment.” Elisabetta pursed her lips, disappointedly, “We don’t expect American girls to understand tradition but we expect them to learn.” Her gaze raked over me like I was already disappointing. “Discipline begins at home,” she continued, “and clearly you’ve been indulged. In my household, daughters do not raise their hands to sons. Especially not in public. Especially not in front of men.” Her hand lashed out and she tilted my face up to hers. “You listen to me, ragazzina,” she said, “You will not bring shame to this family before you've even entered it. My son is the heir of a bloodline older than your country. His name is gold. You’re here because your parents sold you into legacy. Don’t confuse that for power.” I didn’t breathe because if I breathed, I’d cry. And I would not cry in front of him. “My son,” she went on, “may be mischievous. But he is a man. You, on the other hand, are a child who embarrassed herself in a wet bathing suit in front of three generations of men.” Elisabetta let go of my chin, harshly almost shoving me back. “You’ll apologize to him. And then you’ll thank him for accepting your apology. And after that, perhaps you’ll both grow into your roles with a little dignity.” I nodded because that’s what I’d been taught. I nodded like I was some well-trained thing, and not a girl who wanted to throw herself out the window. Elisabetta gave a satisfied smile, “I’ll give you two a moment to reconcile,” she said. The door clicked behind her and I took a deep breath. I turned slowly, heart pounding against and looked at him. “You gonna slap me again?” he asked, casually. “Because I kinda liked it.” He pushed off the wall and crossed the room in a few lazy steps, stopping just out of reach. I refused to step back. “You know,” he said, circling slowly, “...most girls would’ve cried, run to daddy, or batted their lashes like good little wives in training.” I turned sharply, jaw locked. “Why are you still here?” He tilted his head. “You owe me an apology. You ruined my honor. My pride. My reputation.” “Oh, poor you,” I snapped. “I’m sure it’s devastating being embarrassed by a girl half your size who didn’t ask to be sold to you like cattle.” That got a real smile out of him, “I didn’t ask for this either, principessa but here we are.” He moved again, circling, until we were face to face. “I didn’t push you because I hate you,” he said softly. I blinked. “You humiliated me,” I whispered. “So humiliate me back,” he said. I looked up at him, furious. “I already did.” He grinned, “Then do it again.” For a second, we just stood there, staring, breathing and then he did the last thing I expected. He leaned in to kiss me. His mouth came straight for mine, like I was supposed to melt into him just because our parents signed a deal over pasta and bloodlines. I panicked. Swerved my head to the side, fast and instead of kissing me, his mouth landed on the curve of my bare shoulder. And instead of backing off like a normal human, he opened his mouth and bit me. His teeth sank into the skin just above my collarbone, it was not playful or teasing. It was animalistic. He wanted to leave a mark I couldn’t scrub off. Pain shot through me, “What the hell is wrong with you?!” I shouted, shoving him. He just stood there, watching me like he liked how much I hated him. I looked down at my shoulder and saw it. Blood. A drop blooming on my shoulder, red and real and his fault. That was it. That was the final straw. I stormed across the room, spotted my nude pumps tossed by the chaise, grabbed one by the heel and hurled it at his head. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?!” The heel clipped the side of his head with a satisfying thwack. He ducked too late, stumbled a step to the side, caught himself and started laughing. Laughing?! “You bit me!” I screamed, grabbing the second shoe, “You lunatic freak, you actually, what, were you raised by wolves?” He was still laughing. “You’re crazy,” I snapped. “You don’t get to touch me, let alone sink your teeth into me!” He wiped the side of his mouth with the back of his hand, “You moved, not my fault your shoulder got in the way.” I launched the second heel. He dodged it that time. I pointed straight at the door. “Get. Out.” He didn't move. “I said get out!” He lifted both hands in surrender, smirk still painted across his stupid face. “Fine, fine,” he said, backing toward the door, eyes never leaving mine, “I think that means we’re officially engaged now.” I grabbed a pillow this time. He ducked and slipped out before I could throw it. The door slammed behind him. And I stood there shaking, shoulder bleeding, barefoot, breath ragged. He hadn’t won. We were not engaged! I don’t care what ring they put on my finger. I don’t care what traditions they use to bind me to him. I will never love Rino Lombardi. I will outlive him, outwit him and if it comes to it, I will destroy him. One day, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow but I will make him bleed. ⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰ The bodice was too tight. And deliberately so. My mother claimed it was for “posture.” But we both knew it was to fake a waist I didn’t have, curve where nature hadn’t blessed me yet because I was fourteen! “You look flat,” she muttered, circling me like a judge at a livestock show. “God help us. From the front, you’re all bones. Turn. Let me see your hips.” I did. What else was I supposed to do? She gave a disappointed noise in the back of her throat, “We should’ve stuffed the sides more. You’re too thin. All arms and elbows. You want him to fantasize about bending you over a dinner table, not folding you into a drawer.” My throat locked. “Maybe it’s the American food or that school. Always running around with books instead of learning how to walk like a woman. We should’ve started corset training earlier. You’ve got no hips. Boys need hips.” I wanted to scream. Throw the lipstick across the room. Slam my fist into the mirror and watch the glass crack into something truer than the girl I saw staring back. But I stood still. Because obedience was baked into my spine before my first bra. “Stand straight,” she snapped again, breath wheezing just a little. Her inhaler sat nearby, “Shoulders back. Arch. A man doesn’t want to chase a girl who walks like a scarecrow.” I adjusted. Stiffly. She stepped behind me, smoothed her palms down the bodice. “Rino’s not stupid. He’s sixteen. He’s used to girls who throw themselves at him. You have to be different.” “I don’t want to throw myself at him.” She pursed her lips, “No, you want to seduce him.” I stared at her in the mirror. “I’m fourteen.” “You’re not a baby. You’ve bled. You’re breeding age. This is how the world works. Stop pretending to be shocked.” My stomach turned. She leaned in, adjusting the diamond at my throat, “You want to win? Make him hungry. Smile like you’re innocent and let your eyes say otherwise. Boys don’t fall in love with obedience. They fall in love with temptation.” I made a face and looked to my side. “Don’t look away,” she hissed. “Look at yourself. He’ll see this tonight. He’ll want it. And when he wants it, he’ll need it. That’s when you win.” I looked. Red lips. Black lashes. Dress hugging nothing. Skin powdered and perfumed to cover what he already marked with his teeth. “I don’t care what happened at the pool,” she said flatly. “You embarrassed both our names. And if he doesn’t want you by the end of tonight, you’ll embarrass us again. Is that what you want? To go back to Chicago a broken deal?” “I didn’t ask for this.” “Neither did I,” she snapped. “But I adapted. I married your father at sixteen. I bled on the wedding sheets and smiled through the bruises. That’s what wives do.” Tears stung my eyes. I blinked them away before she could see. She stepped back, eyes narrowing on my shape like she was still trying to fix me. “You’re not voluptuous. So use your face. Your voice. Your eyes. If he can’t fuck you yet, make him dream about it. That’s how you control a man.” The words scraped against bone. “I hate him.” She picked up her teacup and sipped. “Good. Hatred keeps you sharp but love is what you’ll fake. You’ll laugh at his jokes. You’ll brush his arm. You’ll give him that look I taught you. And by the end of the night, he’ll be begging his mother to set the wedding date sooner.” She turned to the door. “You will win, Alessia,” Mamma said calmly, grabbing her inhaler, “If you listen to me.” And then she left, her perfume lingering behind her. The door didn’t close for long. A moment later, it creaked open again, and Isabella’s head peeked through. She smiled and stepped inside. “Look at you,” she whispered, “You look like a beautiful little lady.” I didn’t say anything at first and just stared at her. At the way her hair was neatly twisted up, her gold earrings catching the low light, her dress perfectly modest in that quiet, Capone wife way. The picture of dignity. Poise. But there was a cut on her lip. The kind of slice teeth might leave if someone had grabbed your jaw too hard. “Isabella,” I said quietly, “did Salvatore do that?” Her smile dropped, a blink, a breath, the kind of reaction most people wouldn’t notice but I did. She touched her lip, as if just now realizing it was there. “Oh, this?” she laughed gently. “No, I—I bit it earlier. On accident. Clumsy.” We both knew it was a lie but I didn’t push her. Because Capone women don’t confess. We cover. We carry. And Isabella was the queen of quiet endurance. She stepped closer, gently fixing a strand of my hair my mother had missed. Her fingers were warm, softer than Mamma’s. “I heard what happened,” she murmured. “By the pool.” My face burned. “I hate him,” I whispered. She smiled again, sadly this time. “I know.” She smoothed the fabric on my shoulders, then reached around to loosen the corset just enough for me to take a real breath. “You don’t have to like him,” she said softly. “And you definitely don’t have to forgive him but tonight…” She paused, brushing a strand away from my cheek. “Tonight, just get through it, sweetheart. One dinner. One smile at a time.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I don’t know how to do this.” “Yes, you do,” she said, and pulled me into a hug. She rested her chin lightly on my shoulder. “You’re stronger than you think, stellina. And smarter than all of them combined.” I blinked fast, clutching the silk of her dress like a child again. She pulled back just enough to look at me, her eyes serious now. “I see the way he looks at you,” she said quietly. I scoffed, “Like I am his property?” Her thumb brushed the edge of my cheek, “Let him think that. Let them all think that. Smile, nod, play the part they gave you. But inside…” She pressed two fingers gently over my heart. “Inside, you stay yours.” I swallowed hard. “None of them get to touch that part,” she whispered. “Not your mother. Not his. Not Rino. You understand me?” I nodded. And for the first time since the pool, since the slap, since the bite, I felt like maybe I could breathe. “Good,” she smiled, straightening the neckline of my dress one last time. “Now. Shoulders back. Head high.” “Like a Capone?” I tried to joke. She leaned in with a smile, “No, baby. Like a queen.” Then she opened the door. Chapter 4 - Miss America, in all her glory. Rino —𖤝— The dinning table stretched long enough to host a war. Polished glassware, hand-calligraphed name cards, centerpieces that looked like they belonged in a cathedral. Everything was perfect. Boringly perfect. I lounged back in my chair, one arm slung across the back of it, nursing a glass of Amarone that was definitely not meant for someone my age though no one in this house was ever going to stop me. Fabio leaned toward me, “She’s really coming?” “She has to,” I said, sipping slow. “Mama would drag her here by the hair if she had to.” Gerardo snorted, “You mean the girl who slapped you?” “Same one,” I said, grinning wide. “Didn’t think you liked ‘em violent,” Fabio added, cocking a brow. “I like ‘em angry,” I corrected, “Angry girls fall harder.” Fabio’s little sister Valeria was across the table, fiddling with her necklace like she wanted to strangle herself with it. She was wearing some tight, sparkly thing she had no business wearing at sixteen and trying very, very hard to make eye contact with me. I didn’t like her. She was my best friend's twin sister, too sweet and too predictable. The kind of girl who’d write poetry if I kissed her and sob into her pillow if I didn’t text back. I didn’t want sweet tonight. I wanted claws. I wanted fire in eyes. I wanted the girl who slapped me so hard my ears rang. Valeria smiled at me, lips glossed up and shiny like candy. “You look very handsome tonight, Rino.” I didn’t bother looking at her. I looked at the doors. “She’s late,” I muttered. “Maybe she’s not coming,” Gerardo joked. “Maybe she ran off.” I smirked, “She’s not running.” “You gonna make her pay for the slap?” “Already did,” I said, flashing teeth. “Bit her hard enough to leave a mark. She threw a heel at me after.” Fabio nearly choked on his wine. “You bit her?” “Hard,” I said, I was proud. “Right on the shoulder. She tasted like rage and Chanel.” “Jesus Christ,” Gerardo laughed. “Relax, she liked it.” “She threw a shoe at your head.” “That’s just foreplay.” Valeria stood and walked slowly toward our end of the table, “Rino,” she said sweetly, placing a hand on the back of my chair. “Have you tried the canapés? They’re delicious.” I glanced up at her with a lazy smirk. “You know what’s really delicious?” Valeria lit up instantly, eyes wide, lips parted, practically holding her breath like she thought I was about to say her. “What?” I didn’t bother answering her because the doors opened. And in walked Alessia fucking Capone. Wearing red. Blood red... the kind that made men stupid and girls jealous. Her lips matched the dress. Hair curled like she belonged on the cover of a magazine. My grin curled slowly, because finally, I was starving and dinner had just strutted in. I nodded toward her, “Now that,” I said loud enough for the table to hear, “is delicious.” Valeria’s face crumpled like wet tissue. I didn’t look at her. I didn’t care. I simply watched Alessia Capone cross the room like every step was a sentence and I was the executioner waiting at the end of it. Her mother was glued to her side, hissing orders into her ear between those tight, society smiles. Alessia’s chin stayed high, shoulders stiff, like she was bracing for a bullet. She didn’t look at me. Which, frankly, made it so much sweeter. Marcella Capone gave my mother a nod, and I swear I felt the temperature drop when Mamma turned toward Alessia like she was ready to inspect livestock. With the same expression she reserved for flawed diamonds and disappointing servants. “Stop fidgeting,” she snapped. “You look nervous, and nervous brides are an insult.” Alessia froze. “Sit,” she said, gesturing to the empty chair next to mine. “And face your fiancé properly. Try to look grateful you were chosen.” Alessia’s jaw clenched and then she sat, right next to me. The chair didn’t even creak under her, that’s how still she was. I could feel the heat rolling off her skin, could smell her perfume and pride mingling with the wine. Marcella gave her a gentle push on the shoulder. “Go on.” She swallowed, then turned toward me, her voice perfectly sweet and completely fake. “I’m sorry I slapped you, Rino,” she said, loud enough for the table to hear. “It was uncalled for.” I turned just slightly toward her, draped my arm along the back of her chair. She flinched like I was a flame getting a little too close. “I forgive you,” I said, “Slaps happen.” “Good,” my mother said crisply, “Now we can spend the rest of the evening like civilized families.” She sat ramrod straight, hands folded in her lap, face polite and pale but her knee kept bouncing. And every so often, her gaze flicked to my wine glass like she was wondering if she could drown in it without making a scene. I leaned in, murmuring just low enough for only her to hear. “You looked prettier when you were wet.” Her nostrils flared but she smiled at me. This was going to be fun. When our mothers were finally satisfied with her performance, they peeled off to join their husbands, where all the real deals were made. And the second we were left alone, everything about Alessia changed. It was like someone flipped a switch. She turned her head toward me, eyes locked on me and that fake little dinner party smile was gone. “I take it back,” she said under her breath, “The apology.” I raised a brow, “Yeah?” “Every word,” she hissed. “You deserved that slap. And the shoe I threw at your head. And honestly, I should’ve broken your nose while I had the chance.” God, I grinned. There she was. I leaned back in my chair, lazy and wide, one leg slung over the other like her anger was a song I’d been waiting all night to hear. “There she is,” I murmured, “Miss America, in all her glory.” Her eyes narrowed instantly. “Don’t call me that.” My grin deepened. Which meant I absolutely would. I watched her lips wrap around the rim of my glass, right where mine had been. The heat that shot through me was immediate. I tilted my head, pretending to think. “You know, it’s a shame.” She didn’t look at me. “What is?” “That you’re being wasted on me.” She blinked, thrown but only for a second. “I mean, look at you,” I continued, “All dressed up in a red dress. That slit. Those lips. You could have your pick of men. And yet...” I dragged my gaze down her body, unapologetically. “You’re mine.” “You think I’m yours?” she asked. I didn’t blink. “I know you are.” Her smile was cold, “Don’t call me that. We’re not even officially engaged yet.” I leaned in just enough for her to feel my presence all around her. “Engagements can be broken,” she added. I chuckled, “Not this one.” She pursed her lips, “You’re delusional.” “No,” I murmured. “I’m inevitable.” She set the wineglass down, slowly, “Keep talking like that, and I’ll stab you with the dessert fork.” I smirked, “What’s the matter, tesoro? Not used to being claimed?” “You can’t claim a person.” I grinned wider, “You’d be surprised what I can do when I want something.” She leaned in just a breath, lips curling into the cruelest little smile I’d seen all night. “Then go want something else.” And I swear to God, I’d never wanted someone more. I rested my elbow on the back of her chair again, fingers barely grazing the silk at her shoulder. I let my fingers trail lower, down the side of her arm. Her skin went tight beneath my fingertips. “Don’t touch me,” she said, lips barely moving. “Don’t sit next to me in a dress like that if you don’t want to be touched.” “I'm not joking when I say I’ll stab you.” My fingers drifted lower, skimming the side seam of her thigh, right at the slit. She grabbed my wrist under the table, her nails dug in. “Touch me again,” she whispered, “and I’ll twist your balls until you cry in front of your little friends.” Fuck, I wanted to kiss her. I leaned back slowly, dragging my hand away like I was doing her a favor, “See?” I said, smirking wide. “This is why they’re marrying us. We’re already perfect together. You keep threatening me. I keep not giving a fuck.” I picked up my wineglass, the one she drank from and brought it to my lips. I made sure to place my mouth exactly where hers had been. Then I smirked over the rim, eyes locked on her. “That’s what they call chemistry, baby.” She didn’t look at me again after that. To ignore me harder, she turned to my cousin Laura across the table, all polite smiles and nods, pretending she cared about whatever boring shit Laura was saying. So, naturally, I couldn’t help myself. I let my hand drift beneath the linen again, sliding across the edge of her chair until I found her thigh, right where the slit parted. Her voice didn’t change at all when I wrapped my finger around her little skinny thigh, slender enough to fit perfectly in my hand, delicate enough to bruise if I squeezed harder. And still, she didn’t give me a reaction which only made me grip harder. “Oh, Chicago is beautiful this time of year,” she said sweetly to Laura. I pressed a little harder, letting my hand move slowly up and down the inside of her thigh but she didn't react. Instead, she reached for her dessert fork with the same elegance she’d use to lift a glass of champagne. “And the summers in Liguria,” she said to Laura, still smiling, “are so much gentler than Chicago’s. It’s the sea air, I think. It softens everything.” She didn’t even look down as she stabbed the fork into my thigh. Pain punched into me, fast and hot. My leg jerked under the table. My wine nearly tipped and she just kept smiling. “I especially love the breeze in the late afternoons,” she added, twirling the fork that still embedded in my leg just enough to make me see stars. “Don’t you?” I grit my teeth, sucking in a sharp breath through my nose, grinning like I wasn’t about to bleed through a twenty thousand-dollar suit. Laura nodded, “The ocean air here’s unbeatable.” “Oh, absolutely,” Alessia chirped, the picture of polite, Capone-bred elegance. Holy. Fucking. Hell. She yanked the fork out with one clean flick like she was plucking an olive from an hors d'oeuvre plate, set it delicately beside her dessert, and lifted her wineglass like a proper lady. My thigh was on fire. I bit my tongue hard enough to taste blood, just to stop myself from laughing like a lunatic. Finally, she turned to me, her eyes were cold and her smirk colder. “I told you not to touch me,” she whispered. And for the first time all night, I didn’t have a single thing to say. I was too busy bleeding. And falling. Fast. Hard. Headfirst into something I didn’t know how to stop And then I heard chairs scrape back. My father, Don Arturo Lombardi, and her father, Don Vittorio Capone stood up, the room fell silent in an instant. Every capo, every underboss, every wife and mistress and soldier turned their heads. A knife tapped the edge of a wine glass and the room quieted. “Famiglia,” Papà said, as he looked down the long table, pausing on each face, “Tonight, we break bread not as acquaintances, not as allies. But as blood.” “Our two families,” Don Vittorio Capone continued, rising to stand beside him, “have shared respect across oceans, across decades. Honor, loyalty, history.” “But tonight,” Arturo said, lifting his crystal glass, “we bind that respect in something stronger. Something that will outlive us.” There it was. Marriage. The word wasn’t said, not outright. It didn’t have to be. This was the old world. The tradition. Old-school. Coded. Every man in the room knew what it meant. “Her name will tie the Lombardis to Chicago,” Vittorio said, “And his name will root us deeper into Italy. Together, they will carry our blood forward.” His daughter. Me. I looked at Alessia and fuck me, she looked like she was going to vomit. Vittorio nodded toward us, “The Capones give their daughter, Alessia, in bond and in trust to the Lombardis.” Don Arturo smiled beside him, the kind of smile that meant signatures were already drying on invisible contracts. “And the Lombardis receive that bond with honor. Rino will court her in the old tradition. And when the time comes, he will marry her as is written, as is right.” Someone poured more wine. The room broke into applause. To our future. To the union. To the alliance. To the deal. I rose to my feet first, blood still warm in my leg, soaking into the dark fabric of my slacks. I reached down and offered her my hand, the picture of a well-bred heir playing the role of doting fiancé. She didn’t take it. So I leaned in and whispered, “Get up, tesoro. Everyone’s watching. You wouldn’t want to embarrass your family again, would you?” She looked up at me with pure loathing. The kind that burned hotter than the blood I was still losing but she stood because she was a Capone. I wrapped my arm around her waist and pulled her into my side. She was cold in my grip like marble. I leaned down and murmured right in her ear, low enough for only her to hear, “My claim over you is written in blood now, tesoro. Fitting, no?” The room around us roared with applause. Wine glasses clinked. Laughter bounced off the frescoed walls. Salute! Auguri! The men shouted like they were toasting a football win, and the women watched us with soft smiles, pretending this wasn’t the most beautiful hostage exchange they’d ever seen. I smiled wider, because I was winning. And nothing looked better on me than victory. "To Rino and Alessia!" someone yelled. Perfect. I turned to her slowly, theatrically, because we were center stage and kissed her right on the cheek. A kiss meant for cameras and power plays. She flinched, her jaw tight under my lips. I pulled back just an inch, just enough to breathe against her skin and whisper, “Smile, sposa. Or I’ll kiss you somewhere worse.” Her head turned. I felt her eyes burn through me. But when she faced the crowd again, her mouth stretched into a smile. Perfect. Elegant. Poisoned at the root. It was the fakest fucking thing I’d ever seen. And the most beautiful. Chapter 5 - Spoiled, sun-drenched devil Alessia ─ ∘❉∘ ─ Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, golden and blinding, hitting the marble floors. The Lombardi estate looked like something out of a magazine, arched ceilings, carved columns, art that probably cost more than a small country. If you didn’t know any better, you’d call it beautiful. But all I felt was dread. Because across from me, Rino Lombardi was slouched in his chair, playing with his breakfast like a child. His white shirt hung open at the collar, sleeves rolled carelessly to his forearms, cufflinks nowhere in sight. His dark hair was still damp, slicked back lazily like he’d just stepped out of the shower and said “fuck it” when he was about to comb them. He looked infuriatingly relaxed, thighs spread wide, posture like he was bored of everything around him. He struck me as the kind of guy who’d roll out of bed at noon, run a hand through his hair once, and spend ten full minutes smirking at his own reflection, just to remind himself how good looking he looked. He caught me staring before I could school my face, and the bastard winked. I snapped my eyes away, jaw tight. To my left, Isabella gave my hand a gentle squeeze beneath the table. On my right, Salvatore said nothing, just cut into his toast like he was trying not to notice how hard I was pretending to breathe. Arturo Lombardi cleared his throat. “Alessia,” he said, folding his hands over his napkin with all the grace of a man used to being obeyed. “You’ve been quiet this morning.” I smiled the way my mother taught me, just enough to be charming, “Just a touch too much champagne last night, Don Arturo. Celebration can be…” I paused, gave a soft shrug, “...dizzying.” A few chuckles murmured around the table. Mine was not among them. Don Arturo didn’t smile, he kept looking at me like he was trying to read past my skin and into the pit of my stomach, “Are you unhappy with the match?” Every fork paused midair. I felt it in my spine, that collective breath being held, waiting. My father didn’t look at me, but his presence beside Arturo was thunderous. He did not say a word, but still made it crystal clear: whatever I said next better fall in line. I lifted my chin. “I’m honored by the match. I trust my father’s wisdom and the alliance it brings our families.” Arturo tilted his head, eyes still on me. “Even though you and Rino seem to clash?” Across the table, Rino let out a low laugh and popped a grape in his mouth. I didn’t look at him, “With respect, Don Arturo, I was raised to serve my family’s future, not my own preferences.” Rino let out a soft whistle under his breath, “Cold as ice,” he muttered, clearly pleased. He probably thought I was throwing a tantrum but I wasn't doing any of that. I was surviving. Don Arturo smiled and nodded once, “Capone blood runs proud,” he said. “You answer like your grandfather would’ve wanted.” Mamma’s face lit up beside me, eyes gleaming like she’d just been handed a crown. Her smile was soft, almost girlish, pride radiating off her in waves. And my chest hurt. Because that one sentence, that single nod of approval from a man who wasn’t even family, meant more to her than any truth I could ever speak “You’ll have time,” Don Arturo added, dabbing the corner of his mouth with his napkin like we were talking about the weather and not the next four years of my life. “Four years of courtship. We don’t rush our daughters into marriage here in Liguria.” He glanced at Rino, who was now lounging like a bored prince in his chair. “Rino will take care of you.” Rino raised his coffee cup toward me in a mock toast, “I take excellent care of things that belong to me.” I clenched my jaw. And then Elisabetta, his mother smiled sweetly, “Perhaps they should spend some time alone together today. Get to know each other. We’ll have more luck nurturing love than forcing it.” Love. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to tell her I’d have better luck falling in love with a cobra in a pit of fire, but I stayed silent. “That’s a fine idea,” Arturo agreed, “Rino, take her out. Show her the city. Walk the hills. Teach her a little Ligurian pride.” “She’s American,” Elisabetta added delicately, though her smile was laced with judgment. “She needs exposure to our culture.” I nodded once, spine straight, hands folded neatly in my lap, “Of course,” I said, “It would be an honor.” Rino let out a laugh, “Oh, I’ll expose her to all sorts of things.” My fork scraped the edge of my plate. Elisabetta giggled, “Dio mio, Rino,” she said fondly, “always such a handful. He’s been that way since he was a baby, no woman’s ever managed to tame him.” Her eyes slid to me, assessing, like I was a knockoff handbag someone brought to a gala. “I suppose we’ll see if this one can keep up,” she added, sipping her espresso with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Though I do hope she’s not too… sensitive. Rino does enjoy his fun.” Salvatore set his knife down, leaned back, and fixed Rino with a stare cold, “Then maybe Rino should learn how to pace himself,” he said, eyes fixed on him. “She’s not one of your toys. She’s my sister.” Rino sat up straighter, hands raised slightly in mock surrender, a crooked smile on his face. “Of course, Salvatore. I meant no disrespect. You know how I joke... bad habit.” He turned to me, “Alessia is my future wife. I would never hurt what’s mine.” Arturo cleared his throat, “Rino, show her the city. Alessia, walk with him like the donna you were raised to be," his eyes narrowed slightly. “And remember who you represent.” I nodded once, not trusting myself to speak. Rino stood and offered me his hand, that charming, devilish smile painted perfectly back on his face like it had never faltered. “Well then,” he said, cocking a brow, “shall we, Miss America. I’ll show you where the real Italy lives.” He didn’t wait for me and just started walking. I pushed back my chair, hands braced against the table, but before I could rise, Salvatore’s fingers closed firmly around my wrist. I looked at him. He leaned in, his voice low, eyes hard as stone, “Don’t let him take your virginity before the wedding,” he said. “Lombardis love to break things they haven’t paid for yet.” And just like that, my stomach dropped straight through the floor. Before I could react, Isabella’s hand reached up, tucking a loose strand gently behind my ear, “Breathe, Stellina,” she murmured, “You’re not alone. I’m right here, okay?” And somehow, that helped. I stood, every muscle stiff as I followed Rino while he walked ahead, whistling as if he was bringing his pet for a stroll and me trailing behind like my ribbon was tied to his wrist. The car was already waiting in front of the stairs, sleek and black beneath the sun, a Lombardi soldier holding the door open. I climbed in without a word, but the moment the door thudded shut behind me, regret hit me like a punch to the gut. Rino slid in beside me in the driver's seat, his scent hit first, cedar, smoke, something dark underneath. He didn’t speak right away, he just adjusted the cuff of his sleeve and then spread one arm over the back of my seat, stretching out like the car had been built around him. Like the world had. Like I was just another thing that came with the territory. “Comfortable?” he asked. I stared out the window. “Fine.” He let out a low laugh, the kind that said he didn’t believe me for a second. “You sound absolutely ecstatic. This is supposed to be the fun part, you know.” I didn’t answer. What was the point? The car rolled forward, as we pulled out of the estate. My spine was stiff against the seat, the fabric of my trousers catching on the leather, my pulse loud in my ears. “You always this uptight, tesoro?” he asked, turning his head now, fully facing me. “It’s not every day a girl gets auctioned off like fine art,” I replied evenly. “Oh, come on,” he said, dragging the word out like a drawl. “You should be thanking me. Plenty of girls would kill to ride in this car with me or ride me in it.” I turned my head slowly. “Did you just say that out loud?” He grinned, “Why not? We’re alone now. No daddies, no rules.” “I’m not one of your little Italian fangirls, Rino.” “No shit,” he said, eyes flicking down my body with zero shame. “They’ve got tits. You? You’ve got a stick so far up your ass I’m surprised you can sit.” My jaw snapped shut so hard it clicked. “Excuse me?” He shrugged. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. I just expected a little more from a country that invented cheeseburgers and p**n.” Heat crawled up my throat, but I kept my expression still. He leaned in slightly, his voice almost rough now. “Four years, tesoro. That’s all they’re giving you before I own every inch of you. And believe me, when I do? I won’t be polite about it.” I turned my face to the window, jaw clenched, vision tunneling on the blur of vineyards and winding roads. Anything but him. He laughed again, “God, you make this fun. You know that?” I said nothing, just pressed my palm flat against my chest, trying to breathe. It was going to be a long ride through Liguria and far longer life ahead. And I’d chosen this. For my family. For our name. I just hadn’t realized how early it would start to feel like a cage. I knew something was wrong the moment we veered off the main road. The villas vanished. The historic architecture turned into narrow, winding streets lined with scooters and graffiti. Then came the coast, sunlight glinting off the Mediterranean like it wanted to blind me. I recognized nothing. “This isn’t the city center,” I said tightly, gripping the leather seat beneath my fingertips. Rino didn’t even look at me, “Change of plans.” “I was told this was a tour.” He just smiled, “It is. A tour of what real freedom looks like.” The car rolled to a stop near a stretch of sand hidden behind low stone walls and bougainvillea vines. I could already hear the bass vibrating from somewhere below. I opened the door, stepped out and the salt hit me. That, and the noise. Laughter, screaming, music too loud for midday. My heels hit the sand and I took one look at the scene below and nearly froze. They were everywhere. Tanned teenagers in swimsuits and linen, spilling drinks and bodies onto the beach. Loud Italian and French and something else I couldn’t place. Girls dancing on sunbeds, half-naked. Boys pouring wine into their mouths straight from the bottle. A couple was very obviously making out against a palm tree. Someone was smoking something that definitely wasn’t a cigarette. God. I felt heat crawl up my neck. Rino adjusted his sunglasses. “Welcome to the Riviera, tesoro.” “You brought me to a beach party?” He grinned, devil-may-care. “Better than a walking tour, no?” I took a slow breath, “This is inappropriate.” “Everything fun usually is.” He didn’t wait for a response, just started walking towards the party, hands in his pockets, whistling again like dragging me into this was entertainment. I followed. Because I had no choice. Because Capone girls follow with their heads high, even when their heels sink in the sand. We passed a group of girls in string bikinis that left nothing to the imagination. One of them, blonde, glossy, wet from the water called out, “Rinoooo, come swim!” in a thick accent. He winked at her, “Later.” Another girl shoved a red cup into his hand. “Try this.” He sipped it, made a face. “God, what is that? Jet fuel?” She laughed and touched his arm but he turned to me, “Drink?” “No.” “Suit yourself,” he knocked the rest back and tossed the cup into a bin without looking. More people greeted him. Boys with Rolexes and nicotine-stained grins, girls with slick legs and hungry eyes. They all looked at me the same way, like I was an antique vase someone had dragged into the wrong room. I kept my hands at my sides. Shoulders straight. Eyes high. I was wearing a silk blouse and tailored trousers, while they were barefoot and dripping in oil and sex and laughter. A girl nearby stripped off a top and cannonballed into the water. Rino turned to me, that maddening grin still in place. “Having fun yet, sposa mia?” I stared at him, “You really think this is how you’re supposed to court me?” He shrugged, “Better than pretending to be someone I’m not.” Then he took off his shirt, and then his slacks just peeled it off like he hadn’t a care in the world and tossed it onto a sunbed. He had smooth tanned skin, defined muscle for a teenager. A tattoo in Latin across his ribs I didn’t recognize. And he knew I’d seen it, because he leaned close and murmured, “You’re staring.” I looked away. Too late. “I’m judging.” “Close enough.” And then he ran toward the water. I stood there, stunned, as he dove headfirst into the sea, leaving me alone on the edge of some Bacchanalian nightmare, surrounded by drunk strangers and hedonism. I had never felt more American. More overdressed. More furious. I sat stiffly beneath a striped umbrella, arms crossed over my chest as the party went on around me. Rino had vanished somewhere between his fourth drink and the third girl who threw herself into his lap. I watched him now, sprawled across a towel in nothing but swim shorts, laughing at something that bottle blonde Valeria said as she traced her fingers down his chest like she was writing her name. I turned my face toward the sea. Salt stung the back of my throat, and I couldn’t tell if it was the breeze or my own bitterness. Every few minutes someone brushed past me and I flinched every time. “She doesn’t drink?” The voice came from behind me. I turned slightly. Fabio. I knew him from dinner last night. Rino’s right-hand parasite. “She’s on display,” Valeria said sweetly, appearing beside him, “Doesn’t want to crack the packaging.” They laughed. I smiled perfectly polite. “Did I say something funny?” Fabio gave me a look. “No offense. We just don’t usually get imports at these things.” Valeria pretended to feel bad for me, “You must feel so... out of place.” “I do,” I said. “It’s rare to be in the company of so many peasants.” Her smile dropped, Fabio blinked, then barked a short laugh. “Rino said you had claws. He wasn’t kidding.” “He says a lot of things,” I said. Behind them, Rino finally stood, stretched and walked over, “Problem?” he asked, cocking a brow at Fabio and Valeria. “Not at all,” Valeria said smoothly, slipping her hand into his. I looked at it, at their joined hands. His thumb stroked her knuckles slowly, his eyes on me. He was doing it on purpose. “Your girl’s got an attitude,” Fabio said. “She’ll learn,” Rino replied, not even looking at me. “Eventually.” Heat rose in my chest, rage or shame, I couldn’t tell anymore. “She won’t even take her shoes off,” Valeria whispered, as though I weren’t standing right there, “I think she’s afraid the beach might stain her.” Rino’s mouth twitched. “She was raised in the Capone Family. You know how they are over there. All rules, no rhythm.” More laughter filled the space and I felt my nails bite into my palms. And then Rino turned to me, finally, like I was an afterthought. “You good, sposa? Want me to call the embassy for you?” I looked at him, this spoiled, sun-drenched devil, and I said nothing. Because what could I say? Any hope of finding a way out of this was already rotting in my chest. No one was coming for me. Not Papà. Not Mamma. Not Salvatore. To them, I was already gone, spoken for and handed over like a peace offering. And just like that, my life as I knew it ended. Chapter 6 - Crack the seal and the value drops Alessia ─ ∘❉∘ ─ They were playing games. They were not the kind we played back in Chicago, not spin-the-bottle or some watered-down version of Truth or Dare. These were Italian games, I guess. I didn’t know the rules. I didn’t even know the names. There was “Palla Avvelenata”, some drunk version of dodgeball using a rolled-up towel soaked in seawater, half the boys were shirtless by the time it ended. Then there was the weirdest one, “Il Giudice” The Judge. One person stood blindfolded in the center, playing the “judge,” while the others circled around and whispered confessions or secrets. The judge had to guess who said what. If they were right? The confessor had to jump in the water... naked. If they were wrong? The judge went in. I didn’t understand most of it. The rules changed depending on who was winning. Everyone was barefoot, tanned, already drunk or pretending to be. They shrieked, ran, dove, climbed on one another, I stood at the edge of it all, arms crossed, watching with a sick knot in my stomach. Fabio jogged over to me, damp hair plastered to his forehead. He was shirtless, tan, and still wearing his gold chain, “Hey, sposa Americana,” he said with a lopsided grin, “We’ve got a free spot. Judge round. Come on.” I blinked, “What?” He gestured toward his friends where the others were gathering around the speaker, “Il Giudice. Come on. We need a fresh voice.” I shook my head, “I’m not playing.” He blinked, thrown off for half a second, “Why not?” “I didn’t grow up here,” I said flatly. “I don’t know these games.” Rino was watching from the other side, glass in hand, amusement written all over his face. His eyes burned holes into me even from a distance. Fabio stepped closer, “You don’t have to do anything crazy. Just join in. You’ll loosen up.” I wasn’t going to humiliate myself for their amusement. “Thanks,” I said coolly, “But I’ll pass.” Valeria’s voice rang out, “Then maybe we should play something the American can actually understand. We wouldn’t want her to feel left out.” I turned toward her and she was grinning wide, perfectly pleased with herself. “Perhaps…” she continued, drawing out the words, “Truth or Dare?” “I’m fine,” I said, “You don’t have to change anything for me.” But Rino stepped forward, then he crooked a single finger in my direction, like he was calling a dog, he could summon at will. “Come on, Alessia,” he said, “Don’t be rude. You’re the guest of honor.” My stomach turned. “She’ll play,” he added, not even looking at me, just announcing it to the group like it was law and my voice didn’t matter Valeria tilted her head and waved me closer, “It’s settled, then. Truth or Dare.” The other girls were already giggling, whispering behind their hands. Rino didn’t look away from me, and I could already feel the leash of his order around my neck tightening. Boys hooted, one of them shouted, “Capone’s daughter better not be a coward!” Heat prickled up the back of my neck. I felt their eyes on me. Someone gave me a nudge from behind. My heart slammed against my ribs, but I moved anyway. Chin high, back straight. I walked toward the circle and lowered myself onto the edge, as if I still had some control over the situation. They spun an empty beer bottle, and it landed on one of the guys, Matteo, I think. Someone shouted, “Lick Gerardo’s foot!” Groans and laughter erupted as Matteo dragged himself across the circle, muttering curses, before grabbing Gerardo’s sweaty ankle and giving it the most disgusted lick imaginable. Everyone howled. The bottle spun again, landing on a few of Rino’s friends who took their turns with loud dares. Laughter echoed around the circle, then it spun once more, slower this time, wobbling on its final rotation and stopped. Pointing straight at me. “Truth or dare, American?” Fabio asked. I swallowed. “Truth.” His grin widened, “Alright then… tell us, Miss America, are you still a virgin?” My lips parted in surprise but Rino didn’t even let me answer. “Of course she is,” he drawled, “If she wasn’t, we’d be renegotiating the deal.” The heat that rose in my face wasn’t embarrassment, it was fury. He kept going, “Capones don’t serve spoiled meat,” he added with a smirk, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Crack the seal and the value drops. Everyone knows that.” People laughed loud and hard, like it was the funniest thing they’d heard all week. And I just sat there, skin burning so hot it felt like it might peel off my face. Rage curdled in my gut but I smiled sweetly. “Of course I am a virgin, Fabio. We don’t all sleep with our cousins behind vineyard sheds like Lombardis,” I tilted my head, eyes locked on Rino’s. “Aren’t your parents distant cousins, Rino? Or is that just an old family rumor that somehow never dies?” No one laughed, at least, not fully, not the way they had a second ago. Laughing at Rino Lombardi’s expense felt unlawful here, like some unspoken crime against the crown. But his smile did freeze, just for a second. A flicker of something sharp and annoyed behind his eyes. And it was the best second of the whole evening. The bottle spun again. This time, it landed on a girl with dripping black curls and cherry-red lipstick. Serena, I thought her name was. “Truth,” she beamed. Gerardo leaned forward, “Have you ever had a threesome?” She laughed, “Not yet.” Another boy held up his drink and said, “She’s taking applications!” Rino chuckled, lazily reclined beside Valeria, still nursing his drink. The bottle spun again. This time it pointed to a boy I hadn't met. “Dare.” Rino grinned, “Kiss the person to your left.” That guy reached over and kissed Fabio... with tongue. The others screamed with laughter. A few clapped. Valeria threw her head back and shrieked, “Disgusting!” Rino raised his cup, “That’s the spirit.” The bottle spun again, it landed on Valeria. She tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled like the spotlight had been waiting for her. “Truth.” A girl next to her leaned in, grinning. “Did you sleep with Rino last summer in Monaco?” Everything stopped and heads turned toward me like I was there with them. Valeria gave a little shrug, all shy, “No,” she said sweetly. “I’m still a virgin but you never know,” she said airily, fingers twirling her straw, “Summer’s not over yet.” The girls around her giggled like she’d just dropped a mic. My jaw clenched so hard it hurt. Fabio's laugh vanished like someone had slapped it off. He turned his head toward his sister. “The fuck did you just say?” Valeria blinked. “Relax, Fab. It was a joke.” “Nah,” he said, “It wasn’t. You wanna flirt, do it with someone who didn’t teach you how to ride a damn tricycle, capito?” Her cheeks flushed, but her mouth pulled into a stubborn pout. Fabio turned to the rest of the group. “Anyone else wanna joke about who my sister's fucking before I start cracking skulls?” The game moved on. One girl was dared to skinny dip. Another boy confessed to stealing his cousin’s car and crashing it into a vineyard wall. There were tales of coke in Vatican bathrooms. Secret hookups. A girl who admitted to breaking her sister’s nose in a fight over a boyfriend. And I sat through all of it, they laughed, bragged, kissed and drank and dared and boasted. I went to an all-girls private school in Chicago. We weren’t saints but we didn’t snort powder off holy sinks or throw punches over boys. We learned posture, elocution, Latin prayers, and how to smile without showing too much teeth. When the bottle spun, it landed on me again. Gerardo grinned. “Only dare left, sweetheart. I dare you to strip down and run into the water, just in your underwear. Come on, Capone.” Someone whistled, “Show us some real American culture!” I tilted my chin higher, “No.” “Scared?” Fabio grinned. “Thought you Outfit girls didn’t back down.” “She’s modest,” Valeria said with exaggerated sweetness. “That’s kind of adorable.” “I said, no!” “That’s enough," Rino said, and no one dared to oppose him, “She’s mine to piss off,” he said coolly, “Not yours.” Fabio raised his hands, half-smiling. “Just a joke—” “She’s still a Capone,” Rino snapped, suddenly colder. “Remember who the fuck her family is.” No one laughed after that but I didn’t feel protected. I felt owned. He didn’t say it to defend me. He said it to remind them I was his. Off-limits. Fabio spun the bottle again, obnoxiously slow. It passed Valeria, skimmed Serena, and then stopped on Rino. Gerardo leaned forward, “Dare?” Rino’s face turned smug, “Obviously.” “I dare you,” Gerardo said, dragging the words out, “to kiss your American bride.” Valeria's smile shriveled. Rino glanced at me and I saw the decision made behind his eyes. I felt the shift. His whole body language changed. His mouth curved with lazy confidence. “C’mere, Miss America,” he said, “Let’s give them a show.” I didn’t move from my place, so, Rino took it up on himself and rose from his place and walked over to me. He dropped to his haunches right in front of me, close enough to steal my breath. I felt panic crawl up the back of my spine like heat, but I kept my face blank. He reached out and caught my chin between his fingers, tilting my face toward him with the kind of gentleness that made it worse, that made it feel intimate. He leaned in, too sure of himself. And that's when I pulled back, it made him freeze, “I wouldn’t kiss you,” I said, “if you were the last guy on earth.” The smile slipped from his mouth, his eyes, those stupidly dark eyes, narrowed at the corners, locked on mine like he was recalculating. His breath touched my lips. My skin prickled. Then I exhaled slowly, peeled his hand off my face finger by finger, and leaned back like his touch had burned right through my skin. I needed distance just to breathe again. “You think I’m impressed by this? By any of this?” I looked around slowly, at Valeria, with her silicone smile, at Fabio, who looked like he hadn’t read a book in his life, at Gerardo, who was already halfway down the bottle and halfway to being a full-time drunk, “Your little club of inbred clowns and tailored trash?” Someone gasped. “You think I want to be kissed by you?” I said, “You reek of cheap liquor, blood money, and desperation. I’ve seen better men shot in the back alleys of Chicago. At least they had ambition.” A flicker of movement, a muscle in Rino's temple twitched. Then I stood, brushed the sand off my trousers, and took one slow breath. He was still crouched there like he belonged at my feet. “We may have been engaged but you’ll never be enough for me, Rino Lombardi,” I said calmly, “The only reason I’m putting up with you and this pathetic little circus you call friends is because I don’t have a choice.” He rose slowly until he was towering over me, his smile was gone, his eyes were murderous. That was no spoiled rich boy standing in front of me now. I finally saw the Made Man in him. And I remembered exactly what kind of monster I was talking to. I looked around at the stunned faces circling us. His friends were frozen, wide-eyed and silent, the laughter dead on their lips. Clearly, none of them had ever seen anyone talk to Rino Lombardi like that. He owned Liguria and everyone in it. But I wasn’t from Liguria and he didn’t own me. So I took a step back and turned, ready to walk straight to the car and pretend none of them ever existed. But I didn’t even make it two steps. His hand fisted in my hair so fast I didn’t even flinch, just felt the sharp tug at my scalp as he yanked my head back. A crack of pain shot down my neck as I stumbled, trying to catch my balance. I barely had a second to register the burn of his grip and the way his knuckles pressed hard against my skull, fingers rooted deep into the base of my scalp before he was already pulling me forward. And then his mouth slammed into mine. Lips crushed mine with bruising force, upper lip pressing into my philtrum, bottom lip caught under his teeth. My jaw tensed and his forced it open. I felt the heat of his breath flood into my mouth, liquor, salt, something darker. My reflex was to pull away, but I couldn’t. His grip in my hair held me immobile, neck arched back at just the right angle so he could take without permission. His tongue shoved past my teeth, pushing against the roof of my mouth, filling every inch of space. My hands pressed weakly against the flat of his chest but he didn’t even notice. His body was like stone. His mouth tilted over mine again, and his teeth caught my bottom lip and bit hard. His hand never left my hair. His other hand stayed at his side, he didn’t need two to overpower me. One hand, one mouth, and he already had me locked in place, body stiff, mind white-hot with disbelief. When he finally pulled back, I was dazed but Rino didn’t stop there. He let go of my hair with a shove. The sudden force jolted through me. My balance cracked, and my feet slipped backward in the sand. I went down fast, my knees buckling and my body twisting as I hit the ground on my hip. The breath flew out of my chest. Then laughter. First one voice, then another, then full-on howling. A wave of it like someone had just played the best joke of the night. “Damn!” Fabio shouted, already wheezing, “Guess that’s one way to finish a dare!” I stayed where I was, frozen, fingers curled into the sand, trying to remember how to breathe. My cheeks were burning from the humiliation. My mouth was still wet from his. My lip stung from where his teeth had caught it. Rino just stood over me, calmly like nothing had happened, like I wasn’t even worth looking at and then he smiled darkly because he won.