"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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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 💖

- 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.

- 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.

- 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.