- 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.

- 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.