Promised To The Don: The Runaway Mafia Princess novel Chapter 1

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?”

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