Promised To The Don: The Runaway Mafia Princess novel Chapter 2

Rino

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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.

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