Promised To The Don: The Runaway Mafia Princess novel Chapter 4

Rino

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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.

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