Chapter 1 - 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.