Chapter 3 - 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.