Chapter 5 - Spoiled, sun-drenched devil

Alessia

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Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, golden and blinding, hitting the marble floors. The Lombardi estate looked like something out of a magazine, arched ceilings, carved columns, art that probably cost more than a small country. If you didn’t know any better, you’d call it beautiful.

But all I felt was dread.

Because across from me, Rino Lombardi was slouched in his chair, playing with his breakfast like a child. His white shirt hung open at the collar, sleeves rolled carelessly to his forearms, cufflinks nowhere in sight. His dark hair was still damp, slicked back lazily like he’d just stepped out of the shower and said “fuck it” when he was about to comb them. He looked infuriatingly relaxed, thighs spread wide, posture like he was bored of everything around him.

He struck me as the kind of guy who’d roll out of bed at noon, run a hand through his hair once, and spend ten full minutes smirking at his own reflection, just to remind himself how good looking he looked.

He caught me staring before I could school my face, and the bastard winked.

I snapped my eyes away, jaw tight.

To my left, Isabella gave my hand a gentle squeeze beneath the table. On my right, Salvatore said nothing, just cut into his toast like he was trying not to notice how hard I was pretending to breathe.

Arturo Lombardi cleared his throat.

“Alessia,” he said, folding his hands over his napkin with all the grace of a man used to being obeyed. “You’ve been quiet this morning.”

I smiled the way my mother taught me, just enough to be charming, “Just a touch too much champagne last night, Don Arturo. Celebration can be…” I paused, gave a soft shrug, “...dizzying.”

A few chuckles murmured around the table. Mine was not among them.

Don Arturo didn’t smile, he kept looking at me like he was trying to read past my skin and into the pit of my stomach, “Are you unhappy with the match?”

Every fork paused midair. I felt it in my spine, that collective breath being held, waiting. My father didn’t look at me, but his presence beside Arturo was thunderous. He did not say a word, but still made it crystal clear: whatever I said next better fall in line.

I lifted my chin. “I’m honored by the match. I trust my father’s wisdom and the alliance it brings our families.”

Arturo tilted his head, eyes still on me. “Even though you and Rino seem to clash?”

Across the table, Rino let out a low laugh and popped a grape in his mouth.

I didn’t look at him, “With respect, Don Arturo, I was raised to serve my family’s future, not my own preferences.”

Rino let out a soft whistle under his breath, “Cold as ice,” he muttered, clearly pleased. He probably thought I was throwing a tantrum but I wasn't doing any of that.

I was surviving.

Don Arturo smiled and nodded once, “Capone blood runs proud,” he said. “You answer like your grandfather would’ve wanted.”

Mamma’s face lit up beside me, eyes gleaming like she’d just been handed a crown. Her smile was soft, almost girlish, pride radiating off her in waves. And my chest hurt. Because that one sentence, that single nod of approval from a man who wasn’t even family, meant more to her than any truth I could ever speak

“You’ll have time,” Don Arturo added, dabbing the corner of his mouth with his napkin like we were talking about the weather and not the next four years of my life. “Four years of courtship. We don’t rush our daughters into marriage here in Liguria.”

He glanced at Rino, who was now lounging like a bored prince in his chair.

“Rino will take care of you.”

Rino raised his coffee cup toward me in a mock toast, “I take excellent care of things that belong to me.”

I clenched my jaw.

And then Elisabetta, his mother smiled sweetly, “Perhaps they should spend some time alone together today. Get to know each other. We’ll have more luck nurturing love than forcing it.”

Love.

I wanted to laugh. I wanted to tell her I’d have better luck falling in love with a cobra in a pit of fire, but I stayed silent.

“That’s a fine idea,” Arturo agreed, “Rino, take her out. Show her the city. Walk the hills. Teach her a little Ligurian pride.”

“She’s American,” Elisabetta added delicately, though her smile was laced with judgment. “She needs exposure to our culture.”

I nodded once, spine straight, hands folded neatly in my lap, “Of course,” I said, “It would be an honor.”

Rino let out a laugh, “Oh, I’ll expose her to all sorts of things.”

My fork scraped the edge of my plate.

Elisabetta giggled, “Dio mio, Rino,” she said fondly, “always such a handful. He’s been that way since he was a baby, no woman’s ever managed to tame him.”

Her eyes slid to me, assessing, like I was a knockoff handbag someone brought to a gala.

“I suppose we’ll see if this one can keep up,” she added, sipping her espresso with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Though I do hope she’s not too… sensitive. Rino does enjoy his fun.”

Salvatore set his knife down, leaned back, and fixed Rino with a stare cold, “Then maybe Rino should learn how to pace himself,” he said, eyes fixed on him. “She’s not one of your toys. She’s my sister.”

Rino sat up straighter, hands raised slightly in mock surrender, a crooked smile on his face. “Of course, Salvatore. I meant no disrespect. You know how I joke... bad habit.” He turned to me, “Alessia is my future wife. I would never hurt what’s mine.”

Arturo cleared his throat, “Rino, show her the city. Alessia, walk with him like the donna you were raised to be," his eyes narrowed slightly. “And remember who you represent.”

I nodded once, not trusting myself to speak.

Rino stood and offered me his hand, that charming, devilish smile painted perfectly back on his face like it had never faltered.

“Well then,” he said, cocking a brow, “shall we, Miss America. I’ll show you where the real Italy lives.”

He didn’t wait for me and just started walking. I pushed back my chair, hands braced against the table, but before I could rise, Salvatore’s fingers closed firmly around my wrist.

I looked at him.

He leaned in, his voice low, eyes hard as stone, “Don’t let him take your virginity before the wedding,” he said. “Lombardis love to break things they haven’t paid for yet.”

And just like that, my stomach dropped straight through the floor.

Before I could react, Isabella’s hand reached up, tucking a loose strand gently behind my ear, “Breathe, Stellina,” she murmured, “You’re not alone. I’m right here, okay?”

And somehow, that helped.

I stood, every muscle stiff as I followed Rino while he walked ahead, whistling as if he was bringing his pet for a stroll and me trailing behind like my ribbon was tied to his wrist.

The car was already waiting in front of the stairs, sleek and black beneath the sun, a Lombardi soldier holding the door open. I climbed in without a word, but the moment the door thudded shut behind me, regret hit me like a punch to the gut.

Rino slid in beside me in the driver's seat, his scent hit first, cedar, smoke, something dark underneath. He didn’t speak right away, he just adjusted the cuff of his sleeve and then spread one arm over the back of my seat, stretching out like the car had been built around him.

Like the world had.

Like I was just another thing that came with the territory.

“Comfortable?” he asked.

I stared out the window. “Fine.”

He let out a low laugh, the kind that said he didn’t believe me for a second. “You sound absolutely ecstatic. This is supposed to be the fun part, you know.”

I didn’t answer. What was the point?

The car rolled forward, as we pulled out of the estate. My spine was stiff against the seat, the fabric of my trousers catching on the leather, my pulse loud in my ears.

“You always this uptight, tesoro?” he asked, turning his head now, fully facing me.

“It’s not every day a girl gets auctioned off like fine art,” I replied evenly.

“Oh, come on,” he said, dragging the word out like a drawl. “You should be thanking me. Plenty of girls would kill to ride in this car with me or ride me in it.”

I turned my head slowly. “Did you just say that out loud?”

He grinned, “Why not? We’re alone now. No daddies, no rules.”

“I’m not one of your little Italian fangirls, Rino.”

“No shit,” he said, eyes flicking down my body with zero shame. “They’ve got tits. You? You’ve got a stick so far up your ass I’m surprised you can sit.”

My jaw snapped shut so hard it clicked. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. I just expected a little more from a country that invented cheeseburgers and p**n.”

Heat crawled up my throat, but I kept my expression still. He leaned in slightly, his voice almost rough now.

“Four years, tesoro. That’s all they’re giving you before I own every inch of you. And believe me, when I do? I won’t be polite about it.”

I turned my face to the window, jaw clenched, vision tunneling on the blur of vineyards and winding roads. Anything but him.

He laughed again, “God, you make this fun. You know that?”

I said nothing, just pressed my palm flat against my chest, trying to breathe. It was going to be a long ride through Liguria and far longer life ahead.

And I’d chosen this.

For my family.

For our name.

I just hadn’t realized how early it would start to feel like a cage.

I knew something was wrong the moment we veered off the main road. The villas vanished. The historic architecture turned into narrow, winding streets lined with scooters and graffiti. Then came the coast, sunlight glinting off the Mediterranean like it wanted to blind me. I recognized nothing.

“This isn’t the city center,” I said tightly, gripping the leather seat beneath my fingertips.

Rino didn’t even look at me, “Change of plans.”

“I was told this was a tour.”

He just smiled, “It is. A tour of what real freedom looks like.”

The car rolled to a stop near a stretch of sand hidden behind low stone walls and bougainvillea vines. I could already hear the bass vibrating from somewhere below.

I opened the door, stepped out and the salt hit me. That, and the noise.

Laughter, screaming, music too loud for midday. My heels hit the sand and I took one look at the scene below and nearly froze.

They were everywhere.

Tanned teenagers in swimsuits and linen, spilling drinks and bodies onto the beach. Loud Italian and French and something else I couldn’t place. Girls dancing on sunbeds, half-naked. Boys pouring wine into their mouths straight from the bottle. A couple was very obviously making out against a palm tree. Someone was smoking something that definitely wasn’t a cigarette.

God.

I felt heat crawl up my neck.

Rino adjusted his sunglasses. “Welcome to the Riviera, tesoro.”

“You brought me to a beach party?”

He grinned, devil-may-care. “Better than a walking tour, no?”

I took a slow breath, “This is inappropriate.”

“Everything fun usually is.”

He didn’t wait for a response, just started walking towards the party, hands in his pockets, whistling again like dragging me into this was entertainment.

I followed.

Because I had no choice.

Because Capone girls follow with their heads high, even when their heels sink in the sand.

We passed a group of girls in string bikinis that left nothing to the imagination. One of them, blonde, glossy, wet from the water called out, “Rinoooo, come swim!” in a thick accent.

He winked at her, “Later.”

Another girl shoved a red cup into his hand. “Try this.”

He sipped it, made a face. “God, what is that? Jet fuel?”

She laughed and touched his arm but he turned to me, “Drink?”

“No.”

“Suit yourself,” he knocked the rest back and tossed the cup into a bin without looking.

More people greeted him. Boys with Rolexes and nicotine-stained grins, girls with slick legs and hungry eyes. They all looked at me the same way, like I was an antique vase someone had dragged into the wrong room.

I kept my hands at my sides. Shoulders straight. Eyes high.

I was wearing a silk blouse and tailored trousers, while they were barefoot and dripping in oil and sex and laughter. A girl nearby stripped off a top and cannonballed into the water.

Rino turned to me, that maddening grin still in place.

“Having fun yet, sposa mia?”

I stared at him, “You really think this is how you’re supposed to court me?”

He shrugged, “Better than pretending to be someone I’m not.”

Then he took off his shirt, and then his slacks just peeled it off like he hadn’t a care in the world and tossed it onto a sunbed.

He had smooth tanned skin, defined muscle for a teenager. A tattoo in Latin across his ribs I didn’t recognize. And he knew I’d seen it, because he leaned close and murmured, “You’re staring.”

I looked away.

Too late.

“I’m judging.”

“Close enough.”

And then he ran toward the water.

I stood there, stunned, as he dove headfirst into the sea, leaving me alone on the edge of some Bacchanalian nightmare, surrounded by drunk strangers and hedonism.

I had never felt more American.

More overdressed.

More furious.

I sat stiffly beneath a striped umbrella, arms crossed over my chest as the party went on around me. Rino had vanished somewhere between his fourth drink and the third girl who threw herself into his lap. I watched him now, sprawled across a towel in nothing but swim shorts, laughing at something that bottle blonde Valeria said as she traced her fingers down his chest like she was writing her name.

I turned my face toward the sea. Salt stung the back of my throat, and I couldn’t tell if it was the breeze or my own bitterness. Every few minutes someone brushed past me and I flinched every time.

“She doesn’t drink?”

The voice came from behind me. I turned slightly.

Fabio. I knew him from dinner last night. Rino’s right-hand parasite.

“She’s on display,” Valeria said sweetly, appearing beside him, “Doesn’t want to crack the packaging.”

They laughed.

I smiled perfectly polite. “Did I say something funny?”

Fabio gave me a look. “No offense. We just don’t usually get imports at these things.”

Valeria pretended to feel bad for me, “You must feel so... out of place.”

“I do,” I said. “It’s rare to be in the company of so many peasants.”

Her smile dropped, Fabio blinked, then barked a short laugh. “Rino said you had claws. He wasn’t kidding.”

“He says a lot of things,” I said.

Behind them, Rino finally stood, stretched and walked over, “Problem?” he asked, cocking a brow at Fabio and Valeria.

“Not at all,” Valeria said smoothly, slipping her hand into his.

I looked at it, at their joined hands. His thumb stroked her knuckles slowly, his eyes on me.

He was doing it on purpose.

“Your girl’s got an attitude,” Fabio said.

“She’ll learn,” Rino replied, not even looking at me. “Eventually.”

Heat rose in my chest, rage or shame, I couldn’t tell anymore.

“She won’t even take her shoes off,” Valeria whispered, as though I weren’t standing right there, “I think she’s afraid the beach might stain her.”

Rino’s mouth twitched. “She was raised in the Capone Family. You know how they are over there. All rules, no rhythm.”

More laughter filled the space and I felt my nails bite into my palms. And then Rino turned to me, finally, like I was an afterthought.

“You good, sposa? Want me to call the embassy for you?”

I looked at him, this spoiled, sun-drenched devil, and I said nothing.

Because what could I say?

Any hope of finding a way out of this was already rotting in my chest. No one was coming for me. Not Papà. Not Mamma. Not Salvatore.

To them, I was already gone, spoken for and handed over like a peace offering.

And just like that, my life as I knew it ended.