Chapter 9 - Bottom-shelf bloodlines

Alessia

─ ∘❉∘ ─

I was curled against Papà’s side, face buried in the fine linen of his shirt, staining it with silent tears. His cologne should’ve comforted me, but it only made the lump in my throat grow worse.

He let me cling and didn’t say a word, just kept his palm moving in slow circles on my back like I was still his little girl and not the girl some boy had thrown in the sand and kissed without permission in front of an entire crowd.

And yes, I told him. I told them both. Every awful, humiliating detail. How Rino grabbed me. How he touched me. How he made me feel like nothing. I told them because some stupid part of me thought they’d care enough to stop it. To call off the engagement. To protect me.

Papà just chuckled and called it “puppy arrogance.” Said it was “typical Lombardi showboating.”

Across the room, Mama sat perched at her vanity. Her breathing was faintly wheezy from the climb up the stairs, but she didn't stop giving me the judgmental glances through the mirror.

“You’ve been crying for a full day,” she said, voice clipped, “You’ll swell your face. Do you want them to see you like this when we return for dinner?”

“I don’t want to go to dinner,” I snapped, pulling away from Papà’s chest to face her, eyes red, “I just want to go home. To our home. Chicago. Is that so impossible?”

Papà sighed, “Alessia, figlia mia,” he murmured, trying to soften me, “it’s just a boy. A foolish one, yes, but I raised you tougher than this.”

That stung. My mouth trembled before I pressed it into a tight line.

“I have been tough,” I said, sitting straighter, “I’ve been a good girl. A good daughter. I’ve smiled for pictures, dressed like they told me. Said yes when I should’ve said no. I’ve accepted this marriage even though no one asked me if I wanted it. The only thing I’m asking for is time. Four years, Papà. Four years to finish school. Four years without Rino Lombardi breathing down my neck, treating me like I belong in his pocket.”

He watched me carefully.

“Don’t you love me enough to make that happen?”

Then he ran a hand down his jaw, “You know I can’t stop him from courting you. He’s within his rights. He’s shown interest in you, you should be flattered. That means meetings, visits, dinners. Anytime he’s in the States. Anytime we’re in Liguria—”

“I’m never coming back to Liguria,” I cut in, “Not for Christmas. Not for weddings. Not even if Nonna dies. I don’t care if God himself descends in this villa and blesses the marriage, I’m not stepping foot on this cursed coastline again.”

Mama exhaled from behind the vanity, “Drama,” she muttered, “doesn’t suit a Capone woman. We suffer with grace. You act like a servant girl who’s never been kissed.”

“That wasn’t a kiss,” I snapped, standing now, silk pajama pants brushing the floor. “That was him marking territory like a dog. He humiliated me, and you want me to show up to dinner and smile?”

She turned, finally facing me, one hand braced on the table, the other resting lightly on her inhaler, “You’re the daughter of a Don. You don’t get the luxury of falling apart.”

“Then maybe you should’ve told me that before you married me off like a mule,” I hissed.

Papà stood, “Watch your tongue.”

But there was no real threat in it, not with his hand already reaching for my shoulder, not when his eyes softened the second mine filled again.

“I know you’re hurt,” he said, “I didn’t think he’d touch you like that. I’ll speak to Don Arturo.”

“You won’t do anything,” I said bitterly. “Because it’s business. Because Rino is the Lombardi heir and I’m just the girl you promised away for the alliance.”

He didn’t deny it and Mama just stared at me like I was an inconvenience.

“Alright.” Papá said, suddenly.

I blinked, even mamma stilled her brush mid-stroke.

“I’ll take you back to Chicago,” he said, “Tonight. After the dinner.

“What?” I whispered, hope and disbelief strangling each other in my throat.

“You will attend dinner first, you will sit beside Rino. You will act like what you are. A Capone. And you will bid farewell to Rino like you are his wife, not some hysterical child crying over her feelings.”

My breath caught. The small mercy he offered had chains wrapped around it.

Mamma scoffed, rising from the vanity in her cream silk robe, “You’re coddling her, Vittorio. That boy barely touched her and she’s been hysterical for twenty-four hours.”

“She’s not coddled,” Papà muttered without taking his eyes off me. “She’s fourteen and scared. Don’t you remember being fourteen?”

Mamma's face tightened, as she leaned her hip against the vanity. “I remember knowing how to behave. I didn’t cry when I was betrothed. I didn’t cry when I was carried out of my father’s house and into a stranger’s bed. You think you’re the first girl to be kissed without permission? The world doesn’t revolve around your comfort.”

Papà stepped closer to me, lowering his voice, the way he did when he meant every word, “You’ll get on that jet tonight, your room in Chicago will be aired out and waiting but before that... you’ll show them what a Capone woman looks like. Graceful, proud and beautiful.”

My lips trembled, but I nodded once. “Fine.”

He tilted my chin up with two fingers, just enough to look into my face, into the pain I hadn't masked.

“I’ll handle Don Arturo,” he said, “And if Rino ever lays another hand on you without permission, he’ll lose it.”

Behind him, Mamma rolled her eyes. “This is why she’s soft.”

His head turned slightly, but he didn’t look at her, “I protect what’s mine.”

“And one day,” Mamma said, “She’ll mistake all your love for power and it’ll destroy her.”

I swallowed hard.

Papà leaned in, close enough that only I could hear him, “Don’t let the Lombardis mistake your tears for weakness. You come from wolves, piccolina. Show them your fangs.”

And before I could stop it, a ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of my mouth and Papà mirrored it and gave me a quiet wink.

Then he left the room, that, of course, left me alone with Mamma and she wasted no time.

“When will you learn, Alessia,” she began, “Boys will be boys. You must not make a scandal out of every little thing Rino does. A good wife learns to overlook her husband’s flaws.”

I tilted my head, “Then why didn’t you?”

Her spine straightened, “What do you mean?”

I smiled, the way she’d taught me. “You didn’t exactly ‘overlook’ Papà’s affair with that waitress when you were pregnant with Salvatore. From what I know, you threw a vase at his head. And you still haven’t forgiven him. You pretend Elio doesn’t exist. You don’t let him come here, don’t let us call him brother, even though he has Papà’s nose and Salvatore’s eyes.” I took a single step forward, “So I’m just wondering, Mamma... When will you learn? Boys will be boys and a good wife learns to overlook her husband’s flaws.”

For a moment, her face went blank, pale and speechless. Then she took two steps in my direction and slapped me across the face.

The room rang with the sound of it but I didn’t cry. I didn’t even blink.

I simply turned my face back toward her, straightened my shoulders, “Thank you for the lesson, Mamma.”

⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰

I dressed like a Capone.

My hair was pinned back in a low twist, not a single strand out of place. A black cocktail dress clung to my body, modest in cut, but unmistakably expensive. It had thin straps and a cinched waist with a string of my grandmother’s pearls around my neck.

When I stepped into the dining room, all heads turned. The Lombardis were already seated, Don Arturo at the head, his wife beside him. Rino sat next to the empty chair meant for me.

I smiled politely, “Don Arturo. Donna Elisabetta,” I said with a graceful nod, every word delivered like I’d been trained for this since birth because I had, “Thank you for hosting us before we leave.”

Don Arturo stood just a little, kissed the back of my hand. “Bellissima.”

“Padrino,” I said, addressing him like I was already one of them.

I moved with ease, my heels making no sound against the marble as I reached the table and slipped into the empty chair beside Rino.

I could feel his stare on the side of my face like heat through glass. Across the table, my father raised his wine like he was proud of my performance. I caught the gesture and returned it with a knowing smile.

They were both proud.

Two Dons, watching their match play out perfectly.

I pressed my napkin into my lap and didn’t look at Rino once.

The soup had barely been served when I felt him lean in, not close enough to draw attention, just enough for his lips to graze the space beside my ear.

“You clean up well, Capone,” Rino murmured, “Glad to see my kiss knocked a little sense into that pretty head of yours.”

I didn’t look at him. I lifted the soup spoon with elegance, tasted the broth like he hadn’t said a word.

“So this is you behaving?” he went on, “Is this the good little wife my father ordered?”

I still didn’t look at him. Instead, I reached for my water glass, letting the diamonds on my fingers catch the chandelier light.

“I liked the fight better,” he muttered. “But this? This cold little thing you’re doing? That’s hot too.”

Across the table, Don Arturo was saying something to my mother, something about olive exports. I barely heard a word. I could feel Rino watching me like he wanted to eat me.

“Cried to Daddy, didn’t you?” he whispered, lips still curved, “Told him how the big, bad Lombardi boy kissed you without permission.”

I finally turned to face him.

Our eyes met.

“You really want to talk about that kiss?” I asked coolly, the corners of my mouth lifting just a fraction, “I’ve had better from champagne-drunk boys behind coat closets. At least they didn’t taste like desperation.”

His smirk faltered but he liked it. I could see it in the way his pupils dilated. The way his tongue flicked once over his bottom lip, “That mouth’s gonna get you in trouble.”

“So will yours,” I said sweetly, lifting a bite of salad to my lips.

He gave a dark laugh, shaking his head once, biting it back like he didn’t want to look too amused. Across the table, our fathers shared another glance and I knew they thought we were finally learning to get along.

God, if only they knew.

Under the linen, I shifted my legs, crossing them neatly. My heel brushed against his ankle accidentally but of course, he took it as a signal.

Rino’s lips tugged into that cocky, crooked half-smile I’d come to loathe. He leaned in again, his voice just loud enough for me to hear and just low enough to feel it sink beneath my skin.

“Talk all you want, Capone…” he drawled, his eyes never leaving my face. “But we both know that was your first kiss.”

I kept chewing, refusing to let him see a single crack.

“And I took it,” he added, like it was a title he’d earned. “You can act like I crossed some sacred line but it was mine to take anyway.”

He let that sit for a moment.

“Wasn’t even that good, you know.”

My fork paused an inch from my plate.

“Bit too stiff,” he went on, “You didn’t open your mouth fast enough. Your tongue’s shy but I’ll train it.”

My stomach twisted, but I didn’t blink.

“That little gasp, though? The way you grabbed my jacket like you were struggling?” he gave a low chuckle, “That part was cute. Real wife energy.”

I didn’t speak, and just wiped the corner of my mouth with my napkin, placed it gently beside my plate, and turned toward him with a cold smile.

“You really think I cried over the kiss?” I said, “No, Rino. I cried because I realized my life is being tethered to a boy who mistakes assault for seduction.”

His smile widened, dark, amused and almost impressed.

“God, you’re hot when you’re cruel.”

“I get it from my family,” I said sweetly, lifting my wine, “Yours just breeds bastards.”

He laughed again but this time, there was heat behind it. His knee pressed harder against mine beneath the table.

“I’m gonna break that pretty spine before I bend you over my bed,” he murmured, “And I’m gonna enjoy every. Fucking. Second.”

I took a slow sip, set the glass down. Then, I shifted just slightly in my seat, leaned in as if I might whisper something back and drove the pointy end of my heel straight into his thigh under the table.

His jaw tensed, he exhaled hard through his nose. The silverware on his side of the table clinked as he adjusted, just barely.

I smiled sweetly, “You’ll never get the chance,” I said softly, “Bending over for you, Rino, would require lowering myself and Alessia Capone doesn’t bow for bottom-shelf bloodlines.”

His nostrils flared, his jaw ticked and I went back to my risotto like I hadn’t said a word.

I didn’t look at him again for the rest of the dinner and he didn't say a word as well. He shifted beside me, adjusted his sleeves like the fabric was suddenly suffocating him. I just kept eating like nothing had happened.

Don Arturo eventually stood, lifting his glass for a final toast.

“To the Capones and the Lombardis,” he said, “May this union bring peace, strength, and prosperity for the generations to come.”

Everyone raised their glass. I smiled politely, even raised my glass.

After dinner, kisses were exchanged, cheeks brushed. The older men disappeared for cigars. Isabella looped her arm through mine, whispered a compliment about my dress and my confidence. Mamma made one last comment about posture. Papà looked at me with pride, then reached for his jacket.

“We should be heading out,” Papà said to Don Arturo, adjusting his cufflinks, “Salvatore’s already aboard the jet. He doesn’t like waiting.”

Rino stepped forward then, “Don Vittorio,” he said with respect, “If I may ask, just a moment alone with Alessia. To apologize. Privately. I'm ashamed of my actions.”

My heart kicked, but I didn’t move. Papà arched a brow, considering. I watched him and waited for him to deny him but he gave a slow nod.

“One moment,” Papà said, “Don’t keep her long.”

Rino turned with a respectful tilt of his head, that smile painted perfectly across his mouth, “Of course, sir.”

He offered me his arm. I took it for appearances, not for him.

But the moment my hand rested in the crook of his elbow, he laid his other hand gently, possessively over mine to keep it there. A gesture the others wouldn’t question but I knew better.

We walked side by side through the villa’s inner corridor, past arches and golden sconces. His pace was slow, he was trying to drag it out.

When we reached one of the guest rooms, he opened the door without a word. I stepped in first.

And the second the door clicked shut behind us, I held my breath. I turned slowly and Rino wasn't smiling anymore.

He was leaning against the door, blocking it with his broad frame and watching me with something else entirely.

“Alessia Capone doesn’t bow for bottom-shelf bloodlines,” he repeated slowly, “That’s what you said, right?”

He took a single step forward. My spine straightened on instinct.

Then it happened all at once.

He lunged.

I barely had time to gasp before he seized both my arms in his fists, yanked me across the room, and slammed me chest-first over the couch. My body folded over the armrest, my cheek scraping the upholstery, my scream smothered by the force of it.

“Let go—!”

He twisted both arms behind my back, pain lanced through my shoulders.

He pinned me there, breathing hard, hand pressing down between my shoulder blades like he was holding down a rabid thing.

I was shaking. My heart thundered against the bone of my ribcage. I didn’t know if it was fear or fury, didn’t know if he was going to hurt me or break something inside me that wouldn’t come back.

Then he laughed, “I don’t know,” he murmured, dragging his fingers along the curve of my spine, “you seem to bend pretty fucking easy for me.”

He leaned down, his entire heavy body against my back, caging me in, pressing me into the couch, my lungs stuttered under the pressure.

His lips brushed my ear. His breath made my skin crawl.

“First kiss was nothing,” he whispered, voice like a blade sliding beneath my ribs. “You couldn't fight me then.”

He pressed harder against me, thigh to thigh, chest to spine.

“You think the rest of you is safe?” he rasped, “You think that mouth, that little body, that untouched fucking virtue, any of it is out of my reach now?”

His hand slid down, fingers skimming the edge of my hip like he was already deciding where to take the next piece.

“It’s not,” he said, tongue flicking the shell of my ear, “All it takes is one night. One push.”

His grip tightened.

“And I’ll take the rest the same way I took that kiss... like it was nothing.”

He held me there a moment longer, like he was listening to the sound of my breath breaking apart beneath him. Then, slowly, he loosened his grip and stepped back.

The weight of him lifted, but the damage didn’t.

My arms hung limp for a second before I pulled them close to my chest, backing away like he burned.

Rino reached out his hand, palm up like he hadn’t just bent me over and threatened me.

“Come on, tesoro,” he said, “Let’s not leave the parents waiting.”

I stared at his hand, then slapped it away hard. He didn’t care, he just smiled knowing he won that round.

I stormed past him, my heels thudding against the marble as I forced my back straight and my head high. He followed, like a shadow I couldn’t outrun.

When we stepped back into the grand sitting room, both families looked up.

Isabella spoke up first. “Everything... alright now?”

I didn’t look at anyone, just gave the smallest nod I could manage.

“Well?” Don Arturo Lombardi asked.

“Did you two finally sort out your differences?” my father added, half-joking, half-dreading the answer.

I again gave a weak nod, eyes lowered. My throat was tight. My hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

Rino slung an arm around my waist like we were lovers at ease, “More than alright,” he said, smiling wide, “We understand each other perfectly now.”

I tried to pull away but he leaned in and pressed a kiss to my cheek, then he stepped back, hands in his pockets.

I walked toward the car with my family, the moment I sank into the back seat, the door shut, I breathed.

I stared out the window and saw him standing there, grinning, fingers curled into my dress, breathing through my nose to stop the shaking.

I would never let Rino Lombardi have another part of me.

If it ever came down to him or my freedom.

Him or my last breath.

I’d choose death.

I swore it there, in the back of that car, with my fingers clenched in my lap and my heart clawing at my chest.

I’d choose the bullet to my own temple before I let Rino Lombardi claim one more inch of me.