The Ruthless Don and his Assassin Princess

CHAPTER ONE

CALISTA

The scent of garlic, rosemary, and rich tomato sauce drifted through the kitchen of the Donati estate. 

To anyone else, it was the smell of a welcoming feast. But to me, it was merely a distraction from the tight knot twisting in my stomach.

“Calista, stop staring out the window and hand me the olive oil,” my mother, Calia, ordered, her voice laced with annoyance. 

She adjusted her collar for the hundredth time, constantly glancing at the antique clock on the wall. 

Ever since she got married into the Donati family, every breath she took was dedicated to proving she belonged in this world of blood, gold, Guns, and war.

“Here, Mother,” I said softly, passing her the glass bottle. My voice was steady, even if my heart was beating so against my ribs, so much that I could hear it. 

I leaned back against the marble counter, letting my eyes drift out toward the courtyard.

I was excited. Beyond excited, if you'll ask me, but I was hiding it under a cool layer of calm, the way I had learned to do around here.

Late last night, while the rest of the mansion was drenched in silence, I had crept to my bedroom window and seen the steel gates open.

 A convoy of sleek black SUVs had rolled down the driveway. When they finally parked, he stepped out. 

Rheyes Montes Donati. 

We hadn't spoken last night. He had been surrounded by armed guards and senior family members, but just as he reached the doors of the main entrance, his head had tilted upward.

 For one suspended, breathless second, his dark, gray eyes had locked directly onto mine through the glass.

It was the exact same look we exchanged four years ago.

I was twelve back then, clutching a small bag as my mother led me into this massive, intimidating fortress for the very first time. 

I remember standing in the foyer, feeling small and out of place, right as an eighteen-year-old Rheyes was walking out toward the door with a duffel bag slung over his broad shoulder.

His father, the Donati Patriarch, had stood near the foyer, when he informed us that every man in this family goes to Europe to earn his blood. And as a soon-to-be Don, he had to go. 

Rheyes had stopped near the stairs, turning his head to glance back at me. 

A single glance before he vanished for years into the brutal underworld of Eastern Europe.

Now, he is finally back. 

********

The dining table of the Donati estate was larger than the house we used to live in. 

My mother, Calia, sat to my left, as she tried to engage the Donati Patriarch in conversation. 

Beside her, I kept my eyes fixed on my plate, acutely aware of the cold, heavy glare sweeping over me from the head of the table.

His father loved my mother—or at least, loved having a quiet, beautiful trophy on his arm. 

But me? He hated my very breath; he never outright said it, but his expressions held enough. 

Every time his eyes settled on me, they carried an unspoken command, it always held a “Remember your place.” Look. 

Suddenly, the double doors of the dining hall swung open.

The air in the room dropped ten degrees as Rheyes walked in.

He was dressed in a dark, tailored suit, with his broad shoulders easily filling out the cut, and his sleeves pulled up just enough to reveal strong forearms inscribed with faint scars and intricate tattoos. 

At twenty-two, he radiated a deadly authority that made the guards in the hall stand straighter.

 He had returned from his four-year mafia rite of passage in Eastern Europe just two nights ago, no longer looking like the Harmless little boy I had seen that day, but more like a killer in a tailored coat.

He didn't offer a word of greeting to his father. His eyes swept the room, skipping right over my mother, before locking onto me.

My heart did a violent, traitorous flip against my ribs.

Rheyes took his seat directly beside me. He was grumpy with the staff and maintained a cruel scowl toward the guards, but as he reached for his steak knife, his sharp gaze softened on my face.

The silence stretched immediately. I picked at my food, barely eating three bites under Don’s hawkish glare.

Without a word, Rheyes cut a thick, part of tenderloin from his own plate. He reached across the table, placing the extra piece directly onto my plate.

I froze. My mother gasped softly under her breath.

Across the table, the Donati Patriarch’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek.

 He shot me a glare so venomous, dripping with hatred, that it felt like a physical slap. 

I lifted my eyes to Rheyes, my pulse hammering in my throat. He didn't care about his father's anger, and he also didn't care about the rules. He just stared back at me, his deep voice cutting through the suffocating tension.

“Eat, piccola,” he commanded softly, the warmth in his tone sending a shudder straight down my spine. “You’re too thin.”