Semua Bab Promised To The Don: The Runaway Mafia Princess: Bab 11 - Bab 20

Alessia ─ ∘❉∘ ─ Age 17 | Chicago, Illinois The black car pulled up to the curb outside the restaurant. The city lights flickered across the windshield, Antonio stepped out first. He scanned the sidewalk, one hand already at his waist, coat pushed back just enough to flash the holster clipped to his belt. Then he glanced back at me through the tinted glass and gave a single nod. My door opened and there he was again, tall, sharp-jawed, eyes darker than sin. He extended a hand to help me out. I placed mine in his, letting my fingers linger a second longer than necessary. Heat flared low in my stomach, his grip tightened just slightly. Our eyes met. Then it was gone. He released me like I was poisonous. I stepped out, straightened my dress, and raised my chin. Chicago wind bit across my cheeks, tugging at the edge of my coat. My hair, pinned into a sleek twist, didn’t move. I had learned the art of silence in the last three years. Of posture, of restraint, of weaponizing elega

Rino ─𖤝─ Age 19 | Chicago | Penthouse Resident, Gold Coast. They say time dulls things. Wounds fade, grudges rot away, memories lose their teeth. Yeah, bullshit. Whoever came up with that never sat across from a Capone. Or a Lombardi. And they sure as fuck never watched what happens when you shove both bloodlines into the same room and lock the door. I lit a cigarette with one hand, staring out the window, the skyline jagged and indifferent in the rain. The glass pane was cool beneath my knuckles, my jaw tight. The city didn’t care what I did. But she did. Alessia Capone. Three fucking years. And I couldn’t get rid of the taste. Not after what I did, not after the way I handled her that night like she was something I could punish just because I was young and angry and drunk on her mouth. I was sixteen and a fucking animal, and now I’m nineteen, still an animal but the difference is, I know it now. I just stopped pretending to be anything else. The door clicked open b

Alessia ─ ∘❉∘ ─ Age 18 | Capone Estate, Chicago, Illinois. I slipped through the side terrace doors, silk brushing over my thighs. Pale blue, barely-there, french, expensive and satin silk. I’d stolen it straight from my mother’s closet, and, if she ever found out, I’d be dead. It was way too adult, way too inappropriate, especially for a walk around the gardens at night but I hadn’t come out here to smell the roses. I spotted him before he had the chance to look up. My heart stopped, then tripped over itself trying to catch up. He was pacing the back fence line, hand on the grip of his weapon, shoulders taut beneath his black uniform shirt. His sleeves were rolled up, veins thick down his forearms. Always the soldier, even when no one was watching. I moved toward him like a breeze, hips swaying on instinct, heart hammering like I was still sixteen and stupid, hiding glances at the help. He must’ve felt me before he saw me, because his head snapped to the side. His eyes l

Alessia ─ ∘❉∘ ─ I descended the staircase of my own birthday party like a trained swan. I let them all see the version of me they wanted: the perfect Capone daughter. Smiling, laughing, floating. Everything I wasn’t inside. My heels clicked against marble. The slit in my dress opened high up my thigh with every step, exposing just enough leg to draw the right kind of attention. “Buon compleanno, bellissima.” I turned my head just enough to flash a gracious smile over my bare shoulder. I hated everyone in this room or maybe I just hated that none of them could save me. Not even him, especially not him. My chest burned with the echo of Antonio’s words from last night... “You’ll be better off with Rino Lombardi than you will ever be with me.” Coward. I had begged him, handed him my heart and he had thrown me back to the wolves, shoved me into Rino’s arms with loyalty as his excuse. Papà stood near the bar, laughing with a pair of bald men in sharkskin suits. Mam

Rino ─𖤝─ The Capone Spiral? I breathed it out through my nose, half a scoff, half a grin, gripping the wheel tighter as the engine purred beneath us like it knew we were up to no good. “The Capone Spiral,” I repeated, testing the sound of it on my tongue. Then she shifted in her seat, thighs pressing together, fanning herself like she was burning alive. “Christ, why is it so hot in here?” Her fingers went straight to her throat, tugging at the fine chain resting there, like she couldn’t get enough air. I glanced at her, then back at the road, twisting the heater's dial down, “It’s not hot, Bellissima.” Outside, Chicago looked ready to snow its guts out. It wasn’t hot. It was borderline freezing. Her chest rose and fell in sharp little pants, and she arched her back slightly, thighs rubbing together under her bunched-up dress. “I feel like I’m melting,” she whispered, teeth sinking into her bottom lip, writhing in the seat like she couldn’t stand being inside h