All Chapters of Promised To The Don: The Runaway Mafia Princess: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

Alessia ─ ∘❉∘ ─ I didn’t know how to tell Salvatore about Rino’s tip. My mouth felt full of stones every time I tried to form the words. Say it wrong and I sounded like an idiot. Say it right and maybe I sounded like a traitor. Either way, my hands shook just thinking about it. What if it was a trap? The thought crawled under my skin and refused to leave. What if Rino was baiting us, luring Salvatore into a kill zone so someone could finish what they started? I’d already lost too much to be the one who walked my brother into another nightmare. Salvatore was everything that kept us standing. Me, Isabella, the boys, we were all riding his shoulders. He ran the whole network with Elio, our half-brother, and even that thin thread felt like too little sometimes. Salvatore trusted few, he trusted fewer with his life. He didn’t even fully trust Elio, but there was no one else. Elio was the closest thing Salvatore had to a brother, and right now that had to be enough. I sat on the edge

Alessia ─ ∘❉∘ ─ I never thought I’d say this, but I’d started looking forward to Sunday nights. Not because of Rino, God, no. Whatever existed between me and Rino, it wasn’t anything romantic. It couldn’t be. There wasn’t room in my chest for something like that anymore. But still… knowing I’d see him, knowing I’d hear what he had to say, it gave me this strange sense of calm. Because for once, things were starting to line up. Each week, he brought something new, intel, connections, names, shipments and every time, it worked. Every single time. Salvatore didn’t know it, of course. He thought it was Elio pulling the strings, that somehow our half-brother had become a damn miracle worker overnight. But it was Rino. Always Rino, working in the shadows to rebuild what he once helped destroy. And it was working. For the first time in months, there was hope sitting in the corners of our house instead of fear. Salvatore laughed more, even joked with the boys again. Isabella was s

Rino ─𖤝─ Salvatore Capone burned down the warehouse. Our warehouse or that’s what my father liked to call it. Truth was, it used to belong to the Capones long before we ever laid a hand on it. We didn’t earn it. We stole it in the smoke of the Costello war, when my father decided it was smart to take advantage of someone else’s bloodbath. He called it strategy. I called it cowardice. I didn’t give a damn about the building itself, steel walls, crates of unmarked goods, another piece of dirt to add to the Lombardi map. What pissed me off was what it stood for. My old man’s greed. His habit of picking at other men’s carcasses and calling it conquest. He liked to think we built our empire on power. But power meant nothing if it wasn’t yours to begin with. I’d rather lose everything I had than live off another man’s war. I wanted blood on my hands, not his leftovers. Now the fire was crawling through the city like a warning. Salvatore sent a message, “Come take it back if it

Rino ─𖤝─ I didn’t breathe. My grip on the glass tightened until I heard it groan, a thin crack splintering near my thumb. I still didn’t say a thing. I just sat there, staring at the amber liquid while the noise of the club faded, got muffled, falling away into something distant and hollow. He chuckled quietly, watching me, “Alessia Capone is mine now.” I tilted my head back, eyes tracing the smoke curling up to the ceiling, “Is she now?” “Touchy subject, huh?” Fosco asked, laughing under his breath, the kind of laugh that made my fingers twitch. I turned my head back to him, met his eyes dead-on, “Not really,” I said, jaw tight. “She fucked me over. It’s a miracle Salvatore still thinks she’s worth something after everything that went down.” Fosco grinned, swirling his drink. “She’s pretty though. I’ll give her that. That kind of beauty men go to war for...” he trailed off, his tone mocking, eyes flicking up to me, sharp with amusement. That smug little spark that to

Rino ─𖤝─ The holding room smelled like shit, sweat, and concrete walls with no windows and that damned flickering light overhead that hummed loud enough to make me want to put a bullet through it. I sat back in the metal chair, wrists cuffed to the table, watching my reflection in the one-way glass. My lawyer showed up ten minutes late, custom suit, perfect tie, eyes already screaming he’d had a long night. He dropped his briefcase on the table and exhaled like a man walking into a funeral, “Jesus Christ, Rino.” I smiled faintly, “That’s one way to say good morning.” He didn’t laugh at that but glared at me, eyes hollow, “You know how many cameras that club had? Thirty-two. Thirty-fucking-two. Every one of them caught you. You walked in there with a full team, unloaded two Glocks, and beat Fosco Bellucci to death with a champagne bottle on camera.” I tilted my head, slowly, “You’re sure it was champagne?” He blinked, then slammed his hand on the table. “Don’t joke, Rin