Lahat ng Kabanata ng Half a Lifetime Later—My Mafia Princess is Finally Mine: Kabanata 61 - Kabanata 70

Alessia ─ ∘❉∘ ─ I should write to him. The thought came out of nowhere, but even as it formed, it already felt useless. What could a letter tell me? Ink on paper couldn’t show me his face. It couldn’t let me hear his voice. It couldn’t tell me if he was lying. No. Writing wasn’t enough. I needed to see him. My leg wouldn’t stop bouncing, fingers tapping against the table as if I could drum the nerves out of me. Every thought looped back to the same point, Rino. What he said in church. The way his voice sounded so honest. It didn’t fit the man who killed Fosco. I pressed my hands to my face and tried to breathe, but my chest wouldn’t loosen. I needed answers, not rumors, not stories passed through other people’s mouths. His words. His reasons. Maybe I was insane for even thinking it, but I couldn’t shake it anymore. I was going to see him. Not as the girl who was engaged to him at some point in her life. Not as the Capone who should hate him. As someone who need

Antonio ⊶⊷⊶⊷ Allegra sat in the back seat, humming to herself, kicking her little shoes against the leather, sucking in her thumb. “Stop that, bambina,” I muttered, glancing at her through the rearview mirror. She froze for a second, then pulled out her thumb from her mouth, and leaned forward. “Are we gonna see Grandpa?” “Yeah,” I said, shifting gears as we turned onto the narrow road that led to the church. “We’re gonna see Grandpa.” She clapped her hands once, and went back to humming. The church appeared in my view, I parked in front of it and sat there for a moment, hands still on the wheel, engine idling. My chest felt tight. Maybe it was the smoke, maybe it was the silence, maybe it was the ghost of Alessia still lodged somewhere deep under my ribs. Three years, and her name still felt like a fresh wound every time it crossed my mind. “Papà?” Allegra’s voice pulled me back. “Can I bring grandpa the drawing I made?” “Of course,” I said quietly, “He’ll love it.

Alessia ─ ∘❉∘ ─ I sat there, watching the coffin sink into the ground like it was swallowing her whole. My hands shook, but I didn’t dare let go of Silvio. He was curled against me, small and exhausted, his face buried in my coat. He’d cried until his little body gave up, until the only thing left in him was silence. Isabella. She was gone. Dead. Just like that. She fell down the stairs. My best friend was gone, she fell down the fucking stairs and now she was in a box six feet under, while the rest of us stood around pretending the world hadn’t just gone completely to hell. My throat burned, but I wouldn’t cry. Crying felt too easy, too small for what this was. Anger sat heavier in my chest anyway. I wanted to scream at someone, at God, at fate, at whoever decided she’d had enough time here. Six boys. She had six sons. And God took her like it was some kind of test. As if her pain wasn’t enough already. I stared at the priest mumbling his verses, talking about merc

Antonio ⊶⊷⊶⊷ My lungs burned as I pressed a kiss hard against Luna's slick forehead. She went limp, melting onto my chest. This was the ritual. This was the apology for shouting death threats at her hours ago. I didn't regret the threat. When she tried to clip Allegra's wings, to mold her into some meek, obedient little girl, the darkness inside me roared. Allegra is mine. Luna needed to be reminded of her place, needed that fear in her eyes to settle her down. But I knew the cost of letting her stew. An angry Luna meant a cold house, a tense dinner table. I bought peace with my body. Keeping her satisfied, tell her that I love her, and soothe her insecurities. My cock was easing up inside her, then she pushed up, resting her knuckles on my jaw, her eyes searching mine in the dim light filtering from the hall. "Look, I'm sorry," I grunted, "I shouldn't have gone there. The way I talked to you, it was out of line," I had to say it, even if I didn't mean the 'sorry' part,

Alessia ─ ∘❉∘ ─ Age 34 | Capone Estate | Chicago, Illinois. Peace lasted exactly forty-three seconds. I know because I counted. I was curled on the couch with a book, pretending I lived a normal life with normal children in a normal house but the second the front gate buzzed, I perked up, that sound only meant one thing. My boys were home. And God had abandoned me. The door slammed open so hard the wall shook, and Vince walked in first, black coat, black boots, black mood. “Hi, sweetheart,” I said. He grunted, leaned down and kissed the top of my head. Lovely. Right behind him, Adriano practically skipped into the house. Skipped. A twenty-one-year-old psychopath with a knife tucked behind his ear like a pencil. “Alessia baby!” he yelled, arms wide, grin wide, pupils concerningly wide, “Tell me you missed me.” “I miss peace,” I said. “Same thing.” Then he flopped onto the opposite couch, landing upside-down with his legs hanging over the backrest like