All Chapters of Promised to The Don: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

Riley POV“Spar with me,” he says.At first, I think he’s joking. How could I take him seriously? I had only come to deliver food not to fight him. For a second, I just stare at him, waiting for the smirk to break into a laugh.It doesn’t.“What?” I ask, because surely I misunderstood.“I promise I’ll go easy on you.” His mouth curves, but there’s nothing warm about the expression. It’s the kind of smile meant for an audience.And there is an audience.Men have already started slowing their training. A few outright stop. Someone nudges another. The attention builds like static in the air.This isn’t casual anymore, it is a show.“O… okay,” I hear myself say, even though every instinct is telling me something is wrong.I pass the lunch box to Chris. He hesitates before taking it, his brows drawing together, like he wants to object. Like he knows this is a bad idea.But he steps back. Because Matteo is still Matteo.Because this is still supposed to be harmless.I walk onto the mat.Th

Lorenzo POVThe shipment arrives just before dusk, which is exactly how I like it.There is something honest about work done in that thin hour between day and night, ironic I know, when the world is undecided and people are tired enough to make mistakes. Mistakes are useful, they reveal loyalty, competence, fear. And tonight, I want to see all three.The warehouse sits near the docks, a slab of concrete and steel that looks abandoned to anyone passing by. No signs. No markings. Just another forgotten building in a city full of them. Inside, however, it runs like a well oiled machine. Lights hum overhead. Pallets are stacked in clean, measured rows, my men move with purpose, not chatter. No one wastes energy speaking unless necessary. Maybe it’s because I am here, I don’t know.Enzo walks beside me, tablet in hand, already reciting numbers before I ask.“Forty-two crates total. Six delayed at customs, but our contact confirmed release by morning. Inventory matches the manifest.”“I

Riley POVI pull up at the house after my run. Lorenzo had been avoiding me for the past few days. I don’t blame him but a part of me despises him for it. The part that thought we were friends.I find Giana sitting on my bed after my shower.“Let’s go out.” She says simply crossing her legs.“Go out?” I ask stupidly.Like we’re just two girls grabbing coffee instead of the daughter of a powerful Don escorting the woman who may or may not have been in said don's bed with his lips on her neck.“You need to meet them,” she says, standing and moving to my doorway with her arms crossed. “They keep asking about you.” She says as if I understand what she is talking about.“That doesn’t sound reassuring.” I mutter. “Who pray tell wants to meet me?” I ask.“Just some women from the mafia.” She says shrugging.“Great.” I grumble.She rolls her eyes. “Relax. They’re not going to bite.”I don’t point out that in this world, biting is the least of anyone’s problems.An hour later we’re sitting

Riley POV My laptop screen glows softly in front of me, the lecturer’s voice echoing through my headphones while a slideshow about spatial harmony moves slowly from one slide to the next. Normally I would be taking notes, sketching small ideas in the margins of my notebook the way I always do, but today my attention keeps drifting to the open window beside my desk. A cool breeze slips into the room and carries the distant sounds of the estate voices, the faint hum of cars passing the gates, birds somewhere in the trees.“Balance in interior composition,” the professor says through my headphones, “is not just visual symmetry. It’s about emotional weight inside a space.”I stare at the slide showing a perfectly arranged living room and wonder if the professor has ever stepped foot inside a mafia estate where half the rooms feel like museums and the other half look like interrogation chambers. With guns all over the place like ornaments on Christmas.My pencil moves lazily across the pa

Lorenzo POVThe arena is louder than usual tonight. Or maybe I simply notice it more.The noise rolls through the warehouse like a living thing thousands of voices crashing together, fists hitting metal railings, money exchanging hands, the crowd hungry for blood. It is a familiar environment, one I built and perfected over the years. Every shout, every bet, every brutal exchange in the Ring below feeds the machine that keeps my empire running.Usually I watch. Tonight I cannot really sit still.My fingers drum slowly against the arm of the chair as I stare down at the Ring. The mat is already stained from the previous fights, a dark smear of blood across the centre where Matteo collapsed earlier. The crowd loved it. They always do when the heir to the family bleeds.I endured the same thing when I was way younger. A form of punishment, courtesy of my dad. It is a rite of passage and it shows strength.But what they do not understand is that tonight the wrong thing is bleeding insid