Promised To The Don: The Runaway Mafia Princess novel Chapter 10

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 elegance. My mother called it dignity. Isabella called it survival. I wore it like death.

Inside, the maître d’ gave a slight nod and ushered me toward the private terrace table, half-screened by planters, just enough to suggest privacy without granting it. Just the way Salvatore liked it.

Rino wasn’t here yet.

I hated being the one who waited.

My guards took position near the entrance, Antonio stood closest to me, just far enough to follow protocol, but close enough that Rino would feel it the moment he stepped through the door.

And he always did.

It never failed to sour his mood.

Which made it all the more satisfying.

Antonio stepped behind me, hands gliding up to my shoulders. He slipped the coat from my arms slowly, fingers brushing bare skin with a featherlight touch that sent a shiver dancing down my spine.

Our eyes didn’t meet, it was just the flick of his gaze in the window’s reflection as he draped the coat over his arm, his jaw clenched like he’d bitten back a thought.

Then, without a word, he pulled out my chair. His hand brushed the small of my back as I moved to sit, a fleeting touch, but I felt it all the way down my spine.

And then he was gone, back to his post, nothing but a shadow in my periphery.

I sat, ankles crossed, gloved hands folded neatly on the linen like I’d been born knowing how to wait pretty.

The server approached with sparkling water. I gave a single nod, not a word.

Two minutes later, Rino strolled in.

His walk was slower than necessary, exuding entitlement. His jacket was open over a black button-down, his gold chain resting against his collarbone, his hair slicked back just enough to look criminal.

He didn’t come alone, of course.

There was always a girl. Tonight’s was a redhead in a backless dress. She clung to his arm. He didn't even glance at me when he kissed her cheek and whispered something that made her laugh.

Then he peeled her off him, sent her into the bar with a smack to her hip, and walked toward me with that same smile.

“Tesoro,” he drawled, pulling out his chair and settling in, “You look cold.”

“You look diseased,” I replied coolly, sipping my water without meeting his eyes.

He laughed. The bastard had never flinched at anything that came out of my mouth. He got off on the bite in my voice. I’d stopped giving him the satisfaction years ago, but sometimes… sometimes it slipped.

He leaned in slightly, “Jealousy’s ugly on you, Capone.”

“And yet it’s nothing compared to that rash crawling up your neck. You should have your little redhead checked.”

His grin widened, “Mmm, she won’t be little after tonight.”

I gave a slow blink. The kind that cost me nothing and infuriated him to no end. He liked when I cracked, when I flushed or fumbled or gave him heat.

He got nothing now.

I folded my napkin onto my lap. “Don’t get comfortable. I won’t be here long.”

He tilted his head, “Salvatore playing leash again?”

“You know the rules.”

He scoffed, “You made the rules.”

“No,” I said softly, cutting him with calm. “You did. Three years ago. Over a couch.”

His smile fell, the memory flashed over his face and he looked away first.

The waiter arrived. Rino didn’t order. He never did first. He liked to sit there, watching me. Measuring every pause, every word, every breath. A control thing. It always was.

Only once I’d finished, he leaned forward and give his order. Then, as always, he added, “Whatever the strongest thing you’ve got. Neat.”

The waiter left, leaving us alone and for a heartbeat, my gaze drifted to Antonio, still standing near the entrance, and he was already looking at me.

I turned back to Rino before it could mean anything and before Rino could see it.

“You should be grateful,” I murmured, “Salvatore could’ve annulled the engagement entirely. Instead, he set terms.”

“Terms?” Rino’s voice dropped into something darker. “You mean a cage.”

“You earned the bars.”

“You ran to your sister-in-law like a tattling little girl.”

I smiled. A slow, aristocratic curl of the lips. “I ran to Isabella because I was fourteen with bruises on my arms. And she, unlike you, understands limits.”

He said nothing, the silence was louder than any scream he could’ve thrown across the table.

“Do you know what she told Salvatore?” I asked sweetly, “That you ‘handled me like a whore, not a future wife.’ That you needed reminding I’m a Capone.”

His jaw ticked.

“Isabella wanted you dead. Salvatore settled for this. From now until the wedding day, you and I are never alone. Public places only with supervised dates.”

Rino didn’t speak for a long time after that.

He just sat there, his fingers tapped against the glass of untouched Barolo. He wasn’t used to being spoken to like that, but he knows he can't control me just yet.

The waiter returned with our starters, insalata caprese for me, and something red, rare, and still bleeding for him. I ate in silence, each bite mechanical, the minutes dragging like hours.

I’d learned not to speak too much during these so-called dates. Polite nods. Short answers. No fire, no spark, nothing for him to latch onto.

I thought if I bored him enough, he’d let go.

But Rino Lombardi wasn’t the kind of man who lost interest.

Especially not in me.

I couldn’t wait for this dinner to end, so I could return home, wash the scent of him off my skin, and forget he existed for a few blessed months.

Then, finally, he cleared his throat. “My father wants to make a move on the northwest docks.”

I didn’t respond right away. I cut into my mozzarella slowly.

When I finally looked up, my tone was detached, “Does Salvatore know?”

“He will,” Rino sipped his wine, watching me over the rim, “The Albani crew’s weak. Their capodecina got locked up last week. It’s open season.”

“How bold of you to announce your future plans for violence over antipasti.”

“I’m trying to include you, tesoro. Business is business.”

“I’m seventeen,” I replied calmly. “Legally, I can’t vote, I can’t drink, and I can’t sign anything you’re discussing.”

“But you’ll be my wife soon,” he said. “So I’m giving you a seat at the table early.”

I raised an eyebrow, tilting my head slightly. “You don’t even know what I think about Albani.”

“I don’t care what you think about Albani,” he said bluntly. “I care that you hear my voice when someone else brings it up. That you remember I told you first. That I don’t want you to be mindless or opinionless in our marriage. I want you to have a voice.”

My smile didn’t reach my eyes, “How generous of you. I suppose next you’ll let me breathe on my own.”

He sat back, his shirt collar open just enough to reveal that gold chain, always glinting.

His mouth twitched, “Don’t pretend you don’t like power, Alessia. You were raised in a house full of it. You know how it works. You know what it feels like.”

“I know what it feels like to have it taken away.”

He leaned forward again, elbows on the table, “Then take it back.”

My fork paused midway to my mouth.

“Use me,” he said simply. “You’ve been trying to survive this thing. I’m telling you to own it. The Capone name means something here. But the Lombardi name? That’s old blood. Old power. You could use both.”

“I could burn both,” I said flatly.

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