Promised To The Don: The Runaway Mafia Princess novel Chapter 13

Alessia

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The house was asleep or at least, asleep enough for no one to notice me slipping out barefoot, silk robe whispering around my ankles, diamond anklet catching the moonlight.

I moved down the marble staircase, careful not to let the heel of my foot click against the steps. Mama said good girls didn’t sneak out of their rooms at night.

I wasn’t in the mood to be a good girl.

The garage sat at the back of the estate, humming faintly from the motion sensors and whatever else Papa had installed in there. I paused outside the side entrance, pressing my palm against the keypad. It beeped obediently, the lock hissed open.

And there he was.

Antonio.

Bent over the hood of one of Papa’s classic Maserati, forearms flexed, sweat clinging to the back of his neck. A tool clenched in one hand. His shirt was long gone, just a white ribbed tank stretched across his back and shoulders, stained with grease and heat.

He didn’t look up when I stepped in, even though I knew he heard me.

“You missed a spot,” I said casually, my voice echoed slightly against the high ceiling.

His head tilted, and his eyes flicked to me from under those thick lashes. The kind of look men give women when they’re trying not to look at all.

“I’m working,” he said, voice flat.

“I can see that,” I replied. I circled the car, trailing my fingers along the glossy fender like I was tracing a lover’s jaw, “Is that why you’re half-dressed and sweating like a sinner in church?”

He straightened slightly, wiping his hands on a rag, jaw tight, “You’re not supposed to be down here.”

“I know,” I said, stepping closer, “That’s half the fun.”

He didn’t move as I came around the hood, closer now, eyes drinking him in under the dim overhead light. Grease on his knuckles. A cut on his bicep. Neck glistening. Sweat slicked the line of his throat, catching against the ridges of muscle. He smelled of steel, oil, and something undeniably male that made my stomach dip and my pulse trip.

“This is papà’s favorite car, isn’t it?” I asked, peering into the engine like I had any idea what I was looking at.

“Maserati Ghibli. ’67. He won it off a Russian in Monaco,” his voice was even as if reciting a fact he didn’t much care about.

“Mmm,” my hum lingered in the air, “And you know how to fix it?”

His eyes flicked up, then back down, “That’s why I’m here.”

I rested my hip against the car, robe parting slightly at my thigh. His eyes dropped but I caught it. He caught me catching it and I smiled.

I leaned in closer, trailing my fingers across the edge of the hood until I was just inches from him. The faint rasp of metal beneath my nails almost echoed.

“Careful,” he said finally, “You’ll scratch it.”

I tilted my head, eyes fixed on his. “What—this?” My fingertip tapped lightly against the steel, but it was his restraint I was testing, not the Maserati’s paint.

His breath had gone shallow, chest rising faster now, tight beneath the ribbed tank, “You’re the Don’s daughter,” he gritted out, like he needed to remind himself more than me.

“And you’re the man I handpicked to replace my old bodyguard,” I whispered back, lifting my hand to brush a damp strand of hair from his forehead. My fingertips lingered just long enough to make his jaw clench. “That makes me your boss. Doesn’t it?”

His jaw clenched, “Stop.”

I smiled, stepped even closer, “Make me.”

That’s when he moved, just a step back, just enough to put distance between us, “You shouldn’t be down here,” he said, “You shouldn’t be dressed like that. You shouldn’t look at me like that.”

I tilted my head, watching him with the same expression I used when Mama tried to make me wear pearls I hated, “I can do whatever I want.”

His jaw clenched again then he grabbed the rag again, turned away, and went back to fixing the car, his back stiff, shoulders tense like he was trying to chain himself to the engine block.

He didn’t look at me, didn’t even flinch when I sighed dramatically and stretched my arms above my head, The robe slipped higher, silk sliding against my skin, baring just enough upper thighs to make it impossible not to notice.

“You work so hard,” I murmured, lazy and sweet, like I was praising a child. My fingers trailed down the hood again, nails tapping a soft rhythm, “Papa should give you a raise… or at least a shirt.”

“A shirt won’t stop you,” he muttered, “You’d only find another way to test me.”

I let a slow smile curl across my lips, “Tell me something, Antonio, do you always get this tense when a girl flirts with you, or is it just me?”

He stayed maddeningly still, at first, his grip on the wrench tightened.

Finally, he said, “I’m not used to girls like you.”

I feigned innocence, eyes wide. “Like me? You’ll have to be more specific. Do you mean reckless, trapped, powerless, or devastatingly beautiful?”

His gaze flicked to mine, “Untouchable.”

That stopped me for a second.

I stepped closer, leaned against the hood right beside him, then I took his hand slick with grease and guided it gently over the curve of my bare thigh.

“See,” I whispered, “Not untouchable.”

His hand twitched against my thigh. He just stared at where our skin met, his knuckles dusted with oil, my leg smooth and bare and then he pulled his hand away slowly, like it cost him something.

“Well, fuck… what the fuck do we have here?”

We both jolted apart like we’d been caught committing treason. It was one of the guards. He was broad-shouldered, crooked nose, eyes like a crow. He stood in the doorway, chewing on a toothpick as he looked between us.

I straightened instinctively, tugging my robe closed. Antonio didn't look like he cared as he wiped his hands on a rag.

“You got some balls, grease monkey,” he said, eyeing Antonio with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Touching the principessa like that. Don’t know whether to be impressed or start digging you a shallow grave.”

“Nothing happened,” Antonio said coolly, standing straighter now, “Get back to your post.”

He laughed, “That’s what they all say. Until the Don’s got your arms nailed to a tree and your balls hanging from a flagpole.”

I swallowed hard and he looked at me then, “You all right, Signorina?” he asked mockingly. “Need me to remind the hired help what off-limits means?”

Antonio stepped forward before I could answer, “One more word and I’ll snap your jaw.

“You gonna swing on me for doing my job?” he drawled, “Protecting the Capone princess from the sewer rat sniffin’ under her royal cunt?”

Antonio gritted his teeth, “Call me a rat again.”

The guard raised both hands, smirking. “Hey, no skin off my nose. Let me guess, she’s been spreading those tight little legs for you in secret, huh? Don Capone finds out his precious baby girl is getting fingered by some broke-ass Sicilian mechanic? He’ll take you apart slow. He’ll start with the fingers you used on her. Then the tongue. Then your cock, if he’s feeling thorough.”

I felt sick, hot and cold all at once like the walls of the garage had shrunk and the air was poisoned.

My body went completely cold.

“What’s it going to take?” I asked quietly, “To keep your mouth shut?”

He let out a slow, filthy whistle, his eyes crawling over me, “Now that’s the kind of question I like hearing from a pretty mouth.”

“Alessia, stay out of it,” Antonio warned me.

My fingers curled at my sides, but I didn’t let my face change.

“I can get you money...” I said, “Name a number. I’ll make it happen.”

He chuckled, “Money’s nice but that ain’t what I’m hungry for tonight. What I want—” he took a step closer, “—is maybe a little taste of what he’s getting.”

Antonio moved, subtlely. I saw his fingers tighten around the wrench, knuckles pale under the smear of oil, metal groaning faintly in his hand. The guard kept talking obliviously.

“Just a feel. One hand up that little skirt, maybe a taste if you’re sweet. No one has to know. I walk outta here, forget I saw lover boy here finger-fucking the Don’s daughter in the grease pit.”

I stepped back instinctively, robe slipping further, heart banging against my ribs.

“You don’t want to say that again,” Antonio said lowly.

But the guard only laughed, “Oh, I think I do.”

Antonio’s arm snapped forward, and then the wrench came down with a sickening crunch.

I saw it the second it happened, the blur of Antonio’s arm, the sickening crunch when the wrench met cheekbone. Skin split like wet fruit. Blood sprayed across the hood of the car. The guard didn’t even have time to scream. His knees buckled, his body sagging to the concrete but Antonio didn’t stop. He brought the wrench down again and again. The clang of metal on skull echoed off the walls. By the tenth blow, there was no face left, just pulp. Bone and teeth embedded in oil-slick concrete.

And still, Antonio kept swinging.

“Stop!” The word tore out of me, I didn’t even know who I was begging for, him, or the ruined thing on the floor.

But my voice slid right past him, like it didn’t exist.

“Antonio, stop!” I screamed again, louder this time.

At last, the wrench froze midair. He stood there, trembling with breath, chest heaving under the ribbed tank, the once-white fabric painted in arterial red. Blood slicked his forearms, dripping down to the floor in heavy drops.

The wrench slipped from his fingers and hit the ground with a dull clang. He looked at me, his eyes were cold and his voice was darker than I’d ever heard it.

I swallowed hard, the taste of metal on my tongue, and edged back a step. His eyes cut to the movement instantly, and for a heartbeat something dark flickered there before he dragged in a breath.

“You need to leave,” he gritted through his teeth.

“Antonio—”

“I said go, Alessia!”

I didn’t argue again.

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