Half a Lifetime Later—My Mafia Princess is Finally Mine

- Fearless little bitch.

Rino

─𖤝─

Age 16 | Poolside, Lombardi Estate, Liguria

I leaned back on the lounge chair, sunglasses half-down my nose, bottle of beer sweating between my fingers, water glinting behind me.

Fabio flicked his cigarette over the edge of the stone and whistled low. “You’re in a good mood, Lombardi. What’d you do this time, steal another priest’s daughter?”

I smirked, “Worse.”

Gerardo, already half-drunk and burned to hell, leaned forward. “You get laid again?”

“Not yet.” I took a long pull from the bottle, “But my parents found me a bride.”

The boys went dead quiet for half a beat. Then fucking chaos.

“No fucking way.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re joking, an arranged marriage?”

I let the corner of my mouth twitch into that grin they all hated.

“They want an American,” I said, “Capone blood. Chicago Outfit royalty.”

Gerardo nearly choked, “The Capones? You’re not serious.”

“Don Arturo is very serious,” I said, pulling my sunglasses off and tossing them onto the table beside me. “Apparently he wants a foothold in America. And the Capones are the golden ticket. You want to smuggle money, run ships, guns, girls, whatever, the Outfit gives you the runway. We give them old-world power, they give us new-world muscle.”

Fabio shook his head, “Jesus. You’re not even out of school and they’re tying you to an empire.”

“I was born tied to it,” I muttered, flicking ash off my cigarillo. “They’re just making it legal now.”

Gerardo grinned. “What’s she like? The girl?”

I stretched, arms up behind my head, every muscle flexing slow under the sun, “She’s fourteen.”

Fabio muttered, “Holy shit.”

I shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I didn’t pick her. My mother did.”

“Is she hot at least?”

“Oh, she’s Capone hot,” I said, dragging the words. “Glossy little thing. Italian-American princess. Big brown eyes, smart mouth.”

“She coming today?”

“She’s invited.” I grinned. “And her mother will make her come. Marcella Capone wants me to look at her daughter like she’s priceless.”

“And will you?” Gabriele asked.

I smiled darkly. “Only if she makes it interesting.”

They laughed.

“She gonna swim?” Fabio smirked. “You think she’ll wear something innocent or—?”

“She’ll pretend it’s innocent,” I said, dragging my gaze toward the garden path that wound around to the pool gate. “Maybe, a pretty little one-piece. A look her mother picked out for me.”

“And you?” Gabriele asked, grinning. “What’ll you do?”

I grinned back, “I’ll stare until she blushes. Maybe offer her a drink. Maybe drop something into the pool and ask her to get it.”

Fabio cackled. “You’re an asshole.”

“She’s fourteen,” Gerardo said again, half-laughing.

“She’ll be legal in a few years,” I said. “And mine for a lifetime.”

They both stared.

“Damn,” Fabio said. “You sound like you already own her.”

I leaned back, lifting the beer to my lips. “I will.”

I was halfway through my second beer and halfway bored of pretending to give a shit about Fabio's story about crashing his uncle’s Porsche when I heard the click of heels on stone.

I looked up and there she was. Alessia Capone.

Her mother was walking beside her. One hand rested on her daughter’s lower back, steering her like a racehorse being shown off before auction.

And Alessia looked pissed.

She wore a white bikini. Clean-cut and modest enough to be mother-approved, but clingy enough to turn heads. Her skin glowed like she’d never known work, only moisturizers and expensive oils. Her dark hair was braided tight over one shoulder, and her sunglasses were way too big for her face.

“Well, well,” I murmured, setting my bottle down and standing slowly. “Look what the sea dragged in.”

The boys turned, followed my gaze, and immediately started whispering. I heard Fabio murmur “Holy shit,” and Gerardo mutter something about American girls being built different.

I walked forward

She didn’t see me at first, she was too busy pretending to look everywhere but at the pool. And when Marcella nudged her toward the sunbeds, she finally turned and saw me.

And her whole body locked up.

We were three feet apart. Four, maybe. Close enough for her to smell the cologne I’d stolen from my father’s bathroom. Close enough for me to see the red blooming at the tips of her ears.

“Well, if it isn’t my American bride,” I said, drawing out the last word.

“I’m not your anything,” she snapped.

Oh yeah.

I liked her.

Marcella gave her a gentle warning pinch at the waist, “Alessia.”

But I held up a hand. “Let her talk, Signora. I like a little fight.”

She opened her mouth to say something else but Mamma’s arrival made her shut her mouth.

“Elisabetta,” Marcella greeted, fake kiss on each cheek. “She was so excited to come.”

I almost choked. Excited? Alessia looked like she wanted to push me in the pool and drown me.

“Get her a drink,” Mamma said, flicking her hand like I was a waiter. “Make her feel welcome.”

I smiled, still watching Alessia.

“Oh, I plan to.”

She sat on the edge of the sunbed like she was in church, knees crossed, arms folded, not speaking unless spoken to and even then, only with monosyllables.

Fabio offered her a drink. She declined.

Gerardo cracked a joke. She ignored it.

Princess Capone, so perfectly stiff like if she made one wrong move, the whole performance would shatter and expose her for what she was, a girl trapped in a game she didn’t agree to play.

I got bored of it pretty fast.

So I waited.

Waited until her mother got distracted chatting with my mother. Waited until the conversation turned toward politics, power, property, all the things that bored little girls to death.

That’s when she stood up.

Too hot. Too proud to ask to go inside. So she walked toward the far edge of the pool, like she needed to breathe something her mother hadn’t pre-approved.

And I followed quietly, barefoot. She didn’t hear me. She didn’t see me until I was right behind her, just as she reached the ledge where the tiles dipped into the water.

I smiled, “Nice view, Capone.”

She jumped, spun around so fast her braid hit her in the face.

“What do you want?” she snapped, scowling.

“I want you wet...”

“What?”

And then I nudged her, just the lightest press of two fingers on her shoulder because she was already near the edge. And she went down, straight into the deep end with a loud splash.

I took a step back, grinning as water exploded up around her, soaking the tile, hitting my ankles.

Fabio saw it first. “Oh shit—”

Gerardo broke into laughter then all of us were laughing with me being the loudest because she came up sputtering, hair plastered to her face, eyes burning with murder.

The white bikini clung to her. Her braid had come loose.

“Are you stupid?!” she shouted, water dripping down her cheeks like tears she’d never let me see.

I bit back a howl.

“Oh, come on,” I said, smirking down at her. “You looked hot. Thought I’d help you cool off.”

“You’re a bastard!”

“My parents marriage certificate would disagree,” I said, shrugging.

She swam toward the edge, murderous, clawing her way up onto the tile like a girl born to kill kings. I held out a hand. She slapped it away.

The boys were still laughing. Even Marcella had looked over now, though she was trying not to react. Elisabetta just raised an eyebrow.

“You think this is funny?” Alessia spat.

“Very,” I said. “You should see your face.”

She stood there dripping, shaking, and I fell a little bit in love with the way she didn’t cry. She didn’t run. She didn’t scream for her brother or her father or her mother.

She just glared at me with those molten Capone eyes, spine straight, soaked to the bone and unbowed.

And I thought, yeah.

This one’s gonna be fun to break.

“Need a towel, principessa?” I said.

She walked toward me.

I heard Fabio whisper another “Oh shit” under his breath.

Marcella stood, and Mamma narrowed her eyes.

She stopped in front of me, too close. I looked down at her, water still dripping from her lashes. She reached up.

And slapped me across the face.

My head whipped to the side, cheek stinging, sunglasses flying clean off my face and skidding across the tile like they couldn’t believe what had just happened either.

“Don’t you ever touch me again,” she said, loud enough for every Capone and Lombardi to hear.

Then she turned on her heel, braid sticking to her back, wet footprints trailing behind her like a declaration of war.

I ran my tongue across the inside of my cheek, tasting the sharp bite of humiliation and grinned.

I heard my mother hiss my name.

I dragged my fingers slowly over my jaw, tracing the spot where her hand had landed.

It hadn’t even hurt, really. She was fourteen. But the shock of it had detonated something in me I didn’t know I liked.

I couldn’t stop replaying it.

Fearless little bitch.

And now I couldn’t stop staring at the spot she left from.

She didn’t care that I was Rino fucking Lombardi.

She didn’t care that I could end her family’s deal with a single word.

She looked at me like I was dirt.

And now every nerve under my skin felt wired.

What the hell was that?

She humiliated me.

And all I could think was:

Do it again.