Clyde Donovan Novels & Stories

At the age of twenty-seven, Dawn Daniels had everything anyone wanted — women, money and power. His father was an infamous mafia don, and it was no surprise that he would inherit the family business after his father died from a heart attack. There was no other family apart from the old don who refused to remarry after Dawn’s mother passed away from childbirth. However, the young don always saw his subordinates as his family. In particular, his father’s advisor had always been a big brother Dawn never had. Ricardo was the last person Dawn expected to betray him. Yet, reality was constantly disappointing him.

She married him to save her father's life. He married her to settle a debt. Neither of them expected to fall in love. Isabella Romano never wanted this life. She grew up watching her father drown in debts he couldn't repay, surrounded by men who smiled while they threatened. She wanted freedom — a future she chose for herself. Instead, she got a wedding dress, a stranger's ring, and a debt paid in full through her own hand in marriage. Dante Moretti is the coldest don their world has ever feared. He took control of his family's empire at twenty-three and buried his heart alongside the woman he lost. To him, Isabella isn't a wife. She's a payment. A term in a contract he never wanted to

“And screaming is inefficient.” His lips curved faintly, not a smile, but something close. “Do you know who I am?” “I know what you are,” I replied. “Your name is secondary.” That earned me his full attention. He stepped closer, stopping just short of the invisible line most men crossed without thinking. He respected space. That, too, I noted. “Nikolai De Luca,” he said. “Don of the ’Ndrangheta.” I inclined my head slightly. Acknowledgment, not deference.

I wanted to tell my wife not to trust this bastard but how can I when he is their father, I don’t want to come between a new bonding family. “Alfredo, you are back.” Clyde, the club manager, hustles over to our private booth in the corner. “And Sean , my friend, how nice to see you.” Clyde’s shoes squeak against the polished floors as we settle in. His dyed black hair is slicked over his bald patch, and he wears an olive blazer with damp sweat rings under his arms. “Vodka,” Sean tells Clyde. “The good stuff, or I’ll shoot you.”

Donovan teased as I smiled. The stares returned. “Who is that talking to Donovan? She seems important,” someone said. “Yeah. Mr Smith doesn’t associate with just anyone in public. This is a first. Now I’m curious about who she is,” another replied. Donovan Smith was the former senior director of a huge fashion house here in Greenville. Although now retired, his opinions were highly valued and he was still seen as an icon. During his prime, he had won the Avery Contour Award three consecutive times.

Opening the door, I come face to face with Donovan. I barely recognize him, but he still has the same entrancing blue eyes that he did in high school. However, this version of Donovan Montrose is grown up and definitely better looking. At about 6 and a half foot tall, with dirty blonde hair and blue eyes, a completely flawless complexion and a strong jawline, he is picture perfect. Literally like a model who just walked out of GQ. Not to mention, his muscles. He has the physique of a world class athlete.

"Dante, I took you in because you were smart. Don't make me regret that by doing something stupid tonight." I met his eyes. "My father was working toward peace when they burned him alive. Seventeen people, Marco. My mother, my sisters, everyone. You want me to just forget that?" "I want you to be strategic. Revenge without planning is just suicide." He stood up, adjusting his suit jacket. "Tommy goes with you. And you follow Sofia's rules. No weapons in the negotiation room, no violence on her floor." "I know the rules."

Three Years Ago The villa smelled like cigars and old money. My uncle sat at the head of the long marble table, swirling a glass of Barolo like it held answers. I sat across from him, jacket off, sleeves rolled, trying not to look like I was bracing for impact. He didn’t speak for a while. Just watched me. “You’re twenty-eight,” he said finally. “I’m aware.” “You’re the Don.” “Also aware.” He leaned forward. “And you have no heir.”

“Hi, I’m Harriet Stenet, your donor liaison.” Amaija Klein. This is Brin and Zara.” She nods, focusing on me. “So, Ms. Klein, I’d like to jump right in if that’s okay?” “I’m ready to jump,” I say. “Great. Do you have a preference for the donor’s race?” “Race doesn’t matter.” “Age?” “Age doesn’t matter either.” “Education?” “I’m pretty smart, so the kid’s got a good shot with half my DNA,” I say, not wanting to rule out anyone over a fancy degree.