Novel & Cerita Clyde Donovan

“Claire was the hand.” I could feel the narrative forming even as she spoke it. Lyndsey as the manipulated daughter. Mother as the calculating architect. The Donovans as the injured party forced into action. Parts of it were true. Parts of it were convenient. Untangling the two in any public space would be impossible. “Mrs. Donovan—” “I don’t care about the law.” The interruption slid over my words so smoothly it almost didn’t register. “Courts are slow,” she continued calmly. “Public. Messy. I have no interest in them.”

Armando immediately got down to business as he grabbed a chair and sat comfortably on it, with one leg above the other. "Well, Armando. I don't think we should get ahead of ourselves because you see... I don't NEED you. I could do whatever I want and no one can stop me." Donovan sneered, finally revealing his disgusting smirk. "Donovan Mitchell, you fucking need me. You desperate pedophile. "Hmph, I guess the rumors about your insolent nature are true. You know you are much too young to be that way, though. It might lead to you meeting your elderly ones on the other side." Donovan began.

Donovan growled lowly as he walked into the office through the back door which was also known as the Vip entrance. After waiting in the VIP preparatory room for some minutes, he was invited out by the host. “I have here with me, Donovan Rolland. One of the most brilliant young men who rose to riches by working hard and smart. He has been ranked as one of the youngest and richest men in the world by Forbes. He is also the pride of America all over the world.” The host announced with a bright smile on her face.

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.

"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.”

he asks, noticing my expression. “What the hell, dude? You made this sound easy. I have to get a physical and STI tests?” “The initial screening’s long, but once you’re in, it’s easy money,” he explains. “Fine.” I huff, turning back to the forms. I fill them out bit by bit. Glancing at Glen, I see him flipping through nude magazines on the coffee table. “You make decent money at the club, right? So why donate sperm?” I ask. “Unlike you, I like the idea of little Glens running around—continuing the bloodline.”

Sofia turned to see a tall, imposing woman with close-cropped silver hair standing outside, an amused smirk on her face. "If you two lovebirds are quite finished," the woman said, her voice dry, "we've got work to do." Luca chuckled, shaking his head as he opened his door. "Sofia," he said, "meet Vivian Blackwood. Former CIA operative, current information broker, and the closest thing I have to a fairy godmother." As Sofia stepped out of the car, she felt a mix of anticipation and trepidation. They were about to dive headfirst into a world of danger and intrigue, with no guarantee of success or survival.

To that, a dangerous smirk tugged at the sides of Ferrara's lips, and he equally leaned forward, his head almost meeting mine, "No, baby. The question is, what places do they not open? Your father was dealing with something...shady before he...died,and my investigation shows that Don Boris was helping him with it." At the mention of that name, my heart skipped a tad bit. Don Boris Ivanknov, the old man that my late father had practically wanted to sell me to. Unconsciously, my fingers dug into my palms, going deep till a wince slipped from my lips. Ferrara quickly reached out over the table and released my hands, an expression of intense worry in his eyes. "My apologies, baby. I didn't mean

"A Don playing dirt-poor with me. Was it fun?" He smiled and reached for my hand like nothing had happened. "Hey. Being the Don of the Ferro Family, it's not that big a deal." But there was pride at the corner of his mouth. I stepped back, out of reach. "So the bet with Vivian — that's why you put on this act for three years?" "You've got the talent. Why not head to Hollywood with her?" Finally, the careless mask slipped. His brow tightened. "Don't get the wrong idea. The bet was just whether you'd believe this ring came from a sweepstakes."