The Don Lost His Love
I looked up, my gaze cutting through the crowd to land on a face so gaunt and haggard it was barely recognizable.
It was Damian.
He’d done it. He’d burned every favor and used every dark contact in the underworld to cross the Atlantic and hunt down a classified meeting.
He stood in the doorway, chest heaving, his eyes a roadmap of broken red veins. The Great Don of New York looked like a beggar, his eyes filled with a plea that crawled in the dirt.
Security moved to intercept him, but he stood there like a hollowed-out puppet, staring at me, his breath hitching.