Don Winslow Books Novels & Stories

I kept moving. The east corridor. I walked past the locked door without stopping, but my mind went back to Elena’s journals. Her brother Renato Voss. The “arrangements.” The way she’d begged Dante not to go through with it. Elias Vale was the thread that tied it all together. The one who made the blood money disappear and reappear somewhere clean.

The man who had once stood at the center of the criminal underworld, the man whose name alone made powerful men lower their voices, was now on his knees in the middle of a quiet Swiss street. For a moment neither of us spoke. He looked up at me, and there was no trace left of the cold, untouchable Don I had known. His voice broke when he finally spoke. “Elena… I was wrong.” The confession sounded like it was being dragged out of his chest piece by piece. “I thought loyalty meant repaying debts no matter the cost. I thought responsibility mattered more than everything else.” His breath shook in the cold air. “But all I did was destroy the one person who actually mattered.”

To repay Victor for saving my life, I gave up a brilliant career as one of America's finest neurosurgeons and willingly became his trophy wife. For seven years, Victor lavished money on me and treated me with bone-deep tenderness. Yet his obsessive rules suffocated me. Every other week, I had to subject my scalp to agonizing bleach treatments to keep my hair icy platinum. I had to bathe in a discontinued Venetian white iris perfume. And I had to wear a fake beauty mark at the corner of my right eye. I once mistook it all for the obsessive devotion of a Mafia Don. Then, on the eve of our wedding of the century, I found a wall covered with portraits of another woman. The measurements of my gow

“She was recovering from a fever.” “Sure. And I’m recovering from secondhand embarrassment.” “She smiled.” “Did she smile like ‘yes’ or smile like ‘I’m about to fake my death’?” I didn’t answer. He leaned back, grinning. “This is amazing. The Don of the city, feared by half the continent, brought to his knees by a woman with tea and a fever.” “She’s not just a woman.” “I know. That’s why it’s hilarious.” I stood, walked to the window, and stared out at the skyline.

Darius waved for her to move closer to him seated behind the dark brown and white mahogany desk. “You called for me sir.” Alina said, her tone clipped and formal. She always talked formally to Darius, despite his instructions that she was a special exception. Alina was his goddaughter and he wanted her to treat him more like a father than a boss, which she just couldn’t bring herself to. Darius Andersen was Florida's Mafia Don. The biggest and most feared in America. “I see you've taken care of the senator.” Darius nods towards her dirty self. Not like he particularly cared about appearance. The only thing he cares enough about is that the job gets done. Something Karl couldn't do, apparentl

His calm green eyes lock onto mine, steady and unreadable. They're not searching mine. They don't look like they suspect a thing. The tight feeling in my chest loosens a tad. The relief in my face might have shown a little as Dermos's lips curled into a slight smirk. I don't know what to make of it, and just like that, my anxiety spikes again. The rituals continue, but I am barely present. My eyes drink up the man. I know nothing except that he is the Don of the Italian Mafia. My eyes rake down his body, adorned in a white suit; he has the most innocent-looking face. The way his eyes twinkle didn't fit the description of the ruthless Don I heard so much about.

Aria’s POV Security didn't dare touch the legendary ruthless Don. They let him block the VIP backdoor. "Aria, please!" His eyes were bloodshot. His voice shook wildly. "Even if you give me the death penalty, at least give me a chance to explain. Come see my estate. Just one look." I didn't even look at him. I walked straight to my team's van. "I still have your old dark green notebook!" he suddenly roared. "It has all your early design sketches! Don't you want it?"

Her movements before she came to Italy. I set down the paper. Pick up my wine. Take a slow sip. He is beginning to question. That is dangerous. I have spent years building the narrative — the maid who seduced the Don, the thief who betrayed the family, the woman who killed herself in a fire rather than face the consequences. It is a beautiful story. Clean. Believable. But stories only work if no one looks too closely. Luca is looking. No matter, I tell myself. I have dealt with worse.

ERICA ERICA The morning sun poured through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of my high-rise office, casting a bright, polished glow across my mahogany desk. I was sitting in my leather armchair, nursing a cup of black coffee, trying desperately to focus on a stack of corporate contracts. But my mind kept wandering back to the penthouse, to my mother, to Leo and Lucas playing on the carpet, and to the bitter realization that Andrew’s shadow hung over every single corner of our lives.

“A year? Not even two?” Her eyes widened. “God, Vanya, you truly are more naive than I thought. You know what kind of world you are married into, and your husband is a Don. Men like that practically live in places full of women throwing themselves at them. Naked, willing women, ready to do whatever they want at a flick of their fingers. They spend time in Casinos and clubs, and those places are practically designed for temptation.” My throat tightened, and despite how calm I was listening to her, my heart was racing wildly in my chest at the thought of what she was saying.