Novelas y relatos de Donovan

He looked terrible. Unshaven. Bloodshot eyes. Wrinkled suit. The once‑powerful Don now looked like a homeless man. “Valentina,” he said. His voice was barely there. I glanced up. Then back at my papers. “Please sit, Don De Luca,” Vincent said, gesturing to the chair across from me. Alessandro didn’t sit. He walked straight to me. “Valentina. I need to talk to you. Alone.” “There’s nothing to talk about. Please sit. Let’s begin.”

He paused, looking directly into my eyes with intense curiosity. "Whose babe are you?" Gabriel asked softly. "Tell me, and I will tell you his secrets." He seemed to know a lot about lords and dangerous men in town—far more than any ordinary guy sitting at a bar ought to know. The way he spoke about Andrew and Jack was too casual, too experienced. "I do not belong to any of them!" I replied sharply, lifting my chin high, trying desperately to hold onto my dignity. "I am an independent woman, an attorney, and I don't belong to any mafia lord!"

Olivia felt the sudden, crushing weight of their collective scrutiny, but the solid pressure of Salvatore’s palm pressed securely against the small of her back kept her upright. “Salvatore,” a raspy, gravelly voice hailed from the far side of the room. An older man with thick silver hair, wearing a custom navy suit and holding a crystal glass of bourbon, stepped forward. Don Carmine Moretti moved with the slow, heavy confidence of a man who had survived forty years in a lethal business. His sharp blue eyes swept over Olivia, lingering on the diamond collar around her neck before rising to meet Salvatore’s unblinking gaze. “Carmine,” Salvatore acknowledged, bowing his head slightly in a gestu

How could Donovan be so mean? She heard sure footsteps and rushed to her feet, her heart pounding as the door was opened to reveal Donovan. She observed Donovan's curly hair, now longer and more pronounced, triggering memories of his past cruelty when he bullied her as a child. But this time, he stood before her as an adult, his hair lending him an air of rugged allure rather than innocence. It no longer softened his features; instead, it accentuated his confident demeanor, transforming him into a figure of unsettling allure, like a wealthy male model untouched by the burdens of the world.

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.

Wilbet hated the sight of my tears. Forcing myself to breathe, I shook my head. "That is Malcolm Laurent," he scoffed, as if the name irritated him. "A very powerful man. Some say he has affiliates with the Mafia, and you were standing there chatting with him like a damn fool." I curled my fingers into my palm, feeling my nails dig into the flesh there. Wilbet turned to me harshly, grabbing my face. "Tell me, dear wife, did you embarrass me?" I knew "embarrass" was code for Did you tell him I hit you?

“You can’t just decide that for me. I-I have a life…” Roman’s eyes narrowed, and for the first time, I felt the true weight of who he was. This wasn’t just my brother’s best friend. This was someone powerful, feared… I didn't know who exactly but even though I've been trying to fool myself, it was obvious now. He was a dangerous man. “You have no life outside of this now,” he said quietly. “The men who killed Viktor…they will come for you. You carry his blood. His name. If you walk away, you die.”

The door swung open. Donovan stood there. Relief, so profound it was dizzying, washed over me. Donovan, Ronan’s head of household. A mountain of a man with a shaved head and a permanent, stern frown. He was dressed not in Lancaster black, but in dark, tactical gear streaked with dirt. In his hand was a combat knife, its tip dark. “Donovan,” I breathed.

“I just stepped out.” “Tell that—” He halts, glancing around nervously before lowering his voice to a harsh whisper. “Tell that to the Don. I swear, every day I spend in this house I come closer to losing my head.” “He’s just mad that I’m not the obedient servant he wants me to be,” I say. This just confirms my thoughts. He’s spiraling because his doll decided to show a little autonomy. Kane sighs, shaking his head. “Believe what you want to believe, but no one goes this over the top for a servant. The Don wants to see you. Now.”

Six men in black surrounded us, silenced pistols raised. Damon moved like lightning, shoving Bianca behind him. His other hand went to his waist, only to find the holster empty. For the first time, I saw shock on his face. "Looking for this, Damon Vitale?" the leader's voice was a low growl. He held up Damon's gun. I knew that voice. Viktor. Old man Kozlov's son. The East Side's biggest psycho. Damon’s gaze snapped to Bianca, his eyes sharp with suspicion and cold fury.