Novel & Cerita Doña Paloma

Dell got me invited here, he works with the FBI, so he has connections and given I am a photographer, with a desperate need of help from the FBI, I was the perfect candidate for this mission. “That’s him,” he whispers, nodding towards a tall figure across the room. “Alessandro Romano. He is the Don of the Romano Mafia family, now is your time. You need to get him alone Renée. Away from his bodyguards,” I swallow hard, my heart pounding even faster. I am kind of a little surprised that he looks young, when I was told I would be approaching the don of the Romano mafia group I thought he would be someone older, but he isn’t, I guess that’s why they had me do this.

After Alexander left with Elena, he vanished for a full week. For that entire week, the rumor mill in Sicily’s underworld was buzzing. They said the Don had taken his beloved new mistress to the high seas for the annual yacht party, and that she would soon be the new donna. My phone kept buzzing with private photos sent by Elena. The first was of her sunbathing on the deck of a luxury yacht, wearing a barely-there bikini. The caption read: [The Don says only the ocean blue matches my eyes.]

Cesare delivered my dinner through the small window in the door right on schedule. Just as he was about to leave, I called out softly, "Cesare!" He seemed to know what I was going to say and answered without hesitation. "Signorina Diamante, Don Ricci is not at the manor today." "It seems Gianna has given you plenty of incentive, but if I die, do you think Fiorenzo won't take his anger out on you?" Then I broke the porcelain plate and slashed at my wrist. Blood poured out, dripping onto the expensive handwoven wool carpet.

She said, giving me a puppy eye. Cassandra loved the money and would do anything for it as long as she got your consent of course. She would never force her lust for money on you but she does hint at it. “You've got a nice body. And a nice ass.” I let out a small chuckle, twirling a bit for her to see. “Sorry Sandy. You know better than anyone. I'm not here for the money, just the life. Love you.” I left her there, moving from table to table, weaving through swaying bodies and spilled drinks. My phone buzzed in my apron pocket, but when I glanced at the screen, it was just a message from my best friend, Alina: Don’t get into trouble tonight.

The day the Thorne family announced our engagement, the New York underworld let out a collective sigh of relief. Because I was set to marry Daemon, the most straitlaced Don in the city, which meant I could no longer be the wild rose who tore up the racetrack. But I resisted with every fiber of my being, finding creative ways to test his limits. During his ten-million-dollar card game with a rival family's Capo, my hand "slipped" and sent a bottle of 1945 Romanee-Conti spilling across the ancient map that outlined their territories, sabotaging the entire negotiation.

He said as he walked towards the door. "And I am Carlos, why don't you sleep food will be brought to you soon" he said and walked out the door, she felt light headed all of a sudden and knew something was it the water he gave her. A shaky exhale escaped her. Her stomach turned. The room began to blur. She swayed, blackness tugged on her subconscious, and then it dragged her all the way under. Later in the Don's office Carlos walked in and saw Marco busy with some work as usual, his friend was such a workaholic, he thought. He did not look up when Carlos entered so he sat down at the edge of Marco's table and said.

he announced, his voice devoid of emotion. Baron’s gaze never wavered, his eyes fixed on Marco with an unblinking stare. "Did you get the information about the lamb?" he asked, his voice low and menacing. Marco nodded, his movements stiff and mechanical. yes, my lord…She's called Aurelia Montez." The baron's expression darkened, his eyes narrowing as if the mere mention of her name was a personal affront. "Aurelia," he repeated, his voice dripping with disdain. "Tell me more."

She hummed softly, like she already knew the answer. Her fingers wrapped around her own cup but she didn’t drink. Just watched the steam rise. “Frank?” she asked gently. I took another sip of the tea. This time I actually tasted it. Chamomile. Honey. Sweet. Too sweet. “He had business,” I said. Rosabella nodded slowly. Like that confirmed something she’d already been thinking. Silence stretched between us. Rosabella leaned back in her chair. Her gaze lingered on me a moment longer than necessary.

I'm sure Wilbet had her sign an NDA because the number of times she had covered up bruises with makeup would make any ordinary makeup artist worry. We finally entered the main area of the gala, and just as I had predicted, it looked boring and gloomy. Numerous men and women shook hands with Wilbet while I smiled and nodded, answering the occasional polite question thrown my way. This was exactly what Wilbet wanted—a docile wife who did as she was told and didn’t talk too much. As we made our way to our assigned seats, a woman approached us. A very beautiful woman. Emile. The daughter of the French president and—more importantly—Wilbet’s former lover.