The Night the Don Died in My Arms
On my eighteenth birthday, the boy I'd secretly loved for years kissed me first.
After a night of passion, I traced the marks on my skin and thought it was all a dream.
I was ready to make it official. But the next day, my nude photos were plastered across the entire school.
When I confronted him, Damien Ashford laughed with bloodshot eyes:
"Blame your mother. If she hadn't turned a blind eye while those girls destroyed Rosalie, Rosalie would never have killed herself."
"Now let's see — when her own daughter becomes the school whore, will she still just sit back and watch?"
That was the moment I understood. Every tender word from the night before had been a weapon.
In the end, my mother slapped me hard across the face and dragged me away.
Years later, we met again. He had become the Don — the most powerful man in the underworld.
And I was a dealer in his brand-new casino.
He offered me up like a chip for other men's amusement, then claimed me himself after the game — the winner taking his prize.
I didn't resist. Didn't struggle. Obedient as a puppet.
But he froze. His eyes locked onto the stretch mark across my stomach.