The Don Novels & Stories

Tonight, I was more than just a businessman- I was the heir to a legacy that spanned generations, a legacy built on power, loyalty and blood. *ahem* Don Leonardo cleared his throat as he put out his cigar on the ashtray. He was a plump old man with wrinkles lying his features, clad in expensive Italian linen and rings adorning his fingers, a dictionary definition of what a syndicate Don would look like. Sharp hazel brown eyes glanced over the people present, before landing on me. “Damien…” his gravelly voice drawled over my name. taking his time to adjust. Before I had been summoned, a message had already been sent to the Don about the little…issue with the Mo

Her wolf stirred again, almost impatient. “This time,” she whispered, staring at the looming walls of the territory in the distance, “it will be their blood spilled. Not mine.” Back at the northern border, Don remained still as a statue, his eyes scanning the misty woods. He could not shake the feeling that the figure he had seen was real. His wolf prowled restlessly, whispering a single truth into his bones: You know that scent. You know who that was. Don’s breath caught, his fists tightening at his sides. “Impossible,” he muttered, his voice hoarse.

Cross' POV I leaned forward slightly. My voice came low. Controlled. “I killed them.” A beat of silence. Then—“Why?” I took a slow breath. “They crossed my line. They tampered with my business. They touched what wasn’t theirs to touch.” A long, cold pause. Then—a slow, measured step. And finally—The Don emerged from the shadows. He was huge. Plump, but strong. His frame exuded power, but his movements were light, controlled. His suit was crisp, expensive. His eyes? Black. Unreadable.

Finally, a strand gave way in Dolores’s wrists, and adrenaline pumped through my veins as her fingers brushed against mine, then darted to her legs, working quickly to untie the rope on her feet. She was behind me now, her breath hot against my neck as she struggled with the tight knots binding my hands. "Hurry up," I mumbled. "We need to get out of here before that hungry beast comes back." Sounds gushed in from the hallway, battering the both of us. We froze in that position, feeling shock and fear as we sighted the don. "That's not a very nice way to address someone who's offering you hospitality," the Don commented, his voic

His eyes, the color of a winter sky, took in the scene with a calm, dispassionate assessment: Ava, tense and on guard; me, terrified and hovering near Damon; and Damon himself, the Prince of Hell, on his knees, clutching a wound that was actively unmaking him. A flicker of something—surprise? Professional interest?—crossed Donn’s features. “Well,” he said, his voice a low, smooth baritone that was utterly devoid of emotion. “This is unexpected. To what do I owe the pleasure of a formal summons to the lion’s den?” His gaze settled on Damon. “You appear to be… leaking.” “Fix it,” Damon ground out, the words a mixture of command and plea. Donn glided closer, his movements unnervingly silent. He

"When you were looking at that magazine, your eyes were glued to this ring. Couldn't look away." "So I bought it for you." There was a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He had no idea I'd only stared at the ring so he could pay off his debt faster. The cold of the diamond crept up my finger and into my chest. I shivered. But he didn't need my help. Did he? The voice on the phone had just called him Don. The Angelo I knew was a broke kid drowning in mob debt. What a joke. "Three whole years," My voice came out cold. "A Don playing dirt-poor with me. Was it fun?"

Serena looked radiant. Franca lifted her champagne glass. "Serena is expecting. In accordance with Enzo's will and the family's agreement, Nico will take over as Don of the Varrone family. Serena's child will be recognized as the legitimate heir, and the two of them will hold a public commitment ceremony soon." Applause filled the room. Nico touched Serena's stomach and smiled. "I am finally going to be a father." Luca's fingers tightened around mine. "Mommy," he whispered, "am I not Papa's child?"

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.”

I could see the beads of moisture on his forehead. "Orders." Donovan Davenport slammed his hand on the table. The sound echoed through the room like thunder. "We've been waiting for orders for six months. Six months, Moreau. Six months while the Volkovs have been killing our people." Antonio Moreau didn't flinch. "What would you have us do? March into their territory without a plan?" "Better than doing nothing." Davenport's eyes were burning. "My people are dying, Victor. My people are dying, and you're sitting here talking about strategy."