Vended To Don Damon Novels & Stories

They returned to the crowded racetrack, and Damon scanned the area, his eyes narrowing as they landed on a man in a black button-up shirt. That man, he said, nodding toward him. He’s a bulk buyer. I need you to seduce him and get information about the supplier. Amara froze. Seduce him? she repeated, unsure if she’d heard correctly. Yes, Damon said, his voice firm and unyielding. Tell him you want to buy F, to sell at school. Get him to take you to the cellar. Her disbelief turned into anger. You must be joking, she scoffed. I don’t joke, Damon replied evenly.

“I just didn’t want to cause trouble.” Damon’s expression softened. “Sit down,” he said gently. “We’ll get you coffee.” He tilted his head at Johnson, a silent signal. They stepped back outside into the corridor, away from Chell. The moment the door closed behind them, Johnson turned. “Alright. What happened?” Damon ran a hand over his face, exhaustion written into every movement. Then he told him—about the ambush, the masked men, the substance over their mother’s nose, the way everything had unfolded too cleanly to be random.

the man said in his thick Italian accent. “Yes, I am,” he answered as they exchanged handshakes. “And she?” The man asked as he eyed me. “Do you have what I came here for?” Don Antonio asked ignoring his question. "Yes, I do.” The man answered as he brought out a parcel. He opened it, looked into it, and pushed it across the table. Don Antonio took the parcel and opened it; it was filled with white powder just like the type I was asked to sell. “How strong is this?”

It's nearly finished now. Through the bond, Donovan's protective anger flares hot. "Five minutes," I say, loud enough for the warriors to hear. Damon walks toward me. Each step is deliberate, careful, like he's learned not to trust his legs at full speed. Haven looks up from the crate she's been digging through and watches him come. "That's bio-daddy?" she asks. "Yes." "He looks sad and sick." She says it the way only a three-year-old can, completely factual, no cruelty in it and no softness either. Just the truth as she sees it.

He finally sets me down and I immediately shove him. “You are the worst.” He doesn’t react at all. Instead he gestures toward the street where Vittorio is leaning against a car. I had told him to wait outside. Vittorio straightens when he sees us. “Take her home,” Dante says. I blink. “You’re not serious.” Vittorio looks between us nervously, he doesn’t know who to listen to. “Uh…” He mutters. Dante’s voice turns colder. “Or I will tell the don you are endangering his underage daughter.” Dante adds.

Marriage with him was like selling myself to the devil. Dante Romano, the don of La corona silenziosa—the silent crown. There were rumors he had killed his entire family just to get the Don position. Personally, it didn’t make sense for a fourteen-year-old kid to kill his entire family for a position. But rumors are rumors, which have slight truths in them at the very least. Two truths, one lie. I looked at him and at the paper. “I am never getting married to you.” “You say it like you have a choice or something?”

He didn't raise it to the man's head, he simply pressed the cold steel barrel against the man's collarbone, forcing him to look up into his eyes. "Vincenzo thinks he can play games in my city," Damon whispered, his breath steady, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled rhythm. "Tell your captain that if another one of his flies comes near Scarlett Voss, I won't just kill him. I'll skin him alive and mail his remains to Vincenzo's estate in Milan." Damon pulled the trigger. The quiet crack of the suppressed shot echoed through the basement. He turned away without watching the body slump, casually pulling a black handkerchief from his pocket to wipe a tiny speck of blood from his cuff

He was already there. Damon stood just inside the heavy curtain, his broad shoulders blocking the strobe-lit chaos behind him. He wasn’t in club clothes. He wore dark trousers and a simple white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, as if he’d come straight from something far more serious. In one hand, held loosely between his fingers like a forgotten cigarette, was the first holy Grail shard.

I said to him. “Am I carrying you into the store?” he asked me. “No,” I said and climbed out of the Jeep. Damon went to the extremes in the grocery store. He actually smelled the fruit and vegetables and now I was convinced that he was much weirder than I could ever try to be. I just kept looking at him as he loaded up the trolley and he gave me a very firm no when I added wine which he put back. “Sorry Fin, no more drinking,” he said and kept walking as I stared at him.

“That you didn’t benefit from the coin those sales brought your pack?” Damon flinched. “I benefited,” he said roughly. “From the roads they built, the training gear they bought, the extra patrols they funded. I ate the meat they bought for our warriors. I slept under the roofs they repaired. My hands weren’t on the ledgers, but they weren’t clean.” His eyes flicked to me again. “I stopped pretending otherwise the day I watched you die,” he said. Air left my lungs in a sharp sting. The memory slammed into both of us: the burning, the choking, the way his face had crumpled as the curse took me. The way he had reached too late.