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.

Marco called me in for coverage while I was crouched outside the break room, on the phone with my son.

"Luca, did you finish your homework? Go to bed early, okay? Don't wait up for me."

A small, sleepy voice came through the phone: "Are you gonna be late again tonight, Mommy?"

My throat tightened, but I kept my voice light. "Yeah, the casino's busy tonight. I'll make a little extra, and tomorrow I'll bring you a cake."

I hung up, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door to the VIP lounge.

Dim lights. The steady clatter of chips.

Every seat at the table was already taken.

Marco shoved me toward the table and hissed, "The Don himself is here tonight. You screw anything up, you won't walk out of this casino in one piece."

He leaned closer, his hand sliding around my waist. "And tone it down — the Don's fiancée is here."

I swallowed the disgust and took my seat at the dealer's position.

The moment my fingers touched the cards, I felt a gaze land on me.

Burning.

I looked up.

And went rigid.

Marco pulled out a chair with exaggerated deference. Damien Ashford lowered himself into the seat — unhurried, effortlessly composed.

He leaned back, expression unreadable, and studied me without the slightest pretense of subtlety.

I never imagined we'd meet again like this.

Seven years had ground the recklessness out of him. He was controlled now, dangerously calm, radiating the kind of authority that made the air feel thin.

Beside him sat a young woman in a stunning evening gown.

Then one of the VIP guests at the table let his hand drift to mine, fingers brushing over my knuckles as if by accident.