Too Late To Beg, Mr. Mafia Don

ella

f us. The king-sized bed with its pristine gray duvet looked more like a display in a high-end hotel than a place wher

ndows, staring out at the glittering Manhattan

and the biting chill of the New York night clung to his broad shoulders. As the Don of the Moretti family, he car

la envelope onto the mahogany nightstand. It landed

low, dangerous rumble-the Don's Command.

way from the window, my eyes dropp

the shatter. "Giuliana is back in New York. She was attacked, Isabella. And she's sick.

wanted the hysteria, the begging, the shattered heart of a pampered Mafia Princess. He ne

pe, then up into his d

ka

ng frame went completely rigid. The absolute lack of emo

he air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. "That's

earth, I thought, keeping my face perfectly blan

as trash. I needed his

ng through them with a feigned, bored sigh. "I have plenty to sa

er of pure disgust replaci

ines for a ghost," I said, tapping my manicured nail against the legal jargon. "If you

harsh, mocking laugh escaping his lips. It val

rnational Group. And my monthly allowance doubled, effective immediately. Have the deeds and b

eyes was absolute. "Fine," he spat, snatching the encrypted phone from the nightstan

he lawyer's frantic protests about the 5% equity, but Damien roared, "Do it

r bedroom. Under Damien's murderous, impatient glare, I signed my name acro

rning on his heel. He didn't look back. The heavy do

f the room, looking down at the documents that h

red and fell away. I let out a breath, and for the first t