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.

"The Don certainly knows how to stock a casino — hiding a beauty like this behind a card table. Makes every actress in town look plain."

Marco jumped in immediately. "Mr. Bianchi, if she catches your eye, I'll personally deliver her to your room after the game."

"She's very... accommodating."

I said nothing. Just kept dealing cards to each guest.

I'd heard it all before.

Then Damien spoke. "Is this a casino, or a brothel?"

His gaze swept slowly over me, every word razor-edged:

"Am I employing dealers... or whores?"

The air went dead.

The grin froze on Marco's face. No one at the table dared make a sound.

Damien's eyes darkened, his tone ice-cold and final:

"Save that talk for after hours."

"Watch your mouth — my fiancée's right here."

I stiffened, and couldn't help glancing at the woman beside him.

She was tugging shyly at his sleeve, murmuring, "It's fine... honestly, I've always been curious what a real casino looks like."

Damien let out a quiet laugh.

"Since my fiancée doesn't mind — carry on, gentlemen."

"Tonight, everyone leaves satisfied."

No sooner had the words left his mouth than Mr. Bianchi patted his thigh and grinned at me.

"Standing all the way over there to deal — come sit."

The other guests egged him on.

Marco's eyes burned into me — a silent command.

My heart sank, but I walked over.

Before I was even close, Bianchi yanked me into his lap. His rough hands roamed over me without the slightest shame.

The men around the table smirked.

Including Damien.

If anything, his eyes carried something worse — disgust.

I thought I'd long since grown numb to those looks. But tonight, without warning, nausea surged through me.

"Hey — you zoning out?"

"Too cozy up there to do your job?"

I lowered my head and did as I was told.

The game began.

But it didn't take long for the guests to lose interest.

Damien was winning every hand.

Someone glanced at me and laughed. "Hey Bianchi — down a fortune, but you've got the better prize in your lap."

"The rest of us? We're losing money and we've got nothing to show for it."

Bianchi roared with laughter. "Then let's make the girl the stakes. Whoever wins, keeps her."

The table lit up. They started hammering out the rules.

"If you win a hand, the dealer sits in your lap for the next round."

"Whoever racks up the most wins by the end takes her home."

Then someone hesitated. "But that means the Don can't play, right? He's already got someone far more precious beside him."

Every eye turned to Damien.

He was swirling the wine in his glass, as if considering.

Then —

Thud.

The glass hit the table.

The entire room went silent.

He looked up. The corner of his mouth curved.

"I'm in."

Serena Langford stared at him in disbelief, but he squeezed her hand gently and smiled.

"Even if I win, I won't touch her."

He turned to Serena, each word deliberate: "If I win, you decide whose lap she ends up in."