My Five Thousand Dollar Don

After a one-night stand, I mistook a man with a body chiseled from stone for a high-end escort. I left five thousand dollars as a tip, along with my business card identifying me as a “Jewelry Designer.”

I thought it was just a consensual transaction between two adults.

That was until my staunchly conservative, overprotective brother, Julian, saw the bite mark on my collarbone and erupted.

“Find the bastard who laid a hand on my sister, and I'll make him disappear from New York!”

After comparing surveillance footage, a private investigator identified the man as the Don of the Cain family, the most feared on the East Coast—Ronan Cain.

Only then did it all click into place.

My one-night stand had been with a Mafia Don.

And I’d tipped him five thousand dollars.

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1

My whole body ached, every bone feeling as if it had been disassembled and pieced back together.

I forced my eyes open and turned to see an unfamiliar face, breathtakingly handsome even in sleep.

Fragments of last night flooded my mind. The hotel. The whiskey. And that fatal scent of sandalwood and leather.

“Are you okay?”

His low, hoarse rasps from last night seemed to echo in my ears.

I had cried, begged for mercy, and even tried to escape, but he had pulled me back time and again, his arm around my waist so powerful it felt like he could have snapped my spine.

The heady scent of our tangled bodies was more intoxicating than any of the expensive perfumes in my collection.

Then, gazing at his serene profile, I found myself wanting to do it all over again.

My phone buzzed from within the pile of clothes scattered on the floor. The screen lit up: Julian.

Oh, crap.

A string of frantic calls from my conservative brother. My first night ever not coming home, and I was already busted. If he found out I’d not only slept with a man but gotten a hotel room with him, he’d break my legs before shipping me off to a Swiss boarding school to rot.

I had to disappear. Now.

Ignoring the ache in my waist and legs, I scrambled to my feet and slipped into my dress.

I glanced down and saw my chest and collarbone covered in a constellation of dark marks; especially on my collarbone, there was a deep red bite mark, like he’d branded me with his own personal seal.

I stared at the sleeping man.

Was I just going to leave? I hesitated.

He might have been a bit rough last night, but his quality of service was absolutely top-notch.

We Prescotts never take advantage of anyone.

I emptied my handbag. Five thousand dollars in cash.

Not enough.

I bit my lip and unpinned the sapphire brooch I had designed myself.

It was worth thirty thousand dollars. That ought to make us even.

I placed the cash and the brooch neatly on the bedside table, then grabbed my business card.

Last night was amazing. Why not make this a regular thing?

Julian traveled for work often, and I deserved a little personal enjoyment.

I hastily scribbled a line on the back of the card:

[You were amazing. Here's your tip. Saturday, same hotel. Be clean and wait for me.]

Transaction complete. Clean and simple.

So long, handsome, I thought.

I grabbed my heels and, barefoot, slipped out the door like a cat that had just gotten the cream.

Half an hour later, morning light pierced through the curtains.

Ronan's eyes snapped open.

For the first time in a decade, ever since the drug first made him lose control, he had never felt so refreshed, so satisfied.

The mania that had tormented him was gone, replaced by a deep, almost addictive calm.

He had finally found her.

The only woman who had ever made him lose control.

“Baby!” His voice was hoarse and sleepy as he reached out to pull her closer.

His hand grasped only cold air.

The bed was empty.

Ronan shot upright.

She was gone. That soft, sweet girl had just… run?

His eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint flashing in their dark depths.

She was playing with fire.

His gaze fell on the nightstand. A stack of bills, a sapphire brooch, and a business card.

Ronan's face turned to ice.

He picked up the cash, clutched the brooch tightly, and read the bold, scrawled words.

[You were amazing. Here's your tip. Saturday, same hotel. Be clean and wait for me.]

The words were a slap in the face.

Bang!

The water glass on the nightstand shattered, unable to withstand the Don's sudden explosion of rage.

Ronan glared at the business card, his knuckles cracking from the force of his grip.

He thought this was the beginning of a wild romance with his fated woman.

To her, he was just a transaction? Worth a measly five thousand dollars?

“Very well,” he muttered, activating the invisible earpiece in his ear.

His Consigliere, Finn's, frantic voice burst from the earpiece. “Don! Where are you? You went dark last night. The families thought you’d been hit!”

“Shut up,” Ronan cut him off coldly.

He stared at the crumpled business card in his hand, his voice laced with a predator's chill.

“Find her. Even if you have to turn New York City upside down, bring her to me.”

“She'll learn her lesson. No one dismisses the Don of the Cain family with a few thousand dollars and walks away.”

Finn's voice trembled as he replied, the shock rattling him to his core.

“Dismissed? With what?”