Page 3 of Forgive Me, Father (Don #1)

THREE

THE LITTLE RUNAWAY

Earlier

Tears kept falling, unstoppable, like they had a mind of their own.

I could only imagine the mess I must look like, black mascara trailing down my cheeks, snot everywhere.

As I hurried past hotel guests, I could feel their eyes on me, wide, full of concern, but their pity only made everything worse.

Always honor your deals. Never betray family.

The words pulsed at the back of my mind, carved like scripture, etched deep by years of obedience and expectation. But, right now, they meant nothing.

The weight of my choices pressed on my spine, heavy and sharp, but it was the thought of my mother that chilled me more. If she got her perfect hands on me, she'd drag me down that marble aisle like a lamb to slaughter. Lips painted in politics. Vows signed in blood.

No.

I pushed harder, legs aching as I rushed to the elevator. Fate was on my side; it opened. A few people walked out as I bolted in and collided with a guy.

He caught me just as my knees threatened to give out, his hands firm around my arms, grounding me before I could fall. And then, I broke. The sob escaped without permission, raw and guttural, tearing up my throat like it had been waiting too long.

He smelled dangerous, cigarettes laced with something faintly sweet, like smoke and sin wrapped together.

My vision was blurred by tears, but I could feel his presence, strong and solid, as my heart splintered with every passing second. I couldn’t even bring myself to look up, the weight of everything crashing down.

The stranger’s arms were the only thing keeping me from falling apart. His grip never faltered, it was tight, almost possessive, as though he was the only thing anchoring me to the ground.

“Please, get me out of here.” My voice wobbled as the words fell from my lips.

He stroked my hair and spoke calming words in soft Italian. I had no idea what he said, but the tone sounded concerned. He reached past me and pressed a button. The elevator jolted, then stilled.

I clung to him, the silence wrapping around us like a cocoon, and the tears came harder, hot, uncontrollable, soaking into his shirt as I buried my face against his chest.

I didn’t care how I looked. I didn’t care if he was a stranger.

My whole weight leaned into him, and somehow, without a word, he shifted, guiding us both down until we were on the floor, his arms still around me, like he knew I couldn’t hold myself up any longer.

I thought of all the promises I’d kept. I should just fuck this guy in the elevator, right here and now. It was stupid to keep myself a virgin for someone like Philip.

The guy was patient as I rested in his arms, probably ruining my beautiful wedding gown in the process. When I calmed down enough to stop crying, I tried to wipe my eyes.

He handed me a handkerchief. Who still carried those?

I took it and wiped my eyes. Black mascara ruined the soft white parchment. I’d ruined it too. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, it’s replaceable. What happened? Did someone hurt you?” he asked. A slight European accent lingered with his English one, but it was almost indiscernible.

My gaze flickered to the web tattoo that struck out from behind his collar. His fingers carried Roman numerals.

“What always happens? They fuck someone else hours before the wedding.”

“ Testa di cazzo ,” he said, and I chuckled. I didn’t know Italian. The language never took with me. Still, I knew a few cuss words. If I’m not mistaken, this one meant that he was a dickhead.

The man was attractive, he was covered with tattoos, and bleach-blond hair that reached his ears with piercing blue eyes and a stud in his bottom lip.

He screamed danger, but I needed dangerous now to get out of my miserable life. Or at least to forget about it.

He smiled gently, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes. "So, what’s your next move?"

I shrugged, knowing I had no choice. “My family will force me to marry him.”

The man frowned. “Force? On Christmas Eve?”

I nodded as I explained. “It’s arranged. I wish I could get out of it, but this is my life.”

“You don’t say.” His lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. I stared, searching for any clue that might explain why he was smiling. "What if I told you I could offer you a way out? Would you at least listen?"

I nodded. Everything in my body screamed not to.

That I was only getting myself into more crap.

This guy could be a drug lord or worse, work in the human trafficking department.

I could be in a crate in an hour, just by agreeing to hear him out.

But my broken heart and the betrayal, still fresh in my mind, were pushing me to be reckless.

He fished his phone out of his pocket and dialed a number. He laughed.

“It’s not funny,” I murmured sadly.

“Sorry,” he said before he switched over to Italian.

I’d always loved the sound of the words rolling off people’s tongues, but hated learning new languages.

I wasn’t as clever as my sister. My mother never hesitated to remind me, always telling me how lucky I was to have beauty, since brains clearly weren’t part of my inheritance.

She could be so cruel, in ways that left deeper scars than I’d ever admit.

But I wasn’t without my own gifts, talents she constantly tried to stifle.

Art, for one. I found solace in my drawings, in the freedom of creating something that was entirely mine, an expression of myself that didn’t require approval.

The man beside me ended his call and stared at me with a twinkle in his eye. He got up from the floor and held out his hand for mine. I looked up at him, hesitant to take it.

My eyes caught the flicker of ink, a serpent’s tail curling just beneath the edge of his cuff. It was subtle, almost hidden.

It was a warning in plain sight.

My body screamed at me to run, to escape the danger that radiated from him, but my mind was set. Slowly, I placed my palm, and my life, into his, sealing my fate in the grasp of someone I barely understood and he helped me up.

Once I was securely on my feet, he pressed the button again, and the elevator moved, this time all the way up to the penthouse.

“My name is Nico,” he said, his voice calm but edged with urgency. “I need you to keep an open mind. Because I’m not just offering a way out for you, but for someone else caught in a situation a lot like yours. And I think I have the solution.”

What?!

“What is your name?”

“Camilla Santore.”

“Santore? That’s very Italian.”

“I know. My great-grandfather came from the old country. I’ve struggled to learn the language. I’m not good with languages.”

"I'm sure you have other talents," he murmured, his gaze sweeping down the length of my dress with deliberate slowness.

Then he licked his lips, the gesture subtle but unmistakably predatory.

A chill ran through me, leaving my skin prickled and exposed.

I felt almost naked beneath his stare, as the elevator dinged and the doors slid open.

My heart fluttered as white walls and windows from floor to ceiling welcomed us.

My shoes glided on the marble tiles and I grabbed Nico’s arm to keep myself balanced. The penthouse was a vision in white.

Pristine white furniture sat like sculptural art pieces against polished marble floors, while plush carpets softened each step with quiet luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined one wall, offering a panoramic view of the glittering skyline, as if the city itself bowed to whoever owned this space.

A sweeping staircase of glass and chrome curved gracefully to a second level, hinting at even more decadence above.

I was no stranger to wealth, I’d grown up in it, surrounded by it, but this, this was something else entirely.

Whoever stayed here wasn’t just rich. They were powerful.

Possibly even more than Philip’s family. Maybe even more than mine.

Nico never left my side as I clutched onto his arm. We walked up the stairs.

“Be yourself. And tell him your story but know this is only a business contract.”

I nodded and took a deep breath.

We reached the top, and he walked us to a set of double doors that were on the second level.

He knocked on one, and a deep voice that sent tremors through my body instructed him to enter.

Nico opened the door, and I followed him inside.

He spoke immediately in Italian, the words smooth and commanding. I looked up and froze.

Staring back at me were the most striking green eyes I’d ever seen, sharp and mesmerizing, framed by a tousled mop of inky-black hair that fell carelessly across his forehead.

His beard was meticulously groomed, the mustache precisely trimmed just above lips that looked far too inviting. The man sitting at the desk was was a giant, but that wasn’t what stole the air from my lungs.

Below his right eye was a number one, meaning he was part of the Dons, and he was extremely dangerous, because that one was only given to Dons who had killed 100 men or more.