Captured By The Don

Alexio Donatelli?!?

Neon

Crap!

Me and my stupid luck. Right when I was in the middle of having what I can probably classify as the best one hour of my life that’s when my stupid fiancé finally decided to show his face to me after weeks of staying in the shadows.

“Why now? The wedding is tomorrow why not wait?”

Fanny shrugs, “Your father mentioned him flying down from a business trip this night to see you before the wedding.”

Ugh f**k him. I swear that stranger was near about to make me c*m just by talking to me and although I’ve never been turned on by a man’s voice before, it didn’t seem like an impossible feat while listening to that baritone voice growl in my ears.

I grab my bag and signal my father’s driver to take us home, on our way out. Father will be pissed that I went out in the first place but I’ve already obeyed him way more than I probably should.

Way more than is healthy.

I mean, am I not on my way to get married to a man I don’t even know just to fulfill a vendetta my father holds deep in his heart.

Am I not willing to throw the rest of my life away in exchange for some old dude with a powerful hold? I may not have met my fiancé before but I know someone who is feared as much as he is and with that much power to wield will surely not be a young person.

How many young people’s names inspire fear in men just by a mere mention?

The car skids to a stop in front of my father’s mansion and I rush in, with Fanny by my side, straight up to my room to throw a more decent gown over my head.

On a second thought, I grab some wipes and clean out all the make up from my face, taking time to wipe out all reminders of the night from my face before exchanging the glam heels I am wearing for a simple sandal heels.

Once done, I head downstairs to my father’s study where I hear deep voices emanating from the room and I stand by the door to listen for any important information.

Information like why this man agreed to marry me.

I know why my father made the decision to marry me off, hell it has been rammed in my head so much that I can probably recite it in my sleep but for this man, what was the catch for him? Why did a man who was so powerful and can get anybody he wants, agree to marry me, the daughter of a failing politician.

My mother opens the door abruptly, with a tray balanced on one arm and a goofy grin on her face.

“He is here,” she whispers, “your soon-to-be husband. Oh, he is such a sight,” she pats my shoulders, “go on in before your father loses it again.”

I ignore the dreamy look in her eyes because – what the hell – and make my way into the study.

My father is standing in the middle of the room with a glass of whisky in his hand, speaking to a man who has his back to me because he is busy browsing through the political books on my father’s shelves.

“Hello Father,” I greet and he frowns at me, “I’m really sorry for –”

He cuts me off with a wave of his hand, “Not now, child,” he warns before pointing his glass to the other man, “meet your—”

Without turning, the man cuts my father off. “Hello Neon.”

I freeze.

Suddenly it feels like someone just dunked a bucket of ice on my body and left me under the snow to freeze to death because that voice . . .

Oh no! What is he doing here? Did he . . . follow me home?

That voice replays in my head;

“. . . now how would you like the next one hour to play out? . . .”

Hell, that voice is now ingrained to my brain!

Sure enough to my biggest surprise and utter horror, when I turn around, the man looking down at me is unmistakably the man from the club. I’d recognize that shoulder-length hair anywhere although now that it is in the light I can see the inky black, wet-looking strands clearer. I’d recognize that facial sculpture anywhere although I couldn’t tell earlier that his eyes are a deep shade of silvery grey and his lips have an attractive downturn to it. I’d recognize those broad shoulders, the six-five or six height, the hardness of his body, the feel of his –

Oh my god!

“What are you doing here?” I meant it as a whisper but judging from the scandalous look on my father’s face, I’m guessing the purpose is defeated.

“Where are your manners, Neon,” Father scolds, “is that anyway to speak to your fiancé?”

My fia — my what?

MY WHAT!!!???

The man is staring at me like he is amused by the shock and horror on my face. He smirks and stretches a hand towards me. “Alexio Donatelli,” he drawls, “Most people call me ‘The Don’.”

No! No! f**k No!

He can’t –

He can’t f*****g be!

My head is reeling, my body is trembling, all at the sight of my sudden predicament. No, my fiancé . . . he is supposed to be an oldie with probably no clue on how to please a woman.

This guy looks to be in his late twenties or early thirties, nothing like the man I envisioned as my husband – to – be, and judging from our earlier acquaintance, he probably knows every way there is to please a woman.

Oh God, no!

Kill. Me. Now.

Right this instant, please.

"You're not Alex--"

"The Don?" he smirks, "Don't call me Alexio. I prefer to be called The Don."

My father shuffles close to me and whispers in a gruffly, strained voice. “What is wrong with you Neon? Don’t keep the gentleman’s hand hanging.”

But I can't hear him because there is an amused smirk on my fiancé’s face, a ruthless glint in his eyes that sends my hackles rising because I know that he knows. He knew exactly who I was when he came into that club, he probably followed me there in the first place and he definitely knew who I was when I sat quivering by his side as he slid his tongue down my willing throat.

I hear his voice in my head again “ . . . see you soon slut . . .”

Oh Christ, he definitely f*****g knew!

It dawns on me through a foggy haze just then that like the Biblical Samson, he had set a test for me . . .

And like Delilah I failed.

Badly.