A NIGHT WITH THE DON

The bar smelled of whiskey and secrets. Low jazz hummed from the speakers, casting a smooth rhythm over the dimly lit lounge. Men in expensive suits sat back with cigars and shallow laughs, while women drifted through like ghosts wrapped in silk. Don Marco sat alone in a corner booth, his dark eyes scanning the room with a cool detachment. Everything about him radiated quiet authority—from the sharp cut of his navy suit to the glass of untouched bourbon at his fingertips. He watched her before he even spoke her name. The woman in the red dress. She didn’t flirt. She didn’t smile. She stood by the bar, sipping water, eyes heavy with something far deeper than seduction. Marco leaned toward the bartender. “Tell the lady in red… I want her in my room. Now.” The bartender hesitated. “Sir, she’s… not like the others. She doesn’t really want to be here.” Marco didn’t blink. “That’s why I chose her.” Nancy followed the silent waiter down the hallway of the luxury hotel. Her heels clicked on marble, echoing louder than her thoughts. She didn’t like the expensive ones. They always made her feel small, watched, like something being bought rather than touched. But tonight, she didn’t hesitate. The rent was late. Her mother’s medicine had run out. And Elsie—her sweet six-year-old—had cried for milk that morning. When she entered the suite, Marco stood by the window, back turned, his silhouette cast against the city lights. “You’re the lady in red,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “Take off your dress.” She obeyed, with the same practiced ease she always did. No questions. No emotion. Just routine. Their night was quiet—no talking, no roughness, just movement, breath, and silence. Afterwards, Nancy sat at the edge of the bed, skin bare against the satin sheets. Her eyes scanned the floor. “I can’t find my nicker,” she murmured softly, brushing her tangled hair back. Marco turned from the bathroom doorway and tossed it to her. “Here. You dropped it by the window.” “Thanks,” she said, clutching it quickly, like a child caught naked. She was about to rise when his voice stopped her. “I have a job offer for you.” Nancy blinked. “What?” He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “A real one. Not this. I need someone to care for my daughter. A nanny. She’s five.” She let out a breathless, bitter laugh. “You want me to look after your child?” “Yes.” “I’m a p********e,” she snapped. “Or didn’t you notice?” “I noticed everything,” he said, voice calm. “Including how dead your eyes were. You didn’t even kiss me. Most women in your position try harder.” Nancy flinched, pulling the blanket tighter around her body. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Marco stepped closer, but not too close. “The waiter told me not to choose you. Said you hated the job. Said you looked like you were dying inside.” “I am,” she whispered. “That’s why I want you,” he said. “Someone who doesn’t enjoy this wouldn’t do it unless they had to. That means you still have a soul. My daughter needs someone with a soul.” Nancy shook her head, unable to stop the sudden tears rising in her throat. “This is a joke, right? You sleep with me, and then offer me a fairy tale?” “It’s not a fairy tale. It’s a job. I’ll pay you five times what you make in a week here. You’ll live in a guest house. You’ll have food. Privacy. Dignity.” She stood suddenly, dragging on her dress. “I don’t need your pity.” “It’s not pity,” Marco said simply. “It’s a chance.” But she was already heading for the door. Her hands trembled as she yanked it open. “I’ve heard men say sweet things before,” she spat. “And every time, they just wanted one more night.” Marco didn’t follow her. “The offer still stands.” She didn’t reply. The cold night air slapped her face as she stepped outside the hotel. Her phone buzzed—probably Mama again, or Elsie’s babysitter—but she couldn’t bear to answer. Not yet. Nancy didn’t take a taxi. She walked, heels in hand, through the littered streets. Past neon signs and alleyways. Past the reminders of what her life had become. Tears finally escaped down her cheeks. She didn’t cry because she was ashamed. She’d long grown used to shame. She cried because someone—a stranger—had looked at her and seen more. But how could she believe it? He probably says that to every broken girl he screws. Still, her fingers tightened around the small envelope in her purse. Cash. More than she’d ever gotten in a single night. Maybe more than she made in a whole week. She’d counted it already. Three thousand dollars. No words. No contract. Just a wad of hope. As she entered the tiny apartment, she tiptoed past the couch where her mother slept. Her breathing was shallow, wheezy. The pills had run out last week. They couldn’t afford more. Nancy crept into her daughter’s room. Elsie lay tangled in worn blankets, hugging a stuffed rabbit missing one eye. The child’s small hand curled around air like she was reaching for dreams. Nancy sat beside her, smoothing back curls from her forehead. She thought of Marco. He said his daughter was five. Like Elsie. He said I had a soul. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed, silently, afraid to wake anyone. Not because of shame. But because, for the first time in years, she was afraid of wanting more.