Dons Gem – Amanda Horton

“If I have to hear this song one more time, I’m smashing it.” “You won’t,” he says. “And how do you know that?” “Because I own the place.” I know I should be shocked, but we are way past that. He’s a mafia Don, after all.

The bartender slams our drinks down one night, liquid sloshing over the rim, and I swear Giovanni nearly slams him into the table. I take over before he can. “You’re watering these down,” I say. “They’re fine,” the bartender mutters. “They’re not.” I smile. “Make us new ones. And don’t ever try to swindle a colleague again.” “Look, Miss⁠—” That’s when Giovanni’s face goes dark. His hand slams on the table and his ring catches what dim light there is to catch.

“The lady said to make them again.” He doesn’t rise from his seat, but his tone is hard enough to bruise. “Make. Them. Again.” Maybe it’s the danger in Giovanni’s tone. Maybe it’s the second the bartender’s eyes snag on the ring and widen in recognition. The guy blanches. “Of course, sir. Apologies, sir.” “Don’t apologize to me.” Giovanni nods my way. “Apologize to the lady.” “M-My apologies, Miss.”

My jaw nearly drops. Once the guy leaves, I stare at Giovanni. “Do you scare everyone like that?” “Only when they deserve it.” Another night, I watch him finish a game of darts without missing a single shot. “Do you ever smile?” I ask. “I smiled once,” he says. “Didn’t care for it.” I snort into my drink. A few nights later, I catch him scanning the door again. “Expecting trouble?” I ask. “Always.” “You must be exhausting to live with.” “I don’t live with anyone.” “Shocking,” I say sarcastically.

A corner of his mouth twitches. The silences stretch, but they don’t press as hard anymore. His updates aren’t much. Most of the time, he has nothing to report. But I always look him in the eye as he says it, and despite every instinct telling me not to trust men like him, I see nothing but the truth in them. Just a sea of burnished brown with hints of russet. Like rum, or sherry wine.

I tell myself Rose is safe. That the second she’s not, I’ll see it in his eyes. And I keep showing up at the pub. One night, after too many half-conversations and too much unsaid, I lean back in my chair and say, “Can I ask you something?” “You already did.” “Ha-ha. Very funny.” I knock back my drink. “How come you don’t have one of those?” “One of what?” I gesture vaguely.

“You know. A right-hand man. A second. Whatever they’re called. The others always do. There’s always someone hovering behind them like a shadow, waiting for instructions.” His mouth twitches. “That’s an unflattering description.” “Accurate, though.” He hums, considering.

I lift my brows in concern. This is not like her. Around us, Notte Bianca hums the way it always does on a weeknight— low conversation, soft jazz, the clink of cutlery and glass. The lights are warm, forgiving. The kind that make everyone look a little better than they really are. I’m behind the bar, moving on muscle memory, pouring drinks for the table in the corner without needing to look twice.

Whiskey neat. Bourbon on the rocks. Negroni sbagliato. I slide the glasses onto a tray and glance back at Rose. She’s perched on her usual stool at the counter, shoulders slightly hunched, hands wrapped around her glass like she’s trying to make it last all night. The lime wedge hasn’t moved. The straw’s still pristine. She’s staring into the liquid instead of drinking it. “You gonna finish that, or is it just for decoration?” I ask. She blinks, then smiles too fast.

“I’m pacing myself.” It’s a lie. Not a big one. But I know her tells. Rose Brown doesn’t pace herself. Rose Brown nurses nothing. She’s the kind of person who commits fully or not at all, whether it’s a new flower arrangement or a bad idea. Mocktails included. I keep working, but my chest tightens in worry. “I feel like I’m being followed.”

Rose had told me last week. Quietly. Like it was a half-formed thought she didn’t want to give too much space. She’d said it with a laugh, like she expected me to brush it off. Like she wanted me to. I hadn’t. I’d asked all the questions that came to mind.

What does he look like? When does it happen? Did she tell anyone else? She’d shut it down immediately. “I don’t want to make it a thing, Amber.” Which was Rose-speak code for I don’t want anyone getting involved. Her mess, hers to fix. Like she always does. Even now, when I bring it up, she gives me half-answers and plays it off with a laugh.

Like she’s silently begging me to stop digging. So here we are. Me pretending everything’s normal. Her pretending she’s fine. The unspoken tension sitting between us like a third person at the bar.

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

Book Information

• Unique ID: 3fe8f42d38ed2f67
• File Extension: .pdf
• File Size: 1,738,590 bytes (1.658 MB)
• Title: –
• Author: Unknown
• Pages: 109
• Language: English (en)

Reading & Word Statistics

• Estimated Reading Time: 143.83 minutes
• Total Words: 28,766
• Total Characters: 157,537
• Average Words per Page: 263.91
• Average Characters per Page: 1445.29

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