{"id":258525,"date":"2026-07-13T16:20:07","date_gmt":"2026-07-13T13:20:07","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/1kitap1.com\/en\/dons-gem-amanda-horton\/"},"modified":"2026-07-13T16:20:07","modified_gmt":"2026-07-13T13:20:07","slug":"dons-gem-amanda-horton","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/1kitap1.com\/en\/dons-gem-amanda-horton\/","title":{"rendered":"Dons Gem – Amanda Horton"},"content":{"rendered":"
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\u201cIf I have to hear this song one more time, I\u2019m smashing it.\u201d \u201cYou won\u2019t,\u201d he says. \u201cAnd how do you know that?\u201d \u201cBecause I own the place.\u201d I know I should be shocked, but we are way past that. He\u2019s a mafia Don, after all.<\/p>\n

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. \u201cYou\u2019re watering these down,\u201d I say. \u201cThey\u2019re fine,\u201d the bartender mutters. \u201cThey\u2019re not.\u201d I smile. \u201cMake us new ones. And don\u2019t ever try to swindle a colleague again.\u201d \u201cLook, Miss\u2060\u2014\u201d That\u2019s when Giovanni\u2019s face goes dark. His hand slams on the table and his ring catches what dim light there is to catch.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe lady said to make them again.\u201d He doesn\u2019t rise from his seat, but his tone is hard enough to bruise. \u201cMake. Them. Again.\u201d Maybe it\u2019s the danger in Giovanni\u2019s tone. Maybe it\u2019s the second the bartender\u2019s eyes snag on the ring and widen in recognition. The guy blanches. \u201cOf course, sir. Apologies, sir.\u201d \u201cDon\u2019t apologize to me.\u201d Giovanni nods my way. \u201cApologize to the lady.\u201d \u201cM-My apologies, Miss.\u201d<\/p>\n

My jaw nearly drops. Once the guy leaves, I stare at Giovanni. \u201cDo you scare everyone like that?\u201d \u201cOnly when they deserve it.\u201d Another night, I watch him finish a game of darts without missing a single shot. \u201cDo you ever smile?\u201d I ask. \u201cI smiled once,\u201d he says. \u201cDidn\u2019t care for it.\u201d I snort into my drink. A few nights later, I catch him scanning the door again. \u201cExpecting trouble?\u201d I ask. \u201cAlways.\u201d \u201cYou must be exhausting to live with.\u201d \u201cI don\u2019t live with anyone.\u201d \u201cShocking,\u201d I say sarcastically.<\/p>\n

A corner of his mouth twitches. The silences stretch, but they don\u2019t press as hard anymore. His updates aren\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n

I tell myself Rose is safe. That the second she\u2019s not, I\u2019ll 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, \u201cCan I ask you something?\u201d \u201cYou already did.\u201d \u201cHa-ha. Very funny.\u201d I knock back my drink. \u201cHow come you don\u2019t have one of those?\u201d \u201cOne of what?\u201d I gesture vaguely.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know. A right-hand man. A second. Whatever they\u2019re called. The others always do. There\u2019s always someone hovering behind them like a shadow, waiting for instructions.\u201d His mouth twitches. \u201cThat\u2019s an unflattering description.\u201d \u201cAccurate, though.\u201d He hums, considering.<\/p>\n

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I lift my brows in concern. This is not like her. Around us, Notte Bianca hums the way it always does on a weeknight\u2014 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\u2019m behind the bar, moving on muscle memory, pouring drinks for the table in the corner without needing to look twice.<\/p>\n

Whiskey neat. Bourbon on the rocks. Negroni sbagliato. I slide the glasses onto a tray and glance back at Rose. She\u2019s perched on her usual stool at the counter, shoulders slightly hunched, hands wrapped around her glass like she\u2019s trying to make it last all night. The lime wedge hasn\u2019t moved. The straw\u2019s still pristine. She\u2019s staring into the liquid instead of drinking it. \u201cYou gonna finish that, or is it just for decoration?\u201d I ask. She blinks, then smiles too fast.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m pacing myself.\u201d It\u2019s a lie. Not a big one. But I know her tells. Rose Brown doesn\u2019t pace herself. Rose Brown nurses nothing. She\u2019s the kind of person who commits fully or not at all, whether it\u2019s a new flower arrangement or a bad idea. Mocktails included. I keep working, but my chest tightens in worry. \u201cI feel like I\u2019m being followed.\u201d<\/p>\n

Rose had told me last week. Quietly. Like it was a half-formed thought she didn\u2019t want to give too much space. She\u2019d said it with a laugh, like she expected me to brush it off. Like she wanted me to. I hadn\u2019t. I\u2019d asked all the questions that came to mind.<\/p>\n

What does he look like? When does it happen? Did she tell anyone else? She\u2019d shut it down immediately. \u201cI don\u2019t want to make it a thing, Amber.\u201d Which was Rose-speak code for I don\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n

Like she\u2019s silently begging me to stop digging. So here we are. Me pretending everything\u2019s normal. Her pretending she\u2019s fine. The unspoken tension sitting between us like a third person at the bar.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.<\/em><\/p>\n

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