Her Tune Haunts The Don

The year Caleb loved me more than anything, he cut all ties with the entire Donovan mafia family, gave up his heir title, and ran away from New York with me to live on the lam out of state.

But one day, after hauling contraband and working three side jobs till his heart flared up and he coughed up blood, I took the five-million-dollar check his mom handed me and watched as his family’s guards dragged him onto a private helicopter.

He clung tight to the cabin frame, begging me not to leave like a man losing his mind.

I tossed every last dollar he’d scraped and saved for me right into the freezing pool, sneering that the tiny amount he’d managed to earn would never buy me a Steinway grand—not in a million years. A dead-broke wreck like him had no right to talk about a future together.

Five years later, we crossed paths at an upscale charity gala for classical music. I swallowed every ounce of my pride and begged him to lend me a sum of cash.

He said yes—on one condition. I’d be the private pianist for his engagement party, forced to sit there and watch him live out his perfect engagement for everyone to see.

I agreed without a second thought.

He’d never have the slightest clue why I was desperate for that money. It was all to save a little girl.

A little girl who shared his blood, one he’d never even known existed.

"Mr. Donovan. I need two minutes of your time."

The music at the Lincoln Center charity gala was deafening, but my voice cut through the air. I stood by the velvet rope of the VIP lounge.

Caleb paused. He was holding a crystal tumbler of whiskey. Five years hadn't dulled his sharp jawline, but his skin was paler now.

He slowly turned around. His dark eyes locked onto mine, cold and dead.

"Do I know you?" he asked. His voice was smooth, flat.

My chest tightened, but I dug my nails into my palms. I couldn't afford pride today.

"Please, Caleb," I stepped closer, lowering my voice. "I need money. I just need an advance, a loan. I’ll do anything."

Caleb let out a short, harsh laugh. He took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes scanning me from head to toe with pure disgust.

"Anything?" He tilted his head. "That’s a big word, Florence. Didn’t my mother give you six million dollars to disappear? What happened? And you blew through all of it in just five years?"

My breath hitched. I dug my nails hard into my palms to ground myself. Forcing my head up, I plastered on the most flattering, sycophantic smile I could muster.

"Yeah. The money ran out a long time ago," I said, keeping the fake smile pinned to my face. "That's why I need a big shot like you to help me out now."

"Yo, Caleb? What’s the holdup?" a sharp voice interrupted.

Julian stepped out of the VIP lounge. He was Caleb’s friend.

Julian froze when he saw me. The casual grin wiped completely off his face.

Julian sneered. "Florence Hayes? What the hell is she doing here?"

"Asking for money," Caleb said.

Julian scoffed. "Wow. Look how the mighty have fallen. Weren't you supposed to be at Carnegie Hall by now?"

He grabbed Caleb's shoulder. "Man, let's go. Security should throw her out. You know what she did. She left you to die for a paycheck."

I ignored Julian and kept my eyes fixed entirely on Caleb.

"I need one million," I pleaded, my voice trembling but desperate. "I'll sign whatever you want. I'll pay you back with interest. Just give me the money. Please."

Caleb stared at me. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. He looked at me like I was a ghost he was desperately trying not to recognize, his dark eyes burying a storm of emotions I couldn't read.

"You want my money," Caleb finally said, his tone chillingly detached.

"Caleb, don't do this," Julian warned, stepping between us. "She’ll just bleed you dry again."

Caleb reached into his tailored tuxedo jacket and pulled out a leather checkbook and a sleek silver pen.

"I’m getting engaged," Caleb said. "Vivian and I are holding our engagement party next month. I need a pianist."

For a split second, the glittering lights of the chandelier blurred.

He was marrying Vivian Russo. The woman his mother had always wanted for him.

I swallowed the bitter taste of heartbreak and dug my nails deeper into my palms.

"Okay," I said. "I'll play. I'll be your exclusive pianist. Just give me the money."

He scribbled on the check.

He ripped the check from the pad.

The check fluttered through the air and landed on the polished marble floor, right next to his leather shoes.

"That's two hundred thousand as a deposit," Caleb said. "You'll get the rest of the balance after the engagement party is done."

I looked at the check. As long as it saves that girl, I’ll do anything. I owe him.

I crouched down to the floor and picked up the paper.

"Thank you, Mr. Donovan," I said quietly, standing back up. I shoved the check into my pocket, turned around, and walked away. I didn't look back.

Ten minutes later, I was in the cramped, steaming catering kitchen backstage.

The noise of the gala was muffled here. I stood by the deep industrial sink, plunging my hands into the freezing soapy water to rinse the endless trays of champagne flutes. The catering manager had yelled at me for taking a break.

The water was ice cold, but I couldn't feel it. Or rather, I couldn't feel it the way I used to.

I closed my eyes, a sudden wave of exhaustion hitting me. The image of Caleb’s face flashed in my mind. The hatred. The absolute disgust.

My chest heaved. I grabbed a towel, trying to dry a delicate crystal glass. My fingers cramped—a sharp, shooting pain radiating from my wrist to my palm.

My grip failed.

The glass slipped through my wet fingers. I lunged to catch it.

CRASH.

The flute shattered against the edge of the metal sink, sending jagged shards everywhere.

"Damn it," I muttered, instinctively reaching out to grab the broken pieces before they clogged the drain.

Suddenly, a large hand clamped down on my wrist, yanking my arm back with terrifying force.

I gasped, spinning around.

Caleb was standing right behind me. He was breathing heavily, his eyes wide, his grip on my wrist like a steel vice. The cold, mocking billionaire from the hallway was completely gone.

"Don't touch the glass, Florence!" he yelled, his voice cracking with raw, unfiltered panic. He grabbed my other hand, hastily turning my palms over to inspect them. "Are you crazy? Your hands! Do you want to ruin your hands?!"