Only One Night: A Fusion Universe Novel Read online

  Only One Night

  Dani René

  Contents

  Only One Night

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  The Fusion Universe

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Dani René

  About Dani René

  Only One Night

  A Fusion Universe Novel

  By Dani René

  Copyright © 2020 Dani René

  Edited by Candice Royer

  Proofed by Illuminate Author Services

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book

  or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  The following story contains mature themes, strong language, and sexual situations. It is intended for adult readers.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in the work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.

  Cover by: Kari March Designs

  Published by: Lady Boss Press, Inc.

  To my readers, thank you for making my dream possible.

  This one is for you.

  Chapter 1

  Elisabet

  Portland.

  A fresh start.

  My heart still aches for what I left behind. My father is still back in New York, and even though I miss him, I know I need to do this on my own. Our last fight was enough to have me walking out.

  He promised not to follow me, not to send men to see what I’m doing, and even though I choose to believe him, I don’t. My father isn’t one to easily let go, and I don’t blame him because I’m his only child. But I pray he allows me to make my own mistakes.

  When I stepped off the plane two weeks ago, I wasn’t sure if I was going to make this work. Scrap that, I knew it was going to happen for me because it was either a fresh start or living a life that wasn’t my choice.

  My father loves me, but he was suffocating me. He wanted me to marry a man I didn’t love. Someone he knew all his life, but that wasn’t who I loved. Trying to tell my dad I wanted love only seemed to anger him.

  Then, when I spoke to him about my career and mentioned I wanted to open my own bakery one day, he lost his mind. I wasn’t meant to be a peasant, in his words, I was a princess. I accepted it for a short time, but once I finished studying and got my business degree, I knew I could never sit back and be taken care of by my father for the rest of my life. Glancing at my phone, I notice the message waiting for me, and I know it’s him begging me to come home.

  “I just can’t,” I say to no one in particular. The small bakery he finally allowed me to open in New York is still running, but I couldn’t live in the same city as my dad.

  Which brings me here, to Portland. I ran. I left my life there and figured my best bet would be to try my luck here, where I knew at least one person who wasn’t in that world I grew up in—Mia. We studied together for a short time, and while I was allowed the freedom to go to culinary classes, I enjoyed her banter more and loved how much passion she had for food.

  Mia and I connected in that short time before I was forced to go back to New York, where I had to play the dutiful daughter. Time hasn’t afforded me my dreams, to finally be free of my family obligations, but since I’m in Portland, I hope my father will finally realize I’m not cut out for the world he’s from.

  The phone rings and I see Dad’s number pop up. I want nothing more than to answer it, to hear his voice, but I don’t. I let it go to voicemail and then listen.

  “I miss you, Tesoro. I wish you would reconsider. Your home is here.” Then the line goes dead. I shut my eyes, blinking back the emotion, I breathe deeply, trying not to cry.

  Once I’m calm, I slip my phone into my purse. I open my eyes again and start the engine of my car. I’ve been searching high and low for space to open my new bakery since I arrived. Rossi Desserts started as an idea. I put pen to paper, and now I’m ready to purchase property to make my dream come true.

  When my mother passed away after my eighteenth birthday, I wanted nothing more to do with my father and his business. But after I followed him to New York from Italy, I knew I could make a life here. My focus was to cook, bake, and create beautiful treats.

  Pulling up to the For Sale sign fifteen minutes later, I turn off the engine and exit the vehicle. I lift my shades and take in the beautiful architecture of the structure in question. The paint is peeling, there’s a lot of work to be done on the windows, but I can see myself turning this into a beautiful place for people to visit with friends or family.

  The building in front of me is perfect. Every square inch of it would be mine if I could secure the sale and, instead of seeing the neglected place it currently is, I see potential. Soon enough, I’ll start again, and I’ll once more be known as the bitch of the kitchen. That’s fine with me. Most of my bakers have walked out because they say I’m too hard on them.

  What’s the point in creating food you don’t love? That’s what my mother used to say.

  I find myself smiling at the thought. Excitement tumbles in my stomach as I make my way around to the back of the building to take a look at the space. It’s all locked up, but I have a look around at the parking allocation. There are two other stores beside it, a pharmacy as well as a small vegetable grocer. Perfect.

  Across the road is an apartment block that looks to be upmarket and quiet. I’m smiling by the time I get back into the car. The large sign on the door tells me the property agent is Rome Donovan. I’ve heard of the infamous Mr. Donovan. A man-whore who beds more women on a weekly basis than I serve meals to my patrons.

  He’s never been seen without a woman on his arm at any event he attends. I hate men like that. Those who think they’re God’s gift to women, yet deep down, they’re just insecure little boys trying to be adults. The operative word is trying.

  Sighing, I tap out his number and hit dial. If I have to deal with him for a couple of weeks to get this deal done an
d dusted, I will. This is purely business; I tell myself as I listen to the ringing on the line.

  “Donovan International, how may I direct your call?” A sweet, sultry tone comes from the other end of the line, and I wonder if she’s fucking the boss. Shaking my head, I try to push the images of Rome with a woman out of my head.

  “I’d like to set up an appointment with Mr. Donovan. It’s about the property on Chestnut Street,” I inform her, watching a couple walk their dog down toward the marina. My heart jolts for a moment as a memory comes unbidden to my mind, but as always, I push it back.

  “Yes, he can see you tomorrow at ten. Would that work for you, Miss . . .?” She leaves the sentence open enough for me to give her my name.

  “Elisabet Rossi.”

  “Ms. Rossi, I have you penciled in at ten in the morning. Can I get your contact number in the event of a reschedule?” I tell her my cell phone number before hanging up. I’m excited to get the ball rolling. The sooner I can open a Rossi’s here, the better. I vowed never to go back to New York after what happened, and having a manager looking after my restaurant there is the perfect excuse not to return.

  Tomorrow, all I have to do is persuade Mr. Donovan to sell me this building, and I’ll be back on my feet in no time. Starting the engine, I head out toward the hotel I’ve booked for the next two months. I’ve given myself enough time to figure out what I’m going to do, so I don’t have to return to New York anytime soon.

  The streets are familiar to me as I make my way through the city. I spent time in Portland when I was still happy; when my life was heading in one direction, but now as I weave through the traffic, I realize I’m on a whole new path, something other than the darkness that’s consumed my mind.

  The life I walked away from was something I never wanted or needed. I left everything back in a house that cost a small fortune. I didn’t need the things that sat glistening on tables and countertops bought with money that came from drugs, from weapons.

  Sighing, I pull up to the valet of the hotel, and when I exit the car, a young man takes the keys, and I head into the lobby. A few people mill around, mostly tourists. It’s a plush, modern building with beautiful Italian tiles and wallpaper that remind me of the walls of the Vatican. Strangely, I feel at home. Not because of my heritage, but because I miss being in the safety of the cathedral. The candles glowing dimly in the vast space. A soft humming of hymns being sung.

  I’ve never been religious. No. Even though I was brought up that way, I found myself on a different path. It was my decision. And even though Mama and Papa didn’t agree, they still loved and accepted my choices. I knew I’d hurt them when I walked away from the family rules I refused to live under.

  When my mother passed away, all I remember was the ache in my chest. I felt it so deep down that I was breathless in my grief. I spent months in her kitchen, cooking, focusing on anything other than the fact that I’d laid her to rest.

  My passion for food stemmed from there, and I knew I had to do something other than wallow in grief. Pushing through that barrier wasn’t easy, to see the light when all I was used to was darkness. Slowly, each day became less painful, and even though nothing can ease the ache in my chest, I have a life now that I’m proud of.

  A small smile plays on my lips as I think about the future. Once I have the building in my name, I can renovate it and put my stamp on it. Happiness thrums through my body, tingling with anticipation of seeing another derelict building come to life with laughter and smells of delicious food.

  Chapter 2

  Rome

  When I glance at the clock, I notice it’s almost time to head home - even though I’d prefer sitting at the office than being in that apartment alone. Exhaustion tugs at me, and I know I need to get some rest. Today’s been a long one, and tomorrow will be no different. From a quick look on my calendar, I notice I’m in meetings all fucking day. Don’t get me wrong; I love making money. I love selling property, but I need time off. Or I just need a pretty little cunt to drive into to take the stress away.

  Picking up my phone, I hit dial on my best friend’s number. On the fourth ring, I’m about to give up when his voice filters through the line.

  “What do you want, Donovan?” My best friend is an asshole at the best of times. I don’t know how he lands the amount of pussy he does.

  “Dominic, we need to grab some drinks tonight,” I inform him as I ease back into the leather seat of my office chair. The view from my window is of the city below and the marina not far away. The water glistens as the moonlight streams down from the inky sky. The night always seems to hold promise.

  “I’m finishing up at the office now. Where do you want to meet?” His question isn’t where, but who. I know him all too well.

  “Let’s go down to that new place where they supposedly serve drinks topless. I could do with something gorgeous to look at.” Dom offers a chuckle in response, but he agrees. Once we hang up, I rise and grab the keys to my Maserati. The beautiful car that’s been my most prized possession since I hit my first billion. When I walked into the dealership, she sat waiting for me like a beacon, and I knew I had to have her. Much like women, cars are my vice.

  I can walk into any room, and when my eyes land on a stunner, I have to have her, and I’ll stop at nothing to make sure she’s screaming my name by the end of the night. Heading out into the parking garage, I press the key fob and open the driver’s door. Slipping into the leather seat, I push the start button, and I’m heading out onto the road in seconds.

  The purr of the engine puts me at ease, and I turn up the music. Blaring riffs scream at me from the speakers, which lifts the tension in my shoulders. The streets are reasonably quiet this evening as I make my way to the east side of town where the club is located.

  I overheard from one of my clients their waitresses are topless, sexy, and up for anything. My phone buzzes as I pull up to the parking lot, and with a quick glance, I notice it’s Dominic. Once I’m parked in a spot close to the door, I see my best friend exiting his cherry-red Porsche. The asshole loves to show off, and this is no different.

  We’ve been friends for most of our lives, me from the wrong side of the tracks, and him from the affluent family that owns hotels around the world. When I get out of my car, he notices me and smirks.

  “Donovan.” He saunters confidently over to me, his golden eyes pinning me with a stare. “I need a drink tonight, and besides that, I have news.” He slaps me on the shoulder, squeezing a greeting as we make our way toward the bar.

  “Does it have anything to do with that blonde you were with the other day?” I ask, remembering the beauty that was hanging off his arm. Her fake tits put me off, but there was something about her lips that had me envious of my best friend. He did offer a threesome, but I felt it was time for me to leave when her friends appeared. A group of gaggling drunk women is not my idea of fun. I may like them intoxicated, but they need to have their wits about them. Sensual, hot, and feisty.

  The music slams into me as we walk through the double doors of the bar. It’s not loud, but the song is jazzy. Something I can picture a beautiful body sliding around a pole to.

  I need to get laid.

  The place is elegant, sexy, and I’m sure there’s a lot more that goes on in here than drinks being served. When we reach the bar, I notice the man sitting in the corner, his gaze roaming over the area, and I recognize him immediately. The well-known criminal mastermind, Alessio Russo.

  “Gentleman,” he offers a greeting. His Italian heritage evident in the tanned skin, hazel eyes, and accent. “I trust you’ll enjoy your visit. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Thank you,” I respond.

  “What can I get you to drink?” A beautiful, busty brunette sidles up to us. She is indeed topless, and I can’t help staring at her beautiful tits.

  “I’ll have three fingers of Macallan, twelve-year-old,” I tell her, meeting green eyes that dart between my best friend and me.
She nods and peeks over at Dom, who orders his signature bourbon.

  As soon as our waitress disappears, another stunning brunette strolls up – no — stalks up to us clad in a sheer, red dress that hangs to her ankles. Underneath, she’s wearing a pair of panties that could be ripped off with my teeth. Her bra is just as tiny, barely covering her incredible tits.

  “Gentlemen.” She purrs the word like a kitten, and I picture her on her knees, lapping at my cock. “Would you like a personal tour of the club?” She runs a blood-red fingernail over the shoulder of my suit jacket. If she’s intent on taunting me, it’s working. My zipper is starting to feel very restrictive as she leans in closer. “I have a very special show for you both as new clients.”

  “Lead the way, sweetheart,” I tell her. Dom and I follow her through the club. She signals our waitress, who nods.

  Moving through the room, I take in the groups of men sitting around tables where girls are swaying, gyrating, and smiling down at the old fuckers who are flicking hundred-dollar bills at them.

  We’re led into a circular room that has a pole in the center and plush merlot-colored sofas. There are see-through curtains hanging from the walls where red light shines through, creating warmth in the room.