Page 10 of Stolen By the Don

He points in the direction of the stairs. “I saw her head up an hour ago. Is there something wrong? She hasn’t left the house,” he’s quick to add, covering his bases. “I checked.”

Good.

I had the housekeeper, Polina, set her up on the second floor, on the far end of the opposite wing of the building from my rooms. As much as I don’t intend to let her leave, I’m not keen to see her face often.

I don’t need a reminder of the face of the man who killed my father.And I don’t need to lust after his daughter, either.

Like a stubborn, unrestrained being, my mind conjures up the image of her in her wedding dress, the neckline dipping low enough to expose the delicate swell of her cleavage.

Sin.

Temptation.

A distraction carved in white lace against her olive skin.

I grit my teeth as I walk away from Sergei, dragging a hand over my face. The last thing I need is to be thinking about the way her skin looked against the soft lightning in my study, or how much I?—

“Marco Ricci.” I say his name aloud, forcing my thoughts back to order. My father’s cold face flashes before my eyes, his eyes filled with death. “Bastard,” I hiss as I cling to the handrail, climbing the stairs. My fingers dig into the surface, and my nails break as I drag them along, rage pulsing through my veins.

Isabella Ricci is a means to an end. Nothing more.

She might end up with my last name, sitting by my side, but she’ll never be anything other than a trophy and a conquest.

I find myself pausing at her door, a hand poised to push the handle open and catch her unawares. For some reason, I hesitate. If she’s guilty, I’dhave to do things that would force her to see the monster in me. The part of me that only people who beg for mercy get to witness.

Do I want her to see it?

A muscle ticks in my jaw as I push the door open, half expecting to see shock on her face and then a pillow flying across the room. Instead, it’s empty.

I enter, closing the door softly behind me. I haven’t been in this room in years, not since I moved out after I turned twenty. My father wanted me to stay, but I was adamant that I needed toget out from under him if I wanted to build myself into someone who could take over the organization.

Then he died, and I moved back in, into the larger suite.

The soft, matte gray of the walls is faded, but the color fills me with a nostalgia that doesn’t settle. Light-colored curtains hang by the tall windows, drawn halfway to let in thin beams of reluctant light. The bed and most of the other furniture in the house changed when I moved in.

This bedroom was mine.

Now it’s hers. And it looks as if nobody’s slept in it.

Where’s Isabella?

Glancing at the bathroom door, I listen for the sound of a shower running. There’s silence, but my thoughts run south again, and I picture her behind the door.

Naked.

Her bare skin kissed by steam, olive-toned and slick with water. Her hair wet and curling at the ends. Droplets gliding over the curve of her spine and down her body. The image hits me harder than I expect, dragging heat through my blood like wildfire and punching through my gut.

I let out a rough, ragged exhale, ignoring the sharp pull downward and turning away sharply. The door to the hallway stares at me, but I don’t take a step forward.

Because I’m supposed to be finding out the truthfrom Isabella, buttruthhas another meaning now.

The truth is that I want her. Badly.

And wanting her is starting to feel a lot like losing control.

Like weakness.

“Fucking hell,” I grunt as fresh annoyance slams through me. It’s enough to get me out of her room, slamming the door behind me. I stride down the hallway, past the door to the kitchen…which Isabella walks through, startling me.

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