Page 29 of Stolen By the Don

I walk into a large office that looks like something out of a nineties mobster stereotype—gold lining everywhere, tiger prints, and excessive furniture. In the middle of it, Boris Glazastov sits behind his desk. Overweight. Bald. Probably with a bunch of health issues, judging by the IV line standing beside his desk. I size up the men standing on either side—the same cut as the one by the door.

“Roman Volkov,” he rasps. “To what do I owe the pleasure of entertaining the man who killed my son?”

That.

If I were the kind of man who reviewed every decision carefully and avoided taking risks, I’d have left Boris alone. After all, I did leave his son in a pool of his own blood on his wedding day.

But I know Boris sees his children as extensions of his property, not as humans. More than anything, he likes power, money, and fame.

That’s why I’m here.

I walk up to his desk and pull out a chair, ignoring the immediate defensive stance from his bodyguards. “I’m here to offer you a deal.”

Boris chortles, slapping his hand on his desk. “A deal? What makes you think I’d be interested in whatever you’re offering, Volkov? If it’d been your father, I might’ve spared him a minute, but you’re young. And reckless.” His eyes narrow and I see him reach under his desk.A gun.“What is stopping me from shooting you right here? A life for a life?”

“Your son would’ve killed me,” I say flatly.

He shrugs. “You stole his bride.”

“Bride?” My lips curl into a thin smile. “I simply took what was mine. You’re no stranger to what happens when a blood pact is broken. Marco Ricci ran away, unwilling to face the consequences of his actions. I did what I had to.”

I wait with bated breath for his response while calculating how long it’d take me to takeout the men.Ten seconds, I muse, judging by the proximity. I might get shot in the shoulder if Boris Glazastov remembers how to fire a gun, but he’d be going down afterward.

“I can’t argue with you on that,” he says, lifting his hand from underneath the desk. No gun. “So you’re here because you want me to help you find him? You’re aware we were in the process of signing a contract? Both families, allies.”

I am aware.

I wouldn’t have crashed the wedding and abducted the bride otherwise. I could’ve gotten Isabella anywhere else, but I couldn’t let the wedding hold—and I had to do it while making a statement.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t need your help finding him.” Because I doubt Boris knows where Marco is. If Marcodidn’t trust his own daughter, he sure as hell wouldn’t confide in Boris. The man’s loyalty is a currency that’s easily bought and easily spent.

I lean forward, eyes locked on his, my voice ironclad. “But I know Marco’s going to reach out to you. And when he does…I want you to turn him down. Shut the door in his face. Cut him off completely.”

A beat passes. Then I add, just low enough to unsettle, “Because if you don’t, Boris, I won’t have to find Marco. I’ll just come back for you.”

“I see,” he murmurs. “I do have a choice, don’t I? Between a man on a run and the son of Volkov. I was mistaken.” He grins. “You are like your father—before he became senile and weak.”

I drop my hand to my thigh so he doesn’t see the anger that forces my fingers to clench. An insult to my father’s name, dead or alive, is an insult I refuse to accept.

But I let it settle, saving it for later. There are more important things to worry about. “Keep him away, and you’ll have the Volkov unwavering alliance.”

Boris grins, yellowed teeth stained with tobacco. “I look forward to doing business with you, Roman Volkov.”

“Same here,” I murmur.

I don’t offer my hand. Just shove it into my coat pocket as I turn and walk out of his office, the last thread of tolerance unraveling with every step.

The second the door clicks shut behind me, my mind’s already moving.

Sergei.

I’ll have him put someone on Boris’s tail. I don’t trust the bastard to keep his word. He’s merely a means to an end; that’s all he is. A pawn to help sever Marco’s ties—one by one—until the traitor has no hands left to play with. No allies. No exits.

And when it’s done, Marco is buried, and the dust settles, I’ll return.

Not for business, but to collect. For what Boris said about my father, and for daring to grin while saying it.

9

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