Page 3 of Stolen By the Don

I scoff, waving his concern away. “I killed his bastard son,” I correct. “Boris Glazastov has so many sons he doesn’t know all their names. This was an attempt to build a long-lasting alliance. It won’t matter to him that one’s down.”

He arches his brow, and I point ahead, wordlessly telling him to focus. “If he’s that worked up, I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse. A treaty with the Volkov bratva or hanging on the coattails of a man on the run.”

Leo clicks his tongue. “When you put it that way.”

“You have so little faith in me, Leonardo,” I say.

“I’m simply looking after you,” he replies.

I roll my eyes, then close them again, shutting him out. My thoughts wander to Isabella, and I touch my chest, patting the places where her fingernails broke my skin.

I just hope she hasn’t decapitated Sergei.

The giant iron-wroughtgates open inward as Leo drives in, passing through a long row of canopy trees. The house—a stately mansion with cobblestones—comes into view as we get closer. Leo pulls up in front, and Sergei hurries toward the car, holding the door open for me.

“Boss.” He nods.

“Where is she?” I ask, noting the bright strip along his cheek where she probably swiped at him.

He looks over his shoulder. “In the living room, boss. The main one. I didn’t know what to do, so I left her there.”

“Thank you. That’ll be all.” He walks away as Leo gets out of the car.

Leo takes one look at the house and shakes his head. “You know what? I think I need a drink somewhere else. I’ll see you later.” He promptly gets into the car again and drives away.

I purse my lips and tuck my hand into my pocket for a moment before striding toward the front door. It swings open, and I enter, my steps echoing on the marble floor of the grand foyer. The house, centuries old, was worth a fortune when my father first made an offer to buy it. Then, the owner, an old pakhan, tried his hand at upstaging my father after a short-lived attempt at a takeover.

His penance was the house and his dignity.

As I approach the living room, I hear muttering and angry heels pacing. I pause, allowing myself a moment to imagine what anangry Isabella will look like when she’s not hanging over my shoulder.

I liked her there.More than I should.

It was brief, but the memory of her body, soft and warm even as she kicked and screamed, has lingered long enough for it to leave an imprint. The swell of her ass in my palm, round and firm beneath the thin layers of silk, made it impossible to not want to grip tighter. The scent of her skin, a mix of floral perfume and adrenaline, clung to me long after I threw her into the car.

If she were some other woman and under different circumstances?—

I barely duck out of the way as a shoe comes flying in my direction.

“You bastard!” she spits. “You—you killed my husband! And you kidnapped me.”

“If you’re recounting the events of the past couple hours,” I drawl, “then yes. But I suggest you focus on what’s happeningnow.”

My response throws her off, and she goes quiet for a moment, thrusting her hands onto her hips. She’s quick to recover, though. “Focus on what? The fact that you intend to marry me and make me pregnant?”

I nod, heading over to the leather sofa and sitting. “Yes, Isabella,” I say without mincing words. “We’re going to get married, and then I expect one—” My brows furrow. “No, two children from you.”

“H-how—” she stutters. “How could you say something like that? Marriage isn’t something you force on a person!”

I rise slowly, letting the weight of the moment stretch between us. Every movement I make is deliberate, controlled, and poised. Because I’m nothing if not calculated. Isabella’s eyes track me as I close the distance, and though she doesn’t back away, I can see her bracing.

My gaze locks on hers, darkening with every step. “Isn’t that what you were about to do?” I say, my voice low, sharp, and dangerous. “Marry a man your father forced on you? An arranged marriage. One you didn’t choose. One you were willing to accept for the sake of loyalty. Duty.”

She inhales sharply, her spine stiffening with fury. “At least he didn’t kidnap me,” she says, her voice trembling with rage. “At least he didn’t murder someone in front of me and drag me out of a church like some…like some prize.”

“Tossed over my shoulder,” I correct her. “I didn’tdragyou. But I know you want answers, so I’ll give them to you.”

I let the suspense build, watching her frustration gather as she picks at her nails. “Your father broke a blood pact,” I say as my hands clench at my sides, filled with anger at the betrayal. “Marco Ricci betrayed my father and killed him. He’s gone underground, so you’ll pay the price of his crime.”

---