Page 30 of Stolen By the Don

ISABELLA

“Ma’am.”

The delivery driver—a man in overalls who brings the food supplies every week—walks in for the fourth time with four cartons of apples stacked on top of each other. I nod, and he continues walking, leaving me by the foot of the stairs.

Biting my fingers.

And toying with a very terrible plan in my head. A spontaneous, out-of-the-blue idea that I’m sure will never work, because plans have to be carefully mapped out.

According to my father.

Not that I’m still in the business of listening to his voice in my head when he completely abandoned me.

The plan? Escape. How? In the back of the food van parked outside the house. There are only two problems with my plan.

One.I could get caught while leaving through the front door because there are three men standing between the exit and the van.

Two.Even if I managed to get into the van, I could still be discovered. Unless I have a plan for rendering a man unconscious, I might just be shipped back here.

He comes around again while I’m still biting my cuticles, offering a polite smile.

“Wait—” I call out before I can stop myself.

He turns around. “Were you talking to me, ma’am?”

I nod, clearing my throat subtly and straightening my shoulders. I have to look like I know what I’m doing. “Yes. I’m curious about your supplies,” I say, keeping my tone measured. “Where do you bring the food from?”

He looks confused and rubs the back of his neck. “A farm?”

A farm? That’s like dropping a needle in a haystack. First off, I don’t knowexactlywhere I am. I was kidnapped, shoved into a car, and spent hours trying to break out. “Okay.” I shrug. “What farm? I need to know if it’s organically grown. I don’t know if Polina told you anything, but there are certain foods I can’t eat.”

He rubs his neck harder. “I—yes. We grow our produce organically. If you want proof, I could?—”

“No.” I wave my hands, frustrated at the conversation going off course. “How far away is the farm? From here?”

He hesitates, thinking. “About an hour. Maybe more. It’s on the outskirts of the city.”

I bite back my excitement. That’s great. Just far enough from here to disappear and close enough to survive. Once I make it there, I can map out my next strategy.

“Is there anything else you’d like to know?” he asks.

I smile faintly and shake my head. “No, thank you. That’ll be all.”

He nods and heads back out. I bite my nails harder, drawing blood and wincing at the slice of pain.

“Shit,” I mutter, staring at the bright red spreading around a small area. “Just a tiny cut,” I dismiss it aloud. I have other things to worry about, like how to get into the van without getting my brains blown out.

It takes fifteen minutes to devise a plan and ten minutes of rummaging around to find a pair of old overalls. I hold them up like a trophy, grinning proudly. Scampering up to my room, I change into the overalls, tuck my hair under a cap, and run back down, intercepting the van driver as he leaves the storage room.

Keeping my head down and pitching my voice lower, I say, “I’ll, uh…I’ll help you with the rest of the stuff.”

He studies me briefly, probably trying to decipher where I sprung from, but he doesn’t question it. “Sure.” He shrugs. “I could use another pair of hands.”

My heart is racing, and my palms are clammy as I follow him out of the house, keeping my gaze averted from the men standing guard. It’s the first time I’ve felt the sun directly on my face since Roman brought me here, and the urge to take a moment and savor the warmth is tempting, but my desire for freedom is greater.

“Here.” He hands me a box before I can look into the back of the van, and the surprise weight yanks me down. I struggle with it, grunting to play it off. I was going to hide as soon as I got out, but I might have to do some menial work after all. It takes two more rounds for the van to empty, and I come up with a last-minute excuse to remain outside while he heads in to inform Polina.

I climb into the back of the van, hyperaware that Roman’s men are watching me. A lump lodges in my throat as a gun catches the sun’s glint, and for a moment, I lose my courage as my mind paints a vivid picture of what will happen if I get caught.

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