Page 4 of Stolen By the Don

I reach out, brushing my thumb across her cheek. She shivers, and her eyelashes flutter. “So, Isabella Ricci, you’re right about one thing. You are my prize.”

“I’m never going to marry you,” Isabella hisses as I step away, leaving her alone in the living room. “I’d rather die before I let you slip a ring on my finger. You monster!”

Looking over my shoulder, I note the way her hands tremble as she holds them together. I chuckle. “We’ll see. Isabella Ricci. We’ll see.”

Marco Ricci broke a blood pact, which means he’s now in my debt. One way or another, I intend to be paid in full.

2

ISABELLA

The asshole!

“Argh!” I drag my fingers through my hair, pulling strands loose as I pace the living room. I should’ve shot him. If I’d gotten my hands on a gun, I wouldn’t have missed.

My father didn’t have me spend hours at the shooting range, starting at age eleven, just so I could miss a target that a common man could easily shoot with one eye closed. Unlike my dead fiancé.

But I had been in shock.

I had so much on my mind already—finding out that my father had disappeared the day before my wedding, leaving a message urging me to go ahead with it because the fate of our family depended on the union, was enough to mess with my head.

First off, I was marrying a man I barely knew. A week earlier, Dad had called me into his office. I’d assumed it was to talk about retirement plans and how he wanted me tofinallytake over.

To take up the position I’d been training for my entire life.

No.I found a man there. A lean, unsteady-looking man with a moustache, standing in my father’s office. I recognized him immediately because he looked like Boris Glazastov’s son—the head of the Glazastov bratva faction.

And then he tells me I’ll be marrying him in a week.

Even though I protested,I had to marry himbecause it was the only way to keep our family safe. Dad wouldn’t give me any more explanation. If I valued duty and responsibility and wanted to take over, I’d do as he said.

So, I did.

Only to have my wedding interrupted by none other than Roman Volkov. A ruthless, cold, arrogant bastard whose reputation preceded him.

I would’ve shot him on the spot before he had the chance to walk down the aisle, but for the fear on the faces of the men my father said would protect me. And the shock that hadn’t quite left my system.

“Marry him?” I scoff loudly, thrusting my hands onto my hips. “Never.”

And the blood pact.What was that about?I know my father had dealings with the Volkov family, but according to him, it had been a short-term contract. The way Roman makes it sound, my father was a consigliere.

My father killed Roman’s father?That’s impossible.

Dmitri Volkov died in an accident. It was on the news. Roman is looking for someone to pin it on, and it’s definitely not going to be me.

My anger builds to the point where pacing doesn’t work anymore.

“I’m not a ditzy bride who’s going to cower and agree to everything just because he has some power,” I mutter under my breath, kicking off the heel I didn’t throw at Roman.

My feet hurt like hell.

The hallway leading from the living room stretches longer than I expected—wide, with high vaulted ceilings and tall windows that let in faint streaks of afternoon light. The floor beneath my feet is polished marble, cool and smooth. My anger simmers as I take in the elegant sconces that cast a soft golden glow against walls decorated with portraits of people I don’t recognize.

It’s beautiful.But also cold and imposing. Much like Roman. I’m sure he needs the space so he can contain his frigid personality without turning anyone to stone.

I’d rather turn to stone than take his last name.

I pass room after room—an ornate dining room with a table long enough to seat ten, a drawing room that smells faintly of old leather and cigars, and a sunroom with sheer curtains billowing ever so slightly.

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