Page 40 of Stolen By the Don

It’s a shame no one’s going to be there. I didn’t care about the press covering my first wedding, but I’d gladly pay a bunch of them to be at this one. He’d never outlive the whispers—the bride wearing black with a bouquet of funeral flowers.

My fist curls tightly around the fabric of the dress’s skirt as I stare at my reflection in the mirror—unblinking. The black dress clings to me like smoke, like mourning. My lips are painted a bold, violent red—not the shade of romance and attraction, but war.

Polina knocks on the door before entering my room. She’s always neutral, but she looks more somber today.

“Miss Ricci,” she says, holding out a veil. It’s black, but transparent. I wouldn’t have cared if it was so dark that every step I took toward the altar was a stumble.

Maybe I should look for something that’ll make me trip over my feet and bash my head against the floor.Maybe I’ll die as quickly as my ex-fiancé did.

“No.” I grit my teeth as my fingers dig into my palm through the dress. I don’t want to die. I want to stay alive—for the sheer purpose of revenge.

Roman walked into the house two hours ago, storming into my room. My body still carried the memory of last night…when he cradled me against his chest, touched my cheek tenderly, and made love to me like I was his.

No.He fucked me.There was nothing gentle about the bruises he left on my collarbone and my hips. I can still feel him through the throbbing deep inside me and my weak knees.

Then he said, “We’re getting married.”

Like he was making casual conversation.

I couldn’t believe it. “Married?”

He nodded. “Yes. Married. You’re to be my wife, remember? It should’ve happened in that order. You take my last name and give me a child.”

My jaw dropped. In that order? I had thought it was lust. That we were two people who wanted each other so much that logic and self-restraint didn’t matter. At least, I had wanted him so badly I couldn’t think.

But to Roman, we’d gone against his carefully crafted plan.

My body turned ice-cold, a stark reminder that I was a pawn to him. Not human—blood and flesh. He took me because I served a purpose—to show my father that he’d taken over his bloodline.

And when I refused, he said, “Fine. I’ll give you to one of the many men your father sold you to. You might think marriage to me is a terrible fate, but with them, you’ll beg for death. You’ll end up dying alongside your father.”

So I agreed.

Not because I was scared.No. I need to live. I’m getting married to Roman Volkov because I need to buy more time to escape. When I do, I’ll come back with so much fury that I’ll burn him till there’s nothing left of him.

Not even his ashes.

“Thank you,” I mutter as Polina stretches her hands out, silently reminding me that I’ve forgotten to take the veil. It’s a short one with a clip, and I place it in the middle of my hair, pushing it away from my shoulders.

Two weddings. In a month. Neither of them voluntary. Both of them—directly or indirectly—caused by my father.

Did he really sell me off?

The Glazastov family was one thing, but other men? I snatch the veil off my head, tossing it away in anger, but it only floats out of my reach, drifting in the air for a few seconds before it touches the floor.

“Fuck!” I grab a brush and hurl it at the mirror. It cracks.

“Miss Ricci!” Polina gasps, horrified.

“Tell me—” I turn to her as my chest heaves. “What do you think about your boss? Do you like working for him? Do you find it easy working for a man who kidnaps women and forces them to marry him?”

She looks away, but I’m relentless, needing somewhere to direct my anger. “Look at me, Polina,” I rage. “You’ve been living here for years. Do you turn a blind eye to his activities, telling yourself that your only concern is your job? Do you even have a conscience?”

How? How does anyone stand it?I’m barely a month in and already losing my mind.

“Mr. Volkov is a good man,” she mutters.

I throw my head back in loud, mocking, mirthless laughter. “Good man?” I scoff. “You know he belongs to the bratva, don’t you? They kill people. They slaughter men in cold blood. How do you justify what’s good?” I ask her.

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