Page 45 of Stolen By the Don

I knew I was walking into a trap. I refuse to back down, taking a bold step forward. There’s nothing between us now, not a hair’s breadth or a finger length. I ignore my thoughts as they spiral, facing him squarely. “Sure. He might be dishonest and sometimes a coward. It’s not as though you haven’t runaway from a fight before. But you see…” I sigh pitifully. “The difference between you and I is that you’re not ready to accept that you might be backing the wrong horse. It’s a recipe for disaster, Roman Volkov.”

This time, his silence makes me feel empowered. “A recipe for disaster,” I repeat, clicking my tongue. “But good luck. I’m sure you can handle it. You’re big and strong, after all.” A swift flashback hits me, and I go pale for a moment. I remember when I said those exact words—big and strong. Tucking it away before it becomes a weakness he can pounce on, I flip my hair and turn, leaving him standing there.

My lips crack in a splitting grin as I climb the stairs. It feels good to be the one walking away. I’m sure my streak won’t last, but for now, it’s amazing.

I said I wouldn’t accept his offer, but I’m out of the house in an hour, slipping into the back seat of a sporty Audi.

“Just drive,” I tell Sergei as I lean back, closing my eyes. I can’t risk Roman knowing about Nico, so I can’t arrange a direct meeting. It doesn’t mean I won’t try, though. My dad has people everywhere—bars, clubs, and the most inconspicuous of places, like auto shops and cafes. There’ll be someone there to deliver my message.

Our first stop is a vintage shop, and Sergei waits in the car as I walk into the shop. The smell of old stuff hits me—dust, age, and wear—and I clear my throat as I approach the front desk, drawing the attention of the man behind the counter.

“Hi?”

He looks up from polishing a weird-looking piece, and his eyes widen when he sees me. “Miss…Miss Ricci?”

Thank heavens. “Hi, Mickey.” I smile, slapping my hand on the counter. “How’s it going?” My dad found Mickey peddling, gave him a shop, and uses the shop to launder money. He never told me outright, but he brought me along a few times, and it didn’t take long to see that he wasn’t buying any antiques. Mickey’s my age, but he lives and looks like he has no idea how the world works.

“Ah.” He scratches his hair, falling over his forehead. “It’s fine, I guess. I heard…” He purses his lips, reluctant to finish his statement. I don’t know if it’s true, but I heard something.”

“That I almost got married, but I was kidnapped?” I say.

His head bobs. “Yeah, but…but you got married again, right?”

Roman. It’s not surprising. We got married yesterday—a small ceremony that would’ve remained unknown if we were two other people, but the news has spread like wildfire.

“Yes,” I say flatly. “That isn’t going to be a problem, is it?” He might hesitate to help, especially if he’s heard that Roman has a bounty on my father’s head. “You owe us, remember?” I lean over when he doesn’t respond, pinning him with a glare. “What was it you told my dad? That no matter what, when we came calling, you’d drop everything to help?”

“Y-yes,” he stammers. “I was shocked, that’s all. And Mr. Ricci missed his last appointment, so I have no idea what’s going on.”

I see. “Can you reach him?”

He shakes his head. “No. He told me he’d contact me first to set a time and date. That’s the way it’s always been.”

Again, not surprising. If my dad were worried about Mickey selling him out, he’d want to hold all the cards. It also means I’mback where I started without knowing what he’s up to. I know Nico won’t tell—his relationship with my father might have frayed in the past, but it sounds like they’re back in business. And his loyalty is to Marco Ricci, not me.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

“Sure. If you’d like me to do anything else for you?—”

I’m already turning away, dismissing him as the door swings open, closing behind me.

When I get home, the house is quiet, and I climb the steps slowly, dragging my feet to my bedroom. The door remains ajar as I walk to my bed and climb on, tucking my feet under the covers.I’ll deal with it later.

Or maybe not. Maybe I’ll sit back and let things play out. If I know how my father intends to trap Roman, I might—somehow—summon a shred of pity for him.

Pity that he doesn’t deserve.

“Go away.”I kick my feet out when I feel something on my foot, too sleepy to be bothered with identifying whatever it is. But it doesn’t go away and I feel the tapping again, firmer this time.

In retaliation, I kick harder. “Leave me alone. I’m trying to sleep.”

“Mrs. Volkov, dinner’s ready.”

Mrs. Volkov? I almost snort. Why would anyone call me that? As if I’d ever get married to Roman—my eyes fly open as it hits me. Iammarried to him. And it’s Polina, standing at the foot of my bed.

“What?” I ask, simmering with fury. I didn’t need to be reminded that I made the worst mistake of my life yesterday or that I had the chance to avoid it, but I fucked up.

“Dinner,” she says with no emotion in her tone, and her face is flat. “Mr. Volkov is downstairs, waiting for you.” Then she turns, low heels tapping on the ground and her hands behind her back, walking out of the room.

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