Page 49 of Stolen By the Don

“I was out of line,” he mutters. “I just can’t help but think you might be softening. I know I was against you marrying her in the first place, but we’re past that now. You can’t afford to feel anything for her, Roman. Not even guilt.”

Guilt. The word digs under my skin like a splinter I can’t rip out.

“She’s clueless because he never cared about her,” I say. “He wasn’t going to hand off his role to a woman he didn’t see as his daughter—to him, she was a tool that didn’t serve him well. That’s why he tried pawning her off to the Glazastovs. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he had another child outside wedlock. His preferred options, maybe.”

Leo exhales audibly. “Damn. That’s cruel. Does she know about it?”

Yes. I told her the same day I made her my wife. “I know she’s been trying to reach him. I’ve seen the phone she hides under her mattress. If she successfully brings Marco out of hiding, I’ll be there to make sure he doesn’t slip through my fingers.”

“Alright.” He nods. He digs his hands into his pockets, kicking out his foot. “I’ll keep working on the leads we have. Should we let him go?” he asks, gesturing to Mickey.

“I’ll handle him.”

“Fine by me. I’ll see you later.”

The store’s door closes noisily, and I stand, making my way over to the seated man. His face trembles in fright as I get closer, and he drops his head when I stop.

“Look at me,” I order.

He shakes his head. “I don’t know where he is, I promise. He comes, collects the money, and leaves. That’s all, I swear on my life. If I knew anything, I’d tell you. I don’t want to die.”

His voice cracks on the last word, but I stay silent, letting the fear stretch, letting it wrap tighter around him until he’s practically shaking apart at the seams.

Pathetic.

I crouch down, leveling my gaze with his bowed head. “You think begging’s going to save you?” I murmur. “You think swearing on your life means anything to me?”

Slowly, painfully, Mickey lifts his head. His eyes are red-rimmed and wet. Disgust twists my gut.

Weak men. They’re all the same when the knife is pressed close enough.

“Please…” he rasps, chest heaving. Then he lifts his head and licks his lips nervously. I see the moment the idea creeps into his head. “If you let me go…I’ll tell you when he shows up. I swear it. I’ll even wear a wire and allow you to set up cameras in my store.”

A dry, amused chuckle rolls off my lips. “So fast? You could’ve held out a little longer, Mickey. How do you expect me to trust you when you rolled over like a dog looking for belly rubs?”

Not to mention, he’ll never be able to fool Marco. The second Leo and I walked into his store, he took one look at us and broke into a run. He confessed to working for Marco when Leo collared him and gave up everything else when Leo tied his hands with the guitar strings.

All in fifteen minutes.

“You’re not useful.” I toss aside his offer as I stand, brushing lint off my pants. “But I have one piece of advice for you. Run. As far as you can, because if Marco returns, and he will, he’ll know you sold him out. You’re a dead man already, Mickey.”

His eyes widen in panic and he stands up as I turn. I look over my shoulder, and he falls back on the chair.

“I’ll do anything,” he begs. “Let me work for you.”

Work for me? I have no use for someone like him, but his offer is nothing short of insulting.

I turn fully, letting a slow, mocking smile curl my mouth. “Death at my hands?” I drawl, dragging the words out. “It’s a thousand times worse than death at Marco Ricci’s.”

I laugh under my breath, tilting my head as if genuinely amused by his stupidity. “At least with him, you might get a bullet. With me? You’ll rot so slowly you’ll pray for hell to come quicker.”

Mickey’s mouth opens and shuts like a fish gasping for air. He looks seconds from pissing himself. I give him a lazy wave like I’m brushing off something worthless. “Now, run along before I decide to start practicing.”

He trips over his feet, falls, gets up, and runs out the door, leaving it to slam in his wake. I shake my head, my gaze catching on the cut guitar strings again.

I’m done here.

As I walk out into the lazy afternoon sun, my phone rings. It’s Billie Russell.

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