Page 5 of Stolen By the Don

None of them hold the man I’m looking for.

A curving staircase looms to my left, and I take it, my hand trailing over the gleaming mahogany rail. The second floor is quiet, and the silence is deafening enough that my steps quicken as I walk past closed doors. Some are slightly ajar, showingglimpses of guest bedrooms, a darkened library, and another hallway that turns sharply left.

A frustrated breath leaves me.

Did he leave?I muse, biting my lower lip. Maybe I can escape, get out and find my father.

Doubling back, I head down the stairs, turning right past the grand piano I somehow missed earlier. Then—finally—I spot a door set back from the rest, half-shielded by shadow. It’s heavy and dark, the wood carved with faint patterns.

My fingers curl around the handle, and my pulse thrums. With a soft exhale, I open the door and step into his study.

Like every other room in the house, the study is spacious. The walls are so tall that I crane my neck to see the ceiling, and the bookshelves on the side walls are filled to the top with books.

But it’s the man seated behind the desk, his face half-illuminated by the lamp perched at the edge of the desk, that catches my attention.

And steals my breath.

I never stopped to think about it, probably because I was fighting for my freedom and wondering how a man could shoot another person dead and not bat an eyelid. But Roman Volkov—as much as I hate to admit it—might be the most striking man I’ve ever laid eyes on.

His eyes are a dark, deep blue. Like the ocean. A blue that carries a tempting chaos. Looking into those eyes feels like the first time I held a gun in my hand, not because my father wanted me to, but because I’d finally found the one I could call mine. It felt heavy, like it could pull me under, and I wouldn’t survive, but Icraved it regardless. His hair is a striking black, with streaks of gray around the temples, and sits in thick, orderly waves pushed to the back of his head.

My gaze flickers to the bridge of his nose and the cut of his jawline. It’salmostimpossible to believe he hasn’t had some work done. And his lips—slightly wide and pressed into a thin line.

His appearance sends one message.That he doesn’t care whether you live or die.

Everything about Roman Volkov screams power. Danger. At the back of my mind, alarm bells go off, telling me to run. To turn around and make it as far as possible.

For some reason, it’s not because he has me captive in his house.

No. It’s something else that pools in my stomach and sinks below with a faint but present throb. Roman Volkov might as well be the most dangerous man I’ve ever come across, but unfortunately for me…that also means he’s devastatingly irresistible.

“You’ve agreed to my proposal, yes?” His voice is rough around the edges, like silk dragged over gravel, unmistakably thick, deliberate, and unapologetic. It sinks into my skin, reaching for my senses.

Thankfully, the words get through first, and I snap out of my daze.

“Proposal?” I spit. “Even if I had a reason to, I’d never marry a liar.”

His brow arches. His head tilts. “Liar?”

“Yes.” I move from my position by the door and walk to his desk. Up close, his eyes are not just blue. They’re cold and calculating. From the corner of my eye, I see a matte-black pistol resting beside a crystal tumbler filled with whiskey.

He could kill me.

I ignore the way fright wraps around my throat, cutting off the air for a moment. “You said my father broke a blood pact and killed your father.”

Roman’s chin lifts.Yes?

“Your father died in a car accident,” I point out. “It was in the news. CEO of Volkov Industries dies in a tragic car crash,” I say as if reading the headline from memory.

He doesn’t respond, but his silence tells me I’m close to the truth, so I continue. “Why would you say my father killed him? You’re looking for someone to blame, aren’t you? And you think I’m the helpless woman who’ll let you walk all over her and be intimidated by your threats.”

Still no answer. Somehow, his silence is more infuriating than his words. “You think I’m going to cower and call my father so you can threaten him into giving you…” I throw my hands in the air with an exasperated exhale. “Whatever it is you want from him.”

I jab my finger at him. “That’s never going to happen. So you either let me go, and I won’t come after you when I leave, or you lose out on everything, including your life.”

Roman suddenly leans forward, and I jerk back instinctively. His fingers flex on the desk, and the lamplight catches a fresh gashalong the back of his hand. It’s red and angry against the lean muscle and the veins that ripple along his fingers.

“I don’t want anything from your father, Isabella.” He runs my name over his tongue. “Except his head, of course.”

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