Page 51 of Stolen By the Don

I shake my head as I walk to the bathroom, closing the door with a click. I gasp at the sight of myself in the mirror. I’ve never seen worse bed hair than the mess on my head, my eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, dark circles under them, and I must’ve dragged my nails down my throat because I see a fresh cut.

“You look horrible, Isabella,” I mutter, stating the obvious aloud. My stomach grumbles too, reminding me that I not only stink up a storm, I barely ate dinner.

I need a shower first.

As I step inside, the water rains hot down my hair and pours over my body. I throw my head back and close my eyes, taking deep breaths.

“If you think he doesn’t deserve to face the consequences, then you’re as much a hypocrite as your father is.”Roman’s quiet words echo in my head, bringing back patchy images from the argument we had.

Am I…really a hypocrite? I’ve spent the past weeks defending my father and damning Roman to hell. I wished him all kinds of dark fates, and I told myself I didn’t care if he had to die to gain my freedom.

But if my father did kill his dad, can I still blame him for what he’s done? If the reverse were true, what would I have done?

Everything, and that’s the truth. I’d have done anything to avenge my father’s death, no matter the price. Even if it meant pulling a bullet through the forehead of anyone who stood in my way.

He taught me that—my father. Loyalty. Responsibility. Duty. They came before everything else, including fickle emotions likeaffection or empathy. Apparently, they came at the expense of family too, because he didn’t hesitate to sell me off to the highest bidder.

Why would I expect Roman to behave differently? The Riccis might have been an extension of the bratva, but he belongs at the center.Head of the Volkov brotherhood.Even if he thought of sparing my father, he has responsibilities to the organization under his control.

The water turns cold as I lose myself in muddled thoughts, but when I step out, it’s with one resolution—I don’t care what my father does or who he makes dealings with.

I’m no longer his daughter.

Isabella Volkov.I wipe the fogged mirror, staring at my reflection. “Isabella Volkov,” I whisper.

I told myself I’d never utter the last name aloud, and now it rolls off my tongue with acceptance. My marriage to Roman might’ve been against my will, and he might be an emotionless, ruthless brute, but a life with him is better than holding on to my father’s empty promise.

“He was never going to hand it over to you.”

My hands grip the edge of the sink as I suck in a deep breath, hanging my head low. It’s over now. I need to think of how to survive here, being Roman’s wife, until I figure out a way out.

This might be less than hell, but it’s not heaven either—it’s just a temporary place.

The sound of my phone ringing pulls me out of the bathroom in a hurry. I yank up the edge of my mattress to retrieve it.

It’s Nico. “Nico?” I say.

“Miss Ricci.”

Volkov. I don’t correct him. “Yes?”

“Are you safe?”

“Yes,” I respond flatly. I’m safer here than in my father’s presence.

He sighs. “Good. Your father and I communicated after I called you. And—we’ve decided to do something about Roman Volkov today.”

My eyes widen like saucers, and a gasp dissolves between my lips. “Today?”

“Yes.”

When he told me they were going to take Roman out—kill him—I wasn’t expecting it to be so soon. After I tried finding out the plan without success, I concluded I’d let it happen without my input. Then we argued last night and I completely forgot.

Back then, I saw it as a way out. Now…I’m not so sure. I exhale again, biting my fingernail nervously. “Is he going to do it himself? My dad, I mean? Or is he going to make someone else do his dirty work like he’s been doing for weeks?” Anger seeps into my voice.

“Igor Smirnov.”

Something about the name makes my brows knot tight. My thoughts scatter, and without thinking, I bite off my cuticle, wincing at the sharp pain. “Who is that?”

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