Page 53 of Stolen By the Don

“Call him. I need you to call and tell him that he’s in danger. My father is going to try to kill him today.”

Hours.

That’s how long I pace the living room, listening to every sound outside the door. Once, I walk to the kitchen for a glass of water, but it barely touches my lips before I race back when I hear the door open.

It isn’t Roman. Or Leo, either.

He killed him. I was too late, and my father succeeded. My mind begins to spiral, drowning in dark thoughts.He’s dead. Roman is dead.

The thought of it is too much to bear, too suffocating. I stumble back to the couch, collapsing onto it, my hands tugging through my hair as tears run down my face.

Then I hear footsteps outside. I freeze as my heart leaps into my throat, and the door opens.

Roman.

I barely have time to register his presence before I’m on my feet, rushing toward him, my pulse roaring in my ears.

“Roman.” My voice breaks as he shakes his head, telling me to stay away. His shirt is stained red with blood, and his movements are slow as he cradles his left arm in his other hand, keeping a firm grip on the spot, still leaking blood.

“What happened?” My voice shakes, barely above a whisper. He drops onto the smaller sofa and I turn to Leo, desperate for answers. “What happened to him? I thought I called. I was early enough, wasn’t I?”

“A gunshot,” Roman grunts. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

My hands fly to my mouth as I gasp. Gunshot? I was too late, then. I could’ve told him the day I got the call from Nico, but I waited until the last moment, clinging to my anger against him.

I bite my lip hard, keeping the tears away as I approach him.

Regret fills me as I crouch, and my hands tremble when I touch his arm. His body stiffens beneath my touch, and he winces, hisjaw clenched tight. “You should go to the hospital,” I say. “Why isn’t he at the hospital?” I turn to Leo.

“It’s a flesh wound,” Roman replies before Leo can. “You should go, Isabella.” His eyes flicker to mine.

I can’t.I caused this. And I need to fix it, somehow.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath as he moves, his face turning pale from the pain.

I clear my throat and rub my hands down my pants. “You’ll need to get it stitched, at least. I’ll do it for you if you’re not going to the hospital.”

Roman scoffs, the sound sharp and dismissive. “I don’t need a fainting nurse on my hands, printsessa. I’ll see to it myself.”

I grit my teeth, the urge to snap back rising in my chest, but I bite it back—just barely. I step back, folding my arms across my chest, and glare at him with as much defiance as I can muster. “Princess? I’m not weak, Roman. I’ve seen my fair share of flesh wounds and stitched up enough. Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I’m useless.”

His eyes narrow, his gaze sharp, and he tilts his head, a dangerous smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “I never said you were weak because you’re a woman, Isabella. Far from it. But you shouldn’t claim to be what you are not.”

“Says the man who’s still bleeding out and might pass out any time soon,” I retort, not backing down an inch.

“Oh?” He chuckles, then turns a shade paler. I don’t wait for his quip before I turn, racing off as adrenaline kicks in, my footsteps pounding against the floor. I find Polina in the hallway, standing by the wall with a small box in her hands, holding it out to me.

“Take,” she urges, her voice steady, almost too calm. “You’ll need this.”

“Have you…” I start to ask, but she cuts in—a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head, asking me not to finish the question.

She’s been working with him for years. It’s probably not her first time seeing Roman all bloodied. That’s why she looks so calm.

I nod, accepting the box, muttering, “Thank you.”

Roman is slumped on the sofa in the living room, still gritting his teeth against the pain. Crouching, I open the box, pull out the scissors, and set them to work on his shirt.

As I peel the material away, the sight of the blood—too much of it—makes my head spin. I steady myself, taking a deep breath, trying to push down the rising nausea. I wasn’t lying when I said I’d seen my fair share of flesh wounds, but I was definitely stretching the truth when I said I’d stitched them.

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