Page 6 of Stolen By the Don

His head?

“And I’m disappointed,” he throws out casually. His gaze rakes over my body, open and unbothered, lingering on the low-cut neckline of my wedding dress and the transparent lace that starts inches above my knees and flows all the way to the floor.

I should’ve gone for something modest.Or extravagant.But I wasn’t about to deny myself the pleasure of my dream wedding, even if that wedding was one I didn’t fully consent to. So I went to the bridal shop and picked the second dress they showed me, which was the most expensive.

I regret that decision now because Roman’s gaze makes me feel…exposed.

Like I’m wearing next to nothing, spread out for his sole pleasure. I bite down on my lip, curbing the urge to cross my arms over my chest.

Let himlookall he wants. He’ll never touch me.

“I did my research on you, Isabella Ricci,” he continues as his gaze returns to my face. “You were supposed to take over from your father. You’ve been in the family’s business since childhood, and you know how the bratva works.”

“And?” I ask pointedly.

He shrugs. “It’s odd, that’s all. That you’d believe everything you see in the news. I guess it’s because I haven’t killed your fatheryet. Because when I do, it won’t be an accident. It will be so gruesome that the media will report it word for word. Marco Ricci—” He gestures with his hand in the air, as if he’s reading a headline. “Consigliere for the Russian bratva, killed and dumped in a gutter like a pig.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” I sneer. “You wouldn’t dare!”

When his lips curl, I realize it was bait. His theatrics, the delivery…it was all bait to see how I’d react. From the wedding upstaging till now, I’ve just been playing into his hands.

No.

No, Isabella.How could I not have seen it?

I take a deep breath, and another, until I find composure. “So you’re saying that my dad was responsible for your father’s death, and yet you framed it as a car accident? Why?” I purse my lips into a thin line. “Were you so ashamed to admit that the Volkovs have a weakness? Was it that you knew people would find and exploit that weakness, and you had no defense?”

“Did he also teach you how to be manipulative?” Roman replies, not missing a beat. “I can’t imagine you went very far. He must’ve been disappointed.”

The jerk.

“I—” I stop.

There’s no use going back and forth with him when I’m not sure what he has planned. The more I give him ways to get under the skin, the more leverage he has to keep me riled up.

Keep your head down.The first lesson my father taught me when I was finally allowed to attend meetings with him.He warned me he wouldn’t protect me, so I would face the consequences without mercy if I spoke out of turn. I was naive, but I learned my lesson after being publicly ridiculed that day. Instead of showing my hand, I learned to observe—see what the other person has before making a move.

Exhaling slowly, I let my hands drop to my sides. “I guess there’s nothing else to say, then.” I hesitate, just a fraction, to see if he’ll have any reaction to my sudden switch, but his face is like a mask, revealing nothing.

Not yet, anyway.

“I hope you don’t come to regret your decision, Roman Volkov,” I mutter, the words stiff on my tongue as I spin on my heel and walk out.

The door clicks shut behind me, but the rage and helplessness don’t. They stay lodged in my throat like a scream that’s begging to claw its way out. I bite down harder, jaw clenched, fingers fisting the fabric of my dress as I storm down the hall in bare feet.

“Calmati,” I whisper over and over.Calm down. Breathe. Focus.

I take the stairs slowly, knees aching and dress heavy as it brushes along the floor. Halfway up, I pause, bracing a hand on my thigh to catch my breath—and that’s when I feel it.

A bulge beneath the lace. My breath stutters.

I blink, my heart thudding as I hitch up my dress and reach beneath it. My fingers graze the inside of the garter to find a pocket. I find my phone inside, smooth and cool against my skin.

Shock slams into me like a wave. My mouth opens slightly as I pull my phone free, staring at it in disbelief. I slipped it therebefore the ceremony because I couldn’t trust anyone with it. I didn’t have bridesmaids or friends at the wedding, and my father taught me better than letting valuables fall into the wrong hands.

With the chaos that ensued, I forgot about it.

My phone. A harsh, triumphant laugh slips past my lips as I look over my shoulder, grinning at the study’s door.

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