Page 60 of Stolen By the Don

“Let’s go,” I say, keeping the information to myself. “I’m done here.”

He opens the door with ease and stands to one side. “Your wish is my command.”

As the car drives away, I happen to glance out the window just in time to see a man walk toward Mickey’s store. His face is hidden with a hood drawn around it, but I get the sinking feeling that he’s one of my father’s men.

The door opens, and he walks in, and my heart sinks even further with one final realization.

Mickey’s as good as dead.

18

ROMAN

“Well, who do we have here?!” Igor Smirnov cackles as I walk into his office—a seedy-looking space in a run-down bar filled with filth, grime, and underpaid employees. The two women perched on either side of his desk scramble to their feet, looking at him for instructions.

“It’s Roman Volkov, everyone.” He spreads his hands. “The great, amazing, unbeatable Roman Volkov has wandered into my lair. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

I came to find out if he was truly behind the attack at the orphanage and beat him to a pulp. If he wasn’t, and Nico’s words to Isabella were to throw me off, I’ll only break a couple of bones.

For running his mouth about my wife. All in due time, though.

Pulling out a chair, I sit and cross my legs. “Why don’t you tell your buddies to hurry along, hm? They wouldn’t want to be here to see your ego crushed,” I say.

His eyes narrow as a muscle jumps in his jaw, and for a moment, I expect him to try his luck.A punch, probably.One that I can easily deflect before I choke the life out of him.

Or his gun—then we’ll see who draws faster.

He must’ve calculated and realized the odds were slim, because he pivots, grinning wildly. “Girls—” He turns to them. “Can you give us some space? I’ll be down to take care of you shortly. I’ve got some important business to attend to.”

They hurry out, tittering on their heels, slamming the door behind them. Grave silence settles in their absence before Igor clears his throat.

“You better have a damn good reason for interrupting my little party, Roman?—”

“Where is Marco?” I cut off his whining.

I don’t raise my voice—I don’t have to.

He blinks, momentarily thrown off, lips parting as if his mouth forgot how to lie. There’s a flicker of unease behind his eyes, quickly masked by a smirk. Marco must’ve helped more than just his pride—because a man like Igor, used to groveling in dark corners, would never expect me to grant him an audience.

“Why?” he drawls when he recovers, leaning back as if bored. “Why should I tell you where he is? Because he killed your father? That’s the game, Roman Volkov.” He gestures vaguely, a careless flick of the wrist, letting nonchalance coat his tone like oil. “You either take someone out, or you’re taken out.”

“Spoken like a true lowlife,” I reply, my voice deadly calm. I lean forward, slow and precise, until the chair’s leather creaks from tension. “You call yourself a member of the brotherhood, and yet you flaunt the rules recklessly.”

I pause, letting silence choke the space between us. “You might’ve forgotten, Igor,” I say, “but if I decide you helped him escape, I’m coming for your life too.”

The color drains from his face before he can hide his fear. My lips curl in a knowing smile and I watch him squirm as he shifts in his seat.

Then he straightens his shoulders as if trying to reclaim ground already lost.

“Should I be scared?” he says with a forced chuckle, but there’s a slight tremor in his voice. “Why would I be, Roman, when you can’t even track down the man you desperately want?”

He leans forward now, emboldened by his own words, elbows resting on the table, eyes glittering with challenge. “Tell me…if you can’t find Marco Ricci, what makes you think you can touch me?”

I can tell he’s bluffing. His smile is all teeth, but I’ve seen the same smile before—from men who gamble, knowing they’ll lose. The only reason he’s confident is because of the men standing outside the door. But they won’t save him if I decide to kill him.

Again, in due time.

“Let’s try this a different way.” I ease back into my chair, interlocking my fingers. “Did Marco put you up to the attack?”

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