Page 62 of Stolen By the Don

I unhook the string and reach into the envelope, taking out a blown-out picture. Bodies. Dead bodies.

“Gruesome, isn’t it?” Igor whispers. “That’s why he hasn’t returned to Italy. He’s dead if he does. That is also why you and I should partner up. We both have things to gain from seeing him dead.”

Placing the picture back into the envelope, I stand, letting my silence answer for me. “Come on,” he presses, his voice like a whine in my ear. “I didn’t kill you. I could’ve, but I turned it down. That should count for something, right?”

A menacing, humorless smile touches my lips briefly as I place my hand on his desk. “I’d never trust a rat like you,” I say.

Igor laughs, but it’s shaky now, the kind that hopes to lighten a mood that’s already strangling him. “Then tell me, Roman…” He grins. “You planning to keep Isabella all to yourself forever? Or do the rest of us get a turn? You don’t really want her, do you? It’s just to get back at Marco.”

I see red.

My hand flies across the desk, seizing him by the collar and fistfuls of his hair. I yank him forward and slam his face into the hardwood so hard it rattles the frame. The crunch of bone is instant and sickening.

He howls beneath me, hands flailing, blood dripping from his broken nose.

I lean in close, still pinning him down with my hand on his neck. “Mention her again,” I whisper, “and I’ll tear yourfuckingtongue out before you get the chance to apologize.”

I yank his head back with his hair so he sees my face. So he knows that my threat is a promise waiting to be fulfilled.

“If Marco reaches out to you, you’ll tell me immediately, or so help me god, I will end you.”

The soundof carefree laughter reaches from the depths of the house as I walk in—like sunlight spilling out of an open window. I follow it without thinking, and it takes my steps to the kitchen, where Isabella’s standing by the counter, a glass of wine in hand.

Leo and Polina are present too, but from the scene that greets me, she seems to have been talking with Leo. I don’t get to find out what they were talking about because he sees me over her shoulder and winks.

“You’re in time for dinner.”

“Dinner?” I repeat, puzzled.

Isabella whirls around, and I watch her expression, waiting for a hint to understand what I walked into. But she’s barely readable.

“Yeah,” Leo replies. “Isabella asked me to stay for dinner, and I wasn’t about to refuse Polina’s amazing steak and a good bottle of wine.”

My gaze darts to the counter again, and I see not one but two glasses of wine and a bottle of Merlot. I look at Isabella again, my brows furrowing as my confusion spreads.

When did they become best friends?

And why does it feel like she didn’t expect me to return this early? It’s my home, but I feel like a third party. An intruder.

“How would you like your potatoes, sir?” Polina asks. “Baked or roasted? Would you like roasted vegetables or salad?”

“Oh—” Leo snaps his fingers before I reply. “You should go with baked, and roasted vegetables. Isabella swears by them—she says they’re amazing.”

How much time did they spend together? I told Leo to watch over her because I trusted him to keep her safe, and for the company—but not so they could bond.

“Leo,” I hiss through my teeth, “I need to speak to you. Outside.” I jerk my thumb over my shoulder when he hesitates. “Now.”

I turn without bothering to find out if he’s following, walking down the hallway until we’re out of earshot. “What was that?”

He shakes his head. “What waswhat?”

I hold my tongue to keep from sounding like an insecure man, even though I just returned from Igor Smirnov, where I showed him that she’s mine.

Leo wouldn’t go that far.“Nothing,” I say, my tone clipped. “I don’t want dinner. Tell Polina to set the table for you two.”

“Ah, nope.” Leo grabs my arm before I can leave. I whirl, arching a brow. “She’s your wife. If anybody should be having dinner with her, it’s you.”

“Aren’t you best friends already?” It slips out. That spark of jealousy. It slips, and Leo catches on quickly.

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