Page 68 of Stolen By the Don

She lets out a breathy, nervous laugh when I don’t say anything.

“It’s fine,” she says with a shake of her head. “I didn’t hear much. Just…you know, what you wanted to do to my father.” She lifts her brows, trying for levity, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Which is something I already know. Right?”

Her voice wavers at the end like she’s bracing herself, hoping I’ll deny it, even though the truth’s already settled in her chest like a stone.

“Again…” She waves her hands. “It’s fine. You said it’s a blood oath. I understand that. A life for a life and whatever the rules say.”

In the months that have passed since my father died, not once have I thought about sparing Marco Ricci. But watching Isabella struggle not to fall apart, I feel my first shred of mercy for him.

“You should’ve gone for eucalyptus,” I say, instead of allowing myself a moment of weakness. I’ve already done it once tonight. “It works better.”

She nods slowly, hinting at my cover-up, but she doesn’t push. “Okay.”

“I’ll make some for you,” I offer, walking away. It’s the least I can do before I take the only family she has left. As I turn on thestove and place a kettle on it, Isabella walks into the kitchen. She settles by the island quietly, her fingers tapping on the surface. The silence that stretches between us feels oddly strange and uncomfortable, begging to be filled.

What do I say?

Sorry?

I’m not sorry for holding up the terms of a contract that was broken. I’m not apologetic for going ahead with my revenge.

I do feel sorry, though. More than I thought I would when I started out.

“I wanted to be an astronaut.”

I turn. “Astronaut?”

She nods, a small smile on her lips. “Yeah. It was a short-lived dream, but I stumbled on a book about the moon when I was very young. For some reason, it fascinated me. I thought about how amazing it’d be to walk on it.” Her smile spreads, and I watch nostalgia fill her eyes.

It lasts the lifespan of a flickering light bulb before it dies. Isabella sighs, her face shuttering. “I was nine.” She laughs bitterly. “I didn’t know anything about the real world. But I was determined, so I had my father’s driver take me to the library, where I read as many books as possible.” She shakes her head. “Some words were too complicated, but I read them anyway.”

I try to picture her as a child, poring through books in a library, her eyes shining with enthusiasm and excitement. She would’ve been the most adorable thing.

“Then he found out,” she says. “He said it was foolish. I fought stupidly and hid one book in my room. Until he found that too. Then, when I was eleven, he took me to a shooting range. It was punishment for going into my mother’s room, but he was also punishing me for defying his orders.”

Shooting range? Eleven?I grew up knowing the bratva was my life, that I would head the organization after my father retired, but I didn’t have any other dreams.

I wasn’tforcedto learn how to shoot or defend myself. I wanted to.

“I tossed the book outside in anger.” Isabella’s voice falters as she continues, her gaze staring straight into nothing. “I convinced myself that he was right. He was my father, the only parent I had left. So, I devoted my life to pleasing him. I was his perfect, loyal daughter, and if I inherited everything he built, I would be grateful that I got the chance.”

Fuck. Fucking hell. The kettle whistles, and I turn off the stove and grab the handle. I don’t let go or lift it, even as the steam burns my palm.

Killing Marco Ricci means avenging my father, but I wouldn’t mind putting a second bullet through his head for Isabella.

For the childhood he stole from her.

“Anyways.” She laughs as she blinks, refocusing in my direction, her hand dismissing everything. “I thought we could do with some small talk while you made tea.”

She hops off the chair and gets two mugs while I look for the eucalyptus tea. I pour for us both and move to the adjoining dining table while she remains at the counter.

“What about you?” Isabella asks as I take a sip. I lower the mug slowly, and she shrugs. “I’m curious. Did you always grow up knowing you’d join the bratva? Did you ever think about leaving—at any point?”

I shake my head.

She laughs again, but it doesn’t reach her eyes this time either. “I’m not surprised. You’re pretty determined. I couldn’t even go through with an escape plan. You would’ve braved the heat and found somewhere to stay through the storm.”

“I’m not sure I would’ve,” I say softly. “It rained pretty bad.”

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