Page 72 of Stolen By the Don

Left foot.Right foot.

I can barely see what’s in front of me as I walk through the living room, holding my heels in my hand. I should’ve accepted Leo’s help, but I stood outside the house, waving him off until he drove away.

“You can do this!” I whisper, encouraging myself as I pump a fist high. “Just gotta put one foot ahead of the other, then another?—”

Why did I let the bartender talk me into having so many drinks? And then shots? He didn’t really talk me into it after the first one, but I should’ve known better than to indulge in a lightweight’s biggest weakness.

I need to sleep.

I really, really need to lay my head somewhere before I hit the ground.

My vision blurs until I can only see splotches, but I keep going through the hallway, reaching out to the wall for support and working with muscle memory. I get to a door, juggle the knob, and push it open.

It’s pitch-black, and I nearly trip over the rug as I fumble my way toward the bed. My palm slaps the wall, steadying myself as I swallow the yelp caught in my throat.

There it is—bed. I catch the faint outline of the mattress and the crumpled sheet, and relief washes over me like a warm tide. Just a few more steps. I tug the covers back with a heavy sigh, already dreaming of sinking into the warmth, of closing my eyes and forgetting the day?—

But then I freeze. Not from cold.

Because suddenly, I’m not alone. I’m trapped. A weight pins me down—solid, unmoving. Two hundred pounds of steel-hardmuscle and slow, measured breath inches from my ear. And then I feel it.

The unmistakable chill of metal pressed to my temple.

A gun. To my head. And I can’t scream because my mouth is covered.

There’s an intruder in the house.There’s an intruder in the house!

22

ROMAN

I feel it before I hear it—the presence of someone else in my room. It’s dark, so I can barely see anything, but my gun is in my bedroom drawer by the bed.

Slowly and carefully, so I don’t make a sound and scare them into running away before I can make good use of the gun, I retrieve it.

If I’m shooting, I don’t intend to miss.

What do they want?

Isabella. My heart lurches. Is there more than one of them? I can’t think about how they got in. I need to make sure she’s safe.

But something about the intruder, as they approach the bed, makes my brows furrow. The smell of alcohol is heavy, yet something underneath…floral and intimate, masks the threat.

I wait, poised for them to come closer.

In one swift motion, I clamp my hand over their mouth and shove the cold barrel of the gun to their forehead. “Don’t make a sound,” I growl, low and lethal. “Don’t make a fucking sound.”

A muffled gasp. I inhale again.

Goddamn it.

The scent hits me fully now. Skin-warm perfume and something faintly sweet, like the lotion she always wears after a shower. I glance down, narrowing my eyes as the darkness shifts. A sliver of light from the hallway sneaks through the crack beneath the door, just enough to cut a line across her cheek.

Long lashes. Soft lips.

Isabella.

Fuck.

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