Page 84 of Stolen By the Don

“I didn’t,” Igor cuts in, smooth as ever. “I know she’s pregnant, Roman. And I know the child is yours. Which only makes her worth more to me. Come on now,” he drawls. “Which do you want more? The woman or Marco? You can get some other woman to give you a child. I doubt the daughter of a runaway coward would win you any favors.”

My teeth grind hard as my blood roars in my ears. If he said these words in front of me, I would slit his throat from ear to ear.

“Stay away from Isabella,” I warn. “If you come anywhere close to her, you’ll be lucky if I let you go with half a life.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, and I’m reaching for the end call button when I hear him whisper, “Too late.”

What the fuck did he just say?

“I’m here,” he says. “At the hospital. You didn’t think I would sit back and let you call the shots, did you? I already figured you were going to say no, so I decided to take her myself.”

Isabella!The phone falls to the ground as I break into a run, pushing past people as I scan the hospital corners frantically. I left her alone. I shouldn’t have answered the call.

Fuck. I drag my fingers through my hair and over my face, cursing under my breath. The hospital is too large to cover the first floor alone when she might’ve entered the elevator.

I need backup. I reach for my phone blindly before remembering I dropped it.

God. I need something. Anything. After running back to grab my phone, I step in front of a doctor. “My wife,” I say. “My wife walked into this hospital. She’s pregnant, and she needs to see a doctor. What floor?”

“Your wife?” he repeats with a frown. “Why don’t you come with me first? I’m sure we can?—”

“No,” I snap, slapping his hand off as it reaches for my arm. “I need to find my wife, and you’re going to give me an answer, or I swear I’ll burn this hospital to the ground.”

His eyes widen in alarm and I catch them dart in the direction of a nurse passing by.

“Don’t,” I say, barely keeping my voice calm. “Don’t do that. You might think I’m someone suspicious, but I promise you that if anything happens to my wife, you’ll regret not pointing me in the right direction for as long as you breathe.”

His Adam’s apple bobs. “The second floor. The department is on the second floor.”

“Good.” I nod, already moving. I take off down the corridor, my footsteps echoing. The elevator doors begin to slide shut just as I reach them—I shove my hand between them, barely catching the edge. They jolt open again.

I punch the button for the second floor, chest heaving, pulse pounding in my ears. When the doors slide open, I entera waiting room thick with the smell of antiseptic and soft murmurs. Dozens of women, some visibly pregnant, some holding clipboards, glance up. But not her. No sign of Isabella.

Then I see it—a door halfway down the hall, marked on the frosted glass with “Obstetrics & Gynecology—Exam 3.”

My hand closes around the handle, and I shove it open without knocking.

She’s there. Sitting on the exam table, back rigid, hands curled around the edge of the paper sheet. Her head snaps toward me, eyes wide.

The doctor looks up, startled. “Who are you?”

She’s safe. She’s safe.The words ring repeatedly in my head, echoing over the sound of my heart pounding and my choppy breathing.

“Who are?—

“He’s my husband,” Isabella responds. “My husband.”

The doctor clears her throat. “Oh. Okay. I wasn’t aware we were expecting you, Mr. Volkov. You look…well, you can have a seat while we conduct the exam.”

“What happened to you?” Isabella asks as we walk out of the office. I remain close by her side, scanning the area. While we were still in the exam room, Leo messaged me that he’d arrived, alongside Sergei.

They’ve searched the entire hospital perimeter without any sign of Igor, but I’m not about to let down my guard—even if it turns out that he was bluffing. Once I’m sure she’s safe at home, I’llpay him a visit. And have a casket, or better yet, a cremation service, ready beforehand.

“Roman?” Isabella taps my arm. I jolt, not caught off guard but tense. “Did something happen?”

I shake my head. “You don’t have to worry about it.”

“But I do,” she argues. “It was the phone call, wasn’t it? My father? Did he reach out to you?”

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