Page 95 of Stolen By the Don

Something’s wrong.

The moment she walked in, I could tell she’d convinced herself to hide the truth from me. It showed when her lips quivered and her shoulders stood rigid.

My hands dig into my pockets as my frustration brims with anger. I should respect her reasons and wait for her to open up, but seeing her like that, struggling not to fall apart, makes it impossible to stay away.

“Fuck,” I curse under my breath, turning and heading for her room. I’m close to the stairs when my phone begins to ring. I reach for it absentmindedly, but Leo’s name flashing on the screen halts me.

“She’s home,” I say.

“Yeah,” he replies. “I know. That’s not why I’m calling, though. The intel—” He pauses, then hisses, “It’s real. I have visual proof of Marco Ricci. He’s in one of the laundromats. It’s an hour from your house. The fucker came out of his hiding place alright.”

For a couple seconds, I forget to breathe. It feels like the moment I’ve been waiting for is so close—so close that if I blink, it’ll disappear.

“Are you certain?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he replies. “I’m sending you pictures now. You might want more backup because he managed to get every last gangster money could buy, guarding the place and watching the buildings around.”

My phone vibrates, and I open the message. Sure enough, it’s Marco, with the same ugly smile on his face, standing by the exit of the laundromat with another man.

I place the phone to my ear again. “Where are you?” I ask Leo.

“A couple blocks away. Didn’t want to spook them. But…” He clicks his tongue. “I have a feeling they’re preparing for something, Roman. Maybe he knows,you know.”

It doesn’t matter. As far as I’m concerned, Marco Ricci doesn’t get to leave the building alive.

I meet Leo two blocks out, just like he said. I slide into the passenger seat, gun holstered but hand twitching to draw.

“What’s the update?” I ask, eyes already scanning the street.

Leo nods toward the cracked windshield. “Four men outside. More are circling the block, probably lookouts. The lights are still on inside. The car Marco came in is parked two shops down—a black sedan with no plates.”

I grunt. “And inside?”

“Two confirmed guards posted by the back exit. One on the second floor. Marco’s in the office, far right, behind the wash bay. The room has a reinforced door and no windows.”

Of course it does. He’ll use his men as bait.

I inhale through my nose and hold it for a second. Then I nod. “We move now.”

He whistles once, and the SUV parked half a block behind flashes its lights in response. My men spill out, dark clothing blending with the fading sunset, weapons ready. We go on foot—quiet and deliberate, sliding through the alley beside the bakery next to the laundromat.

The door creaks open.

The heat inside is suffocating, and the air is wet with the sour-sweet stench of sweat, bleach, and cheap cologne. The buzzing fluorescent lights overhead give the space a sickly glow.

Then I see them.

Two men in black coats stand by a stack of dryer units at the far end of the hallway. One is leaning back, smoking, while the other is watching something on his phone.

This is what he murdered my father for. So he could hire cheap gangsters.

Leo raises his silenced pistol and fires once—then again. The first man crumples against the wall with a dull thud. The second slumps forward onto the floor, legs folding underneath him like a broken puppet.

We keep moving past the coin dispensers, rust-stained sinks, and out-of-order sign taped crookedly to a broken machine. Athird man steps into view, clearly startled. His mouth opens to shout, but it’s too late. I lunge before he can raise his weapon, my gun slamming on his elbow.

His gun goes off in the air.

Somewhere deeper in the building, a voice yells, “Move! We’ve got company!” followed by the sharp metallic slam of a door being thrown open.

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