13. Isabella
ISABELLA
I find Roman in the kitchen the next morning, drinking coffee. He pauses when he sees me, the mug hanging halfway between his lips and the counter, his eyes briefly assessing my appearance.
“Good morning,” he says.
Oh. It wasn’t exactly a typical wedding night, but I expected him to either ignore me or come up with a remark to piss me off.
“Good morning,” I mutter, turning away from him to the fridge. I grab a bottle of water and tuck it under my arm, heading back toward the door. Since I can’t leave the house and I’m not in the mood for breakfast, my only solution is to get more sleep.
“I’ve asked Sergei to drive you.”
I hesitate, looking over my shoulder with one foot out the doorway. Is he talking to me? I blink slowly, confused. “Drive me?”
He nods. “Yes. You want to leave the house, don’t you?”
“Ah,” I scoff, clicking my tongue. “ Now you think I want to leave? It didn’t occur to you when I tried to escape, or when you threatened to have your men shoot me, that I wanted to leave this place?” The last words come out with frustration as I grit my teeth.
Roman places his mug on the counter. He doesn’t respond for a minute, working on the cuff links of his sleeves. The expensive silver glints against the crisp white fabric stretched over his forearms, showing them off in a way that makes my chest flutter.
Wrong feeling. I push it away, focusing on my ire. “What changed?”
He lifts his head, gazing at me through half-lidded lashes. “You said it yourself. You were going to run away.”
Huh. What bullshit. I thrust my hands onto my hips, ignoring the thud of the water bottle as it falls to the floor. “And now? What makes you think I won’t do it again?”
He shrugs, eyes narrowing lazily. His voice thickens as he speaks. “Because you’re mine. You’re mine before the law, and no matter how far you run, I have a claim to you.”
In other words, I’m property. Branded property. It should make me livid, but my thoughts race back to his bedroom after he brought me home. When he touched me and used me and I craved more.
A shiver pulses through me, twisting low in my belly. Before I can process my actions, I clench my thighs tight, desperate for friction, for something to dull the surge of memory coursing through me.
Roman notices.
Of course he does.
His gaze drops, and I hear a low sound. Like a growl. A grunt. The last time I felt him make that sound, it was against my skin, and he was inside me, stretching every inch of my body.
“You’re a cruel man,” I say.
“I don’t disagree,” he replies.
My fingers grip the bottle as I pick it up, distorting the shape of the plastic. He’s insufferable to the point where I want to pick him apart and watch him struggle to find his ego.
“If I can’t go wherever I want, I won’t accept your offer,” I say with a toss of my chin.
“You want to meet your father?” he throws back, not missing a beat.
It takes me a moment to recover, not because I’m thinking about what he suggested, but because I remember my conversation with Nico last night—their plan to break me out and what they intend to do to Roman.
I stare at him, wondering if he knows. Maybe I’m the one in the dark, and he has people monitoring calls between my dad and Nico. Maybe he knows they’re laying a trap for him, and he’s already one step ahead.
Or, he doesn’t. For all his cockiness, Roman Volkov might have a blind spot.
“I have a question.”
He tilts his head, asking me to go on.
“Do you think you’re untouchable? Do you ever wonder if maybe, like your father, you might be trusting the wrong people?”
The change in his demeanor is immediate. I see the muscle twitch in his jaw and the slight flare of his nostrils. His father, I realize too late. I shouldn’t have mentioned him.
But it was worth seeing him rattled. If I need to find his weakness, I know where to probe.
I’m basking in my temporary victory, and he walks toward me. My brain screams flight, but I stand my ground, forcing my thoughts to remain silent. He halts a few feet away and I let out the breath I was holding. It leaves my body like a betrayed whoosh.
Roman’s voice, when it comes, is low and clipped. “You don’t get to talk about my father,” he says. “Not when you’re in the middle of lying to me.”
“A lie?” I push through the croak that follows the first word, squaring my shoulders. “I merely asked a question. You said my father was responsible for your father’s death. And yet, from what I’ve heard, he was a tough man. The only way he would’ve been set up was if he trusted the wrong people.”
“Like your father?” Roman drawls. “It sounds to me like you’re finally accepting that your father is a dishonest coward. Good for you.”
I knew I was walking into a trap. I refuse to back down, taking a bold step forward.
There’s nothing between us now, not a hair’s breadth or a finger length.
I ignore my thoughts as they spiral, facing him squarely.
“Sure. He might be dishonest and sometimes a coward. It’s not as though you haven’t run away from a fight before.
But you see…” I sigh pitifully. “The difference between you and I is that you’re not ready to accept that you might be backing the wrong horse.
It’s a recipe for disaster, Roman Volkov. ”
This time, his silence makes me feel empowered.
“A recipe for disaster,” I repeat, clicking my tongue.
“But good luck. I’m sure you can handle it.
You’re big and strong, after all.” A swift flashback hits me, and I go pale for a moment.
I remember when I said those exact words—big and strong.
Tucking it away before it becomes a weakness he can pounce on, I flip my hair and turn, leaving him standing there.
My lips crack in a splitting grin as I climb the stairs. It feels good to be the one walking away. I’m sure my streak won’t last, but for now, it’s amazing.
I said I wouldn’t accept his offer, but I’m out of the house in an hour, slipping into the back seat of a sporty Audi.
“Just drive,” I tell Sergei as I lean back, closing my eyes.
I can’t risk Roman knowing about Nico, so I can’t arrange a direct meeting.
It doesn’t mean I won’t try, though. My dad has people everywhere—bars, clubs, and the most inconspicuous of places, like auto shops and cafes.
There’ll be someone there to deliver my message.
Our first stop is a vintage shop, and Sergei waits in the car as I walk into the shop. The smell of old stuff hits me—dust, age, and wear—and I clear my throat as I approach the front desk, drawing the attention of the man behind the counter.
“Hi?”
He looks up from polishing a weird-looking piece, and his eyes widen when he sees me. “Miss…Miss Ricci?”
Thank heavens. “Hi, Mickey.” I smile, slapping my hand on the counter.
“How’s it going?” My dad found Mickey peddling, gave him a shop, and uses the shop to launder money.
He never told me outright, but he brought me along a few times, and it didn’t take long to see that he wasn’t buying any antiques.
Mickey’s my age, but he lives and looks like he has no idea how the world works.
“Ah.” He scratches his hair, falling over his forehead. “It’s fine, I guess. I heard…” He purses his lips, reluctant to finish his statement. I don’t know if it’s true, but I heard something.”
“That I almost got married, but I was kidnapped?” I say.
His head bobs. “Yeah, but…but you got married again, right?”
Roman. It’s not surprising. We got married yesterday—a small ceremony that would’ve remained unknown if we were two other people, but the news has spread like wildfire.
“Yes,” I say flatly. “That isn’t going to be a problem, is it?
” He might hesitate to help, especially if he’s heard that Roman has a bounty on my father’s head.
“You owe us, remember?” I lean over when he doesn’t respond, pinning him with a glare.
“What was it you told my dad? That no matter what, when we came calling, you’d drop everything to help? ”
“Y-yes,” he stammers. “I was shocked, that’s all. And Mr. Ricci missed his last appointment, so I have no idea what’s going on.”
I see. “Can you reach him?”
He shakes his head. “No. He told me he’d contact me first to set a time and date. That’s the way it’s always been.”
Again, not surprising. If my dad were worried about Mickey selling him out, he’d want to hold all the cards.
It also means I’m back where I started without knowing what he’s up to.
I know Nico won’t tell—his relationship with my father might have frayed in the past, but it sounds like they’re back in business.
And his loyalty is to Marco Ricci, not me.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“Sure. If you’d like me to do anything else for you?—”
I’m already turning away, dismissing him as the door swings open, closing behind me.
When I get home, the house is quiet, and I climb the steps slowly, dragging my feet to my bedroom. The door remains ajar as I walk to my bed and climb on, tucking my feet under the covers. I’ll deal with it later.
Or maybe not. Maybe I’ll sit back and let things play out. If I know how my father intends to trap Roman, I might—somehow—summon a shred of pity for him.
Pity that he doesn’t deserve.
“Go away.” I kick my feet out when I feel something on my foot, too sleepy to be bothered with identifying whatever it is. But it doesn’t go away and I feel the tapping again, firmer this time.
In retaliation, I kick harder. “Leave me alone. I’m trying to sleep.”
“Mrs. Volkov, dinner’s ready.”
Mrs. Volkov? I almost snort. Why would anyone call me that? As if I’d ever get married to Roman—my eyes fly open as it hits me. I am married to him. And it’s Polina, standing at the foot of my bed.
“What?” I ask, simmering with fury. I didn’t need to be reminded that I made the worst mistake of my life yesterday or that I had the chance to avoid it, but I fucked up.