Chapter 1 – Ivan
IVAN
“Stop fucking around. Execute the plan and get on with it.”
Mr. Grey’s gravelly voice, so familiar and fucking annoying, echoed in my head as I ended the call and walked the perimeter of La Dimora. I forced myself to unclench my jaw.
Even after all these years, he still treated me like that feral sixteen-year-old boy he’d found in that basement—more monster than human.
What did he see in me back then? Did he see the killer instinct?
Or had I just been an easy target? Desperate and dirty enough so no amount of sunlight could lighten my soul?
The perfect tool.
Not that it mattered. Not for much longer. Not when my siblings and I were working on gaining our independence to finally live life on our own terms.
I paused, taking in the sprawling Mediterranean estate. This mansion was a testament to what bold autonomy and ultimate freedom looked like.
Only the leading Italian Mafia family would dare to build something like this right here. It should feel out of place here in the middle of rural Connecticut, but somehow, despite all the pompousness, it fit into the surroundings perfectly.
La Dimora Serena. My Italian was sub-par at best, so I had to rely on what I’d read in the report, but the estate, somehow, annoyingly fit the name. Serenity radiated from its cream-colored walls and perfectly manicured gardens—a false sense of peace, much like everything else in our world.
Movement caught my eye. Two figures emerged from the pool area, heading toward a secluded spot farther from the house.
One of the Salvini twins and Salvini’s soon-to-be bride, Jemma Donnelly. My attention sharpened as I watched the Salvini twin sweep the perimeter—casual, practiced yet intense.
Not the behavior of the airheaded socialite the file suggested. What was it with those women, who—on paper—should be nothing more than helpless Mafia princesses, destined to become arm candy or wifeys but who turned out to be much feistier, relentless, and kinda interesting.
They huddled together, the Salvini girl producing a laptop from somewhere under her coat. I mentally checked what I knew about them while observing their secretive behavior.
The reports painted the twins, Isabella, along with her twin sister, Mirabella, as typical Italian Mafia women, with not much substance, no interest in the family business, and obsessed with fashion and parties.
Even though one of the Salvini twins had been a math prodigy, it didn’t seem like she did anything noteworthy with that special talent of hers. Yet during the few times I’d shadowed them in NYC, both had shown flashes of weird behavior. Something that didn’t fit the socialite facade.
The disparity nagged at me like an itch I couldn’t scratch. I didn’t like surprises, good or bad. And I didn’t like wild cards. And the fact that I couldn’t tell them apart was unsettling, as well.
I followed at a distance, noting the Salvini girl’s fluid movements. Too fluid. Too aware. I hung back behind some carefully manicured foliage. The whole property was nature’s nightmare, what with all the coiffured plants that could give the Gardens of Versailles a run for their money.
I stayed hidden for a couple of beats, then watched them again.
They’d settled down at a stone bench, their heads bent together over the laptop screen, conspiratorial, suspicious.
My curiosity piqued. What secrets were the Salvini princess and her future sister-in-law sharing? Something she didn’t want her overprotective brother to know about? Was that why they chose this remote location, out in the cold?
I stepped closer and deliberately stepped on a twig to announce my arrival.
They both immediately stiffened.
“Ladies,” I said smoothly, stepping into view. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”
The transformation was immediate and fascinating.
Salvini’s entire demeanor shifted; within a split second, she hid the sharp intelligence in her eyes behind a practiced mask of casual indifference.
But I’d seen it—that flash of calculation while she expertly moved to block my view of the screen.
Her body was angled perfectly, a defensive position disguised as a casual pose.
Too perfect to be instinctive.
“Mr. Zotov,” she purred, her voice dripping with—most certainly false—sweetness. “What a surprise to see you out here alone. Is this your yard time?”
I maintained my neutral expression, but something stirred in my chest at her quip. A chuckle? I usually had a tighter rein on my emotions.
She scanned our surroundings before adding, “Or is this your personal re-enactment of prison break?”
Jemma Donnelly barely hid a gasp, but my attention stayed on the Salvini twin. The way she positioned herself—slightly forward, protective—spoke of an awareness and training.
She was ready and prepared to fight my access to her laptop.
I took a step closer, testing her reaction. She didn’t yield an inch but instead lifted her chin in subtle defiance.
“To be honest,” she continued, “if I were in your shoes, I would make a run for it. My brother’s not known for his good manners or for giving second chances.”
I chuckled, genuine despite myself. “Indeed, he’s not.
” I moved closer still, close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume.
“However, I find the company far too intriguing to just run.” I let my gaze drift between them.
“What brings you two lovely ladies out to such a secluded spot? Sharing secrets?”
A flush crept up the Irish mob princess’s neck, but the Salvini girl didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, you know how it is,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “Wedding preparations can get a bit overwhelming. We needed a breather.”
I stepped closer, invading her space deliberately.
The air between us was charged with tension.
She stood her ground, and I caught another glimpse of that steel beneath her silk facade.
“Is that so?” My voice dropped lower. “And does wedding planning typically involve such intense focus on a computer screen?”
“We were looking at dress options.” The lie rolled off her tongue, smooth as silk. She shut the laptop behind her, then handed it to Jemma, who pressed it against her body as if I was about to rip it out of her hands.
I took a closer look and caught sight of a sticker on the laptop’s lid—the Egyptian goddess Isis.
A jolt of…something…shot through me, some snippet lodged somewhere in my memory, some detail I couldn’t get a grasp on.
As if I found a key but had no idea which lock it would fit.
My pulse quickened, and I tensed. Why does this feel significant?
Have I seen this before? Why did I even know it was a depiction of Isis, when I knew next to nothing about Egyptian history?
The sensation was maddening. Something about that sticker, about the Salvini girl herself, triggered all kinds of things in my mind. My instincts screamed that this was important, even if I couldn’t piece together why.
Whatever. Time to put it aside. If everything went to plan—and I was good enough to ensure it would, I would have more time to find out anyway.
“The devil’s in the details. And we can’t have the bride wearing just anything, can we?” she said, with a sassiness in her voice.
My lips curled into a smirk as I dragged my gaze from the laptop—that damned Isis sticker still tugging at my memory—back to her. We were close enough now that I could see the flecks of gold in her dark brown eyes, the way her pulse fluttered at her throat.
Not so cool and unfazed after all.
“Of course not.” I leaned in slightly, pitching my voice for her ears alone. “Though, I must say, I’m surprised to see you so involved in the planning, Isabella?”
I caught her tensing, her jaw tight for a moment before she forced it to relax.
It had been a shot in the dark since I had no idea if she actually was Isabella, but I guessed right.
And there was something about saying her name that felt significant though I couldn’t grasp why. “I wasn’t aware you and your soon-to-be sister-in-law were so…close.”
She shifted almost imperceptibly, blocking me. But our eyes stayed locked in silent challenge. “Family is everything, Mr. Zotov.” Her voice was honey-sweet, but her eyes flashed a warning. “Surely you understand that?”
I moved closer still, using my height to my advantage. Nothing beat a little intimidation to keep the enemy on her toes. Though it wasn’t difficult to tower over her. She was one sweet little package. With curves in all the right places.
Maybe coming this close was a mistake.
For a split second, the tip of her tongue brushed over the lush curve of her lower lip and arrested my gaze before I forced it away and back to meet her eyes.
She tilted her head back and maintained eye contact. The perfect seductress.
Tension crackled between us like lightning before a storm.
And what a storm this would be.
Her lashes fluttered, like the wings of a butterfly, before she straightened, and her eyes changed right before my eyes. She narrowed her brows and glared at me, refusing to be intimidated.
There it was, the intelligence and sharp wit she was hiding beneath that seductress persona.
“Family,” I murmured, just loud enough for her to hear. “Is that what we’re calling it? Because from where I’m standing, princess, you seem to be playing a much more…interesting game.”
Her eyes narrowed fractionally. “And what game would that be, Mr. Zotov?” She matched my tone, quiet and dangerous.
I leaned in, reached out, and my fingers barely brushed the edge of the laptop in Jemma Donnelly’s arms.
Isabella’s breath caught when my body touched hers, but she didn’t pull away.
“That’s what I intend to find out.”
The air grew thick with unspoken threats and possibilities. We were locked in our own world of tension and challenge, the Irish girl forgotten beside us.
Isabella’s lips parted, either to deny or deflect or cuss me out, but something in her expression shifted. Recognition, perhaps? Or calculation?
“You’re not as convincing as you think you are,” I whispered, close enough that my breath stirred her hair.
“Neither are you,” she countered, voice equally soft but sharp as a blade. “Tell me, what’s your real interest here? Because we both know it’s not being part of this wedding.”
Before I could respond, heavy footsteps approached. Vincenzo Salvini’s voice cut through the tension. “What’s going on here?”
He strode toward us, flanked by two of his men, his face a mask of controlled anger. I took a deliberate step back from Isabella but kept my eyes on her. The mask of the innocent Mafia princess slipped back into place so smoothly it was almost believable. Almost.
Vincenzo narrowed his eyes, his gaze moving from the laptop to Jemma, then Isabella, and finally landing on me. “You should’ve made a run for it,” he growled, then nodded at his men.
I gave him a lopsided grin and lifted my hands in mock surrender. “I rather enjoy your hospitality,” I said, then bowed slightly in Isabella’s and Jemma’s direction. As I straightened, I caught Isabella’s gaze one last time. Something passed between us—a challenge, a warning, a promise.
I allowed myself to be escorted back toward the house, my mind racing. The laptop. Her trained movements. The calculated intelligence behind her eyes.
Each step away from her felt like a puzzle piece clicking into place, even if I couldn’t see the full picture yet. The way she’d positioned herself between me and the laptop. The fluid grace of her movements. The sharp wit beneath the sugary words. None of it fit the profile of a vapid socialite.
Isabella was not all she pretended to be.
As if the spark of attraction I’d felt during our confrontation wasn’t dangerous enough without this added layer of intrigue.
And yet, as Vincenzo’s men led me back into the house, I found myself looking forward to unraveling every piece of this puzzle, even if it meant defying my mentor’s orders to “Execute the plan as fast as he wanted.”
Who are you really, Isabella Salvini?
The question echoed in my mind again. A challenge. Something I might have to find out, whether she wanted me to or not.
And judging by the spark of awareness I’d seen in her eyes when I came too close, and the way she blocked me from Jemma Donnelly and that laptop, she might have secrets even her powerful family didn’t know about.
This game was getting interesting, and I intended to win—even if playing meant breaking the rules and winning meant changing all the rules.