Chapter 4 – Isabella
ISABELLA
Istopped when I reached the side entrance and stared down at the cold, metal stairs, then surveyed the area.
Mira and I had had security training, but I couldn’t remember if we’d ever trained how to best escape barefoot, through rough terrain, out in the open.
I didn’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this. The area, like the construction site, looked rundown and abandoned, and suspiciously quiet.
Wrong. All wrong.
Somehow, I’d expected guards patrolling, or at least better security measures. Everything seemed quiet—too quiet to not be a trap.
The perimeter fence stretched along the compound, and I tried to locate the hole in the fence Birdie told me about, but since the light was facing, I couldn’t make it out against the shadows of the trees beyond—freedom so close I could almost taste it.
Hell. I had nothing to lose anyway. Worst case, they would drag me back and put me back into the pod.
As soon as I took the first step and encountered the cold spikes of the metal stairs, I knew this would suck. With each step, icy needles shot through my skin. But I ignored everything and flew down the stairs as fast as I could.
I paused for a moment—still no movement—then broke away from the building in a full-on sprint.
I was halfway to the fence, when the whump-whump of the blade of a rapidly approaching helicopter made me falter.
“Cazzo,” I muttered as I calculated the distance right as the helicopter appeared over the trees and banked down.
Double shit.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I made a split-second decision and dove into the shadow of the only fir tree that was within the fence. Maybe I was lucky enough and they didn’t see me.
I just needed to wait until the helicopter landed on the landing pad, then make it the rest of the way. I searched the fence again. Where was this damn hole Birdie had talked about?
“Merda.” The curse slipped out as I looked back at the helicopter, and right then, someone jumped out of it even before it touched the ground and headed directly at the tree, and me.
I’d been spotted. Time was up.
I burst from the shadow of the tree and sprinted toward the fence, my bare feet screaming at every impact with the rough ground.
The sharp edges of gravel, debris, and vegetation sliced into my soles, but I couldn’t slow down.
Behind me, the steady footsteps grew louder—measured, controlled, gaining ground with each stride.
My heart thundered in my ears, and I sucked in air. This wasn’t some guard stumbling after me in the dark. This person knew exactly what they were doing, like a shark on the attack.
The fence stretched endlessly in both directions. I ran alongside it, scanned desperately for the gap Birdie mentioned. My lungs burned as I pushed harder, ignoring the stabbing pain in my feet and the fact that I actually really hated running.
There—a section where the chain link had been pulled back.
Thank God.
I dropped down to my hands and knees and scrambled through the narrow opening, but my hair got caught. I pushed harder, shifted my head to dislodge my hair. I didn’t have time for this shit.
I jerked my head to the other side. Jagged metal tore through the skin on my temple. I bit back a cry as white-hot pain blazed across my face and down my neck.
But at least I was free.
I forced myself up. Safety was right there, in the trees beyond the fence, if I could just reach them.
I couldn’t stop now.
Heavy breathing, the crunch of boots, and the squeak of metal told me my pursuer had reached the fence, as well. The sound sent ice through my veins, warring with the fire in my face and feet. Part of me wanted to collapse, to give up.
But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. I was a Salvini—we didn’t surrender.
I pushed through the pain and ran for the tree line.
Fuck these assholes.
I was maybe five feet from the trees when a solid mass slammed into me from behind. The impact drove the air from my lungs as we hit the ground hard. My shoulder screamed in protest.
Training kicked in. I twisted, brought up my hips and ass in an attempt to get him off me. I channeled everything I had like a bucking horse, trying to shake off the saddle.
He blocked all of my moves, then grabbed my hips, flipped me around as if I was a doll, and pinned me down. I aimed my hits in the general direction of his throat, but he captured my wrists in both of his large hands while he pinned my lower body with all of his weight.
“Jesus, woman. Stop fighting,” a familiar voice commanded.
My blood ran cold. I knew that voice.
Had met the man.
Ivan Zotov. Of course.
It had to be the one man whose presence alone filled every pore of me with pure annoyance.
He moved like a predator, all contained power, lethal grace, and a deadly smile.
I wanted to wipe the smile off his face so badly, I could taste it.
The fact that he had zero problems overpowering me was infuriating. And the fact that it was him—that was the worst insult.
Of course, it had to be him. Of course, he was the one behind all of this.
He shifted his weight, maintaining control while staring at me.
My heart rate picked up for reasons that had nothing to do with fear or exertion and everything to do with my hate for him. “Vaffanculo!” I snarled, then switched to English. “Get off me, you big, dumb oaf.”
His expression changed when he suddenly stared at my temple, and something flickered in those cold blue eyes. His grip gentled slightly though he didn’t release me.
“You’re injured,” he stated, his voice dropping lower.
“No shit.” I tried bucking him off again, but he was immovable. “What did you expect, tackling me to the ground?”
He released my wrist and brushed my tousled hair from my temple, careful not to touch the wound. “Stop moving before you make it worse.”
I hated how my body responded to his proximity, to the controlled strength in every movement. Hated even more how his concern felt genuine rather than calculated for once.
I brought my hand up and touched where it hurt. My fingers came back bloody.
He grabbed my wrist again. “Stop it.”
I thrashed against his hold, ignoring how the movement sent fresh waves of pain through my whole body. “How about you let go of me?” Suddenly, I felt nauseated. Would serve him right if I vomited all over him.
The skin around his eyes tensed. “Stop moving before you make it worse.” His voice remained infuriatingly calm as he adjusted his position, somehow managing to restrain me while shifting his weight off me. “You’re white as a wall.”
“Well, I feel like a wall just rammed into me. So it kinda fits.” The words came out in a breathless snarl. My feet stung, my temple burned, my head hurt, and his solid warmth against my body was doing things to my body and head I refused to acknowledge.
“You’ve got a bleeding head wound.” He sighed, the sound rich with exasperation. “Why can’t you Salvinis ever do things the easy way?”
“Maybe because we don’t want to play games with assholes like you?” I twisted my wrists in his grasp, testing for weakness. There was none. His hands were like steel bands, precise and unyielding.
The helicopter’s blades whirred down behind us, the wind dying to a gentle breeze that stirred my hair. Ivan’s breath brushed my ear as he leaned closer, sending an unwanted shiver down my spine.
“If I let you stand up, are you going to behave?” The question held a note of amusement that made me want to head-butt him.
“What do you think?” I snapped, still squirming despite the futility of it.
“I think you’re going to make this difficult.” His thumb traced a small circle on my captured wrist, the gesture almost absent-minded. “I think you’re going to try something stupid and get yourself hurt worse.”
I hated that he was probably right. Hated the whole roller-coaster ride we were on.
Hated even more how his touch left trails of heat on my skin.
“No part of it fatigues me but getting off this horse, I assure you. I am very strong. Nothing ever fatigues me, but doing what I do not like,” I muttered, my voice dripping with sarcasm while I quoted Jane Austen’s Mansfield Park.
I let my head drop back to the ground and my body relax in temporary defeat.
His lips opened into a soft smile. “It is a pleasure to see a lady with such a good heart for riding! I never see one sit a horse better. She did not seem to have a thought of fear.”
I inhaled sharply and stared at him. Did Ivan fucking Zotov, hardcore Russian Bratva bad-boy, just quote Jane Austen back to me?
No fucking way.