Chapter 5 – Ivan
IVAN
With practiced precision, I scanned the perimeter through the windshield of the helicopter.
This wasn’t how today was supposed to go. Why was nothing ever easy if it involved someone from the Salvini family?
This entire operation had become unnecessarily messy.
The Paraskia Syndicate’s instructions had been clear—secure the Salvini family’s cooperation by any means necessary.
But taking the Salvini women as leverage—that was entirely Mr. Grey’s brilliant idea. And demanding Isabella Salvini? His specific interest in Isabella felt…off. As if Vince Salvini would ever agree to that. But then it begged the question, why did Grey come up with that ridiculous demand?
We’d been observing all of the members of the family for months now, tracking their movements, studying their patterns. The Salvini twin sisters were a sight to be seen—smart, pretty faces, smoking-hot bodies. Nothing out of the ordinary, really. Apart from Isabella’s behavior that day.
I’d pulled back since that day I left La Dimora, since Vince, not his sisters, was my assignment, but even I believed Grey’s obsession with Isabella Salvini went far beyond tactical value.
Let’s hope it wasn’t her who’d escaped because I really didn’t need the additional complications.
Where are you, little prey?
I just needed a glimpse of her running, or was she still hiding? Or did she already make it through the fence?
Shit.
I waited, watching for any movement. Nothing yet. But she couldn’t have gone far.
“Anyone got eyes on her,” I barked into my comm unit.
“She’s hiding in the tree,” the pilot answered.
The tree? Was he kidding me? Outside the fence, there was a whole forest full of trees.
I zoomed in on the only tree within the fence.
Movement.
“Let me out,” I barked, and the pilot lowered the helicopter to the ground.
I jumped before the skids touched down and landed in a controlled crouch to absorb the impact. The rotors whipped the air above me, but I remained perfectly still.
There—a flash of movement through the tree, then she suddenly burst out of her hiding place, charging ahead like a deer running for safety.
My body tightened for a second before I increased my speed, every muscle poised for action. Where was she trying to go? Over the fence? “I’ll pursue on foot,” I barked, then took off.
The figure running full out before me matched the Salvini twins. Short, curvy, dark hair.
Would I be able to tell them apart? Probably.
Maybe. I studied them during the short time I’d been a guest at La Dimora, and seeing them next to each other, you couldn’t mistake the subtle differences.
Well, not in how they looked, but Isabella carried herself with calculated awareness, always watching, always planning, always alert.
While Mirabella moved through the world differently—more inward, more cautious—but it could’ve very well been the situation and the circumstances.
Still waters run deep and all that shit.
Same face, same body, different attitudes.
I pursued, closed the distance with each stride. She was so much smaller than I was—short, curvy, perfect—but there was zero chance she could ever outrun me.
Stubborn girl.
So why did I feel this strange reluctance as I closed in on her?
She slipped through the fence, her small body twisting through the gap with surprising agility. She hit a snag when her hair got caught in the metal of the fence but freed herself in an instant and charged ahead.
I reached the fence a second later. The opening was small, very small.
Damn it.
I followed, ducking through with considerably less grace. The sharp edge caught my jacket, tearing the expensive material. At thirty-one, I was getting too old for this kind of shit. Playing cat and mouse had been fine in my twenties. I enjoyed the rush of adrenaline, the hunt, and the challenge.
But hunting down innocent women was something else entirely. This wasn’t what I’d signed up for. It was high time to put my plans in motion—to finally extract my family from the Paraskia Syndicate’s clutches. We’d served long enough—shown our gratitude through absolute loyalty long enough.
After this mission was over, I would definitely set our plans in motion.
She ran toward the tree line, stumbled, and caught herself, her pace uneven but determined. She’d reach the forest in about ten seconds at her current speed. I sped up.
I didn’t intend to tackle her to the ground, and the impact when I caught her was more controlled than she probably realized.
To prevent her from getting hurt, I slung my arm around her waist and pulled her up and against my chest while absorbing the momentum with my hand and knees when we went down.
Her body was small and cold in my arms, yet she fought with surprising strength.
“Let me go!” she hissed, twisting and bucking violently.
I blocked all of her moves with practiced ease—her movements were good, technical even, but she was no match for me. When she twisted to break free, I grabbed her hips and flipped her around, then pinned her to the ground in one fluid motion.
She didn’t hesitate and immediately went for my throat—smart girl.
But I was faster. I captured both her wrists in my hands while using my body weight to immobilize her lower half.
“Jesus, woman. Stop fighting,” I said, my voice deliberately calm.
Her eyes flashed with hatred, dark and fierce in the moonlight. Even pinned beneath me, there wasn’t a trace of fear in them—only calculation and rage.
I could almost see her mind working, assessing options, looking for weaknesses. But to my utter surprise, I really couldn’t say if it was Mirabella Salvini or Isabella who was pinned under me.
“Vaffanculo!” she spat, her Italian words filled with emotion. “Get off me, you big, dumb oaf.”
I adjusted my grip, careful to apply just enough pressure to restrain without bruising. Her wrists were delicate beneath my fingers, a stark reminder of the physical advantage I had over her. The contrast bothered me more than it should have.
She tried bucking upward, but I held firm, my chest pressed against hers. I could feel her heart hammering, her breath coming in short, angry bursts. Despite the cold afternoon air, heat radiated between us.
I studied her face—the determined set of her jaw, the intelligence behind those defiant eyes—not just some helpless Mafia princess—there was something more there. Something that resonated with a part of me I didn’t even know was there.
That’s when I noticed the injury at her temple—a fresh cut with blood matting her dark hair. Something twisted unexpectedly in my chest. “You’re injured.”
Suddenly, this wasn’t just about the mission anymore. She was hurt, and somehow, that bothered me more than it should have.
I switched my hold, secured both her wrists in one hand, while checking her temple with the other.
“No shit.” Her struggles against me were both irritating and oddly compelling. Each calculated movement showed strength and intelligence—not just blind panic. She knew exactly what to do for maximum effect, even with her limited leverage.
“What did you expect, tackling me to the ground?”
She jerked her hand from my grip, dark eyes flashing with defiance. Then she brought her fingers up and touched the wound.
I grabbed her wrist again and pulled her arm back next to her head, to keep her from touching the bleeding wound with her dirty hands.
She struggled against me. “How about you let go of me?” she said, but her voice suddenly lacked oomph, and her skin color paled.
Shit.
“Stop moving before you make it worse,” I commanded and tightened my grip, but at the same time, I shifted most of my weight away from her and onto my arms while still keeping her pinned. “You’re white as a wall.”
“Well, I feel like a wall just rammed into me. So it kinda fits,” she snarled, but I could see exhaustion taking its toll on her. Or was it something more concerning? Did she hit her head when I tackled her to the ground?
“You’ve got a bleeding head wound. Why can’t you Salvinis ever do things the easy way?”
She stared at me with her beautiful dark brown eyes, which showed every single emotion but also her exhaustion.
“Maybe because we don’t want to play games with assholes like you?” She twisted her wrists in my grasp, but there was zero chance I would let go—could let go before we cleared the situation and came to an agreement. “If I let you stand up, are you going to behave?”
Her eyes turned stormy, which for some sick reason made me borderline giddy. I truly liked her fiery spirit.
“What do you think?” she said, her voice tinted with sarcasm.
“I think you’re going to make this difficult,” I said while tracing a small circle on her captured wrist with my thumb. The skin there was soft, vulnerable. Just like her. “I think you’re going to try something stupid and get yourself hurt worse.”
Her eyes flashed with something—frustration or maybe recognition that I had her figured out. Then her body went slack beneath mine, head dropping back against the ground.
I watched the fight drain from her eyes, a momentary surrender that both relieved and concerned me.
The tactical part of my brain appreciated the efficiency; the predator in me mourned the end of the chase.
And the man with a mission was concerned about the “don’t harm them” policy that preceded the mission plan.
“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,” she muttered, her voice thick with exhaustion and defiance.
The words triggered an automatic response in me, a response from a lifetime ago, before blood and violence had consumed my world.
A piece of freedom, of hope, of recluse I’d kept from when my mom read and quoted Jane Austen to me.
My old life. Before the fighting, before the killing, before the Paraskia. Before everything changed.