Chapter 9 – Ivan
IVAN
Iwatched her sleep, this fierce little wildcat, who’d fought me at every turn, now curled against my chest like a kitten. The handcuffs linking us together clinked softly when she shifted, seeking my warmth. In sleep, she looked impossibly young and vulnerable. I inhaled her light floral scent.
The firelight cast soft shadows across her face, highlighting cheekbones that would only sharpen with age.
A small furrow remained between her brows, even in sleep, as if she couldn’t fully let go of her defenses, or maybe she was still suffering from a headache.
I resisted the strange urge to smooth it away with my thumb.
Hard to believe this was the same woman who’d tried to burn down a whole hospital just to escape me. Who’d spat insults in my face while bleeding. Who’d challenged me with those fierce eyes that missed nothing.
Those Salvini twins really were something else.
I’d woken her up twice, just to make sure, in case she had a concussion, but every time she opened her eyes, I was hit with a wave of…overwhelming protectiveness.
I studied her features, trying to find differences between her and her sister.
I’d only really interacted with Isabella once, outside the Salvini residence.
She’d been fierce, as well, and seeing those two together, I’d never have guessed Mirabella was the feistier one.
Still struggled to make sense of it. I studied her face.
They looked so much alike—even the photos in their files were indistinguishable.
But there had to be something—a freckle, a scar, something to differentiate them.
But in the dim light, with her features relaxed in sleep, I could see nothing definitive.
Apart from a fuckingly beautiful young woman.
It was irritating.
I prided myself on precision, on knowing exactly who and what I was dealing with. Grey had been clear that he wanted Isabella specifically, yet here I was, fascinated by her twin, who was breathing softly against my collarbone.
The wound near her hairline caught my attention—the butterfly bandages looked solid—no bleeding, no swelling. But just to make sure, I would order proper medical attention for her once we reached the destination though it would be quite some time until we’d arrive there.
I hadn’t planned to escort her, hadn’t planned to leave the US at all. Not until Grey ordered me to.
But maybe it was smart to draw Salvini to Pantelleria by bringing his sisters there. The Paraskia Syndicate owned the whole island and had built its European headquarters right there, in the middle of the Mediterranean.
Salvini wouldn’t be able to call in favors or pull any strings. Talk about home-turf advantage. And once there, Shorty and her sister wouldn’t be my responsibility anymore. And I would have no business caring about her. The thought came unbidden, accompanied by an unwelcome tightness in my chest.
“What are you really like when you’re not fighting for your life, Shorty?” I murmured, my voice barely audible even in the absolute silence. “And if you’re this fierce, what’s the deal with your sister to have my boss so obsessed with her?”
She stirred slightly, pressing closer to my warmth, one small hand curling against my chest. Something shifted uncomfortably inside me at the gesture—something I couldn’t afford to examine too closely.
I’d spent my life keeping my distance while learning to read people, to spot weaknesses and strengths.
But this woman was a contradiction that defied easy categorization.
A pampered Mafia princess. Sheltered. Innocent…
on paper. While in reality, she was fierce yet vulnerable.
Calculating yet impulsive. She never, not even for a second, had backed down or given in; she’d gotten hurt and endured the pain without complaint.
She was a fighter for sure.
I woke up at exactly 4:30 a.m. and silenced the alarm on my phone before it went off. The handcuffs jingled as she stirred, and I grabbed the key from my pocket and released my wrist, then disentangled my arm from hers and got up.
I took care of business, then washed our bowls before I went back to bed and sleeping beauty. I lifted the blanket and stared at her feet; they weren’t in too bad shape, but walking would probably hurt for a while.
I gently shook her shoulder. “Time to wake up,” I said, keeping my voice neutral despite the strange reluctance I felt to end this brief moment of peace for her.
She blinked up at me, momentarily disoriented, soft, like every time I’d woken her during the few hours of rest she’d had.
But this time, I couldn’t let her doze off again. “Come on, Shorty. Time to go,” I said.
Her eyes hardened with realization. The vulnerability I’d witnessed during the night vanished completely.
“Where?” she asked, her voice raspy from sleep.
“You’ll see. Our ride’s waiting.” I unlocked the cuff around her wrist, and she rubbed her wrist. “You’ve got five minutes to get ready. I’ll go grab some water. You’d better make sure to leave the bathroom door open, or I’ll make sure of it myself.”
She glared at me, then scurried out of the bed and toward the small bathroom.
She was quick on her feet, with minimal pain, and showed more agility today—no longer making slow movements that betrayed her dizziness. Good.
I chuckled. Bullying her, seeing her reactions, was more entertaining than it should’ve been. Maybe because she didn’t act like a sheltered princess—maybe because she was feisty and gave as good as she got, it was even more fun teasing her. She reminded me of my little sisters, Nina and Mila.
I grabbed the bottles of water, then made my way across the room and stopped just outside the half-open door. “You ready to go?”
She opened the door, glared at me, then nodded once, all business now. No complaints, no arguments. Just silent assessment and adaptation. I found myself oddly impressed again. “What? No escape attempt? No bomb built from shaving cream and toothpaste?”
She narrowed her brows even more, straightened, and got right into my face. “Just wait until I use the nail file I found on you.”
I raised one eyebrow and couldn’t suppress a smile. “Can’t wait to see what you can do with a toothbrush—ah, nail file.” Because I knew, apart from a toothbrush, there wasn’t anything else in there that she could potentially use as a weapon.
I handed her a fresh pair of socks—the only thing available to cover her feet—then lifted her up and carried her protesting ass out of the cabin and into the car.
The drive to the airfield took forty minutes through winding side roads. She remained silent, staring out the window, likely memorizing the route. Smart girl. Always planning her next step.
When we arrived, the sleek Gulfstream waited on the private tarmac, engines already running. Two of our men stood at attention near the stairs. But what caught my attention was the slight figure being escorted from another vehicle.
My prisoner tensed beside me. She whispered something that sounded like “Mira,” so softly, I almost missed it. Mira or Mia?
I studied the approaching woman—identical in every way to the one beside me. Same heart-shaped face, same dark eyes, same graceful movement, same curvy body. The only difference was the fear etched across her features, the hesitance in her step that my companion had never shown.
Wait…what?
The other woman froze for a fraction of a second when my prisoner opened her door, then bolted from the car.
I’d never seen anyone unbuckle themselves this fast. I followed a few steps behind.
“Bella!” the other woman cried, broke free from her escort, and ran toward us.
They collided in a fierce embrace, clinging to each other, whispering rapid Italian too low for me to catch.
I stood, watching them, my certainty suddenly crumbling. Bella. She’d called her Bella, not Mira. But both names could be shortened to Bella.
The women pulled apart, hands still clasped, and I found myself looking from one to the other, searching for any tell that would confirm who was Isabella and who was Mirabella.
For the first time in years, I felt something I rarely experienced—uncertainty. I couldn’t say who was who, couldn’t distinguish them by anything other than their clothes. Which one had been with me all night? And which one was Grey actually after?
I watched the twins whisper to each other as we boarded the Gulfstream. The way they moved in sync was fascinating—like mirror images sharing the same thoughts. I’d need to keep them separated if I wanted to maintain control of the situation.
“Ladies, if you’ll take your seats.” I gestured to the plush leather chairs facing each other in the main cabin. “We have a long flight ahead.”
They exchanged a glance before they chose to sit side by side instead of across from each other. Smart move—maintaining a united front, minimizing my ability to get near one or the other.
I took the seat across from them, across from Isabella, specifically, and studied their identical faces side by side.
Mirabella, the one I’d spent the night with—the fighter, the one who’d started a fire to escape—sat slightly more rigid, her eyes constantly scanning the cabin for potential weapons or exits.
The other seemed more withdrawn, shoulders curved inward protectively. Scared.
Funnily enough, the image she presented now didn’t gel at all with the impression she’d made when I met her at her brother’s estate. From that brief encounter, I’d expected Isabella to be the stronger, the protective one, the more interesting twin.
But now, I was thoroughly confused. Or maybe something had happened to her since yesterday that had made her this scared.
Wasn’t the number one priority to not harm them? Where did that feisty girl from the garden go?
Once we were airborne and on cruising altitude, I decided to test my theory. I turned my attention to the quieter twin—Isabella.