Chapter 22 – Ivan
IVAN
The light of dawn seeped through the curtains, casting the room in a muted glow that softened the sharp angles of the furniture and walls. I’d been awake for exactly twenty-three minutes, my internal clock as precise as ever, but I hadn’t moved. Not a single muscle.
Shorty slept curled against my chest, her breathing deep and rhythmic.
I couldn’t get over how transformed her face was in sleep—the fierce, guarded woman who had challenged me at every turn replaced by someone younger, more vulnerable.
The perpetual tension in her jaw had relaxed, her lips slightly parted.
Her dark lashes rested against her cheeks, and her closed eyelids hid the sharp intellect and vigilance usually present.
I studied the curve of her shoulder, the delicate bow of her collarbone, but I didn’t allow myself to trace it, not even with the lightest touch of my fingertips. She needed her sleep.
I closed my eyes. Her skin was warm and impossibly soft against mine. I focused on her regular breathing while last night replayed in my mind—her whispered confessions, her trust, her body moving with mine. The sound she made when she came—
Holy fuck, she was one sexy package.
I forcibly redirected my thoughts to what would be waiting for us.
Our security measures needed to be changed.
I should verify that Roman had updated the rotation.
Only trustworthy people would be allowed close to Isabella and her family.
We needed to establish and coordinate exactly how to move forward, as well.
I needed to get my siblings up to date with what Isabella told me.
There were contingency plans to formulate, exit strategies to—
Isabella shifted against me, her leg sliding between mine, unconsciously seeking closer contact. My body responded immediately. So much for tactical thinking.
Being close to her trumped everything.
I could wake her with kisses. Trail my mouth down her throat, across her breasts, lower still until she woke up gasping my name. My hand slid to her hip, my fingertips pressing lightly into her skin before I caught myself.
No. She needed rest. After everything she’d been through—the kidnapping, Grey’s manipulations, the truth serum, the sex—she needed sleep more than I needed her. I forcibly softened my grip, returning to that feather-light touch that wouldn’t disturb her.
I would allow myself five more minutes in this moment. Five minutes to pretend we were normal people without histories soaked in violence, without enemies at the gates, without the weight of organizations and families and vendettas and unknowns pressing down on us.
Five minutes to memorize the exact feeling of her against me. To memorize her scent. Just in case.
A soft knock at the door shattered the fragile peace.
I was instantly alert, my hand already reaching for the weapon on the nightstand before my conscious mind registered the familiar pattern of the knock—our signal—three light taps followed by a pause, then two more.
Isabella stirred but didn’t wake, a testament to her exhaustion.
I pulled the blanket up so Isabella’s creamy skin was hidden from view.
The door opened just enough for me to see Anton’s face.
Anton’s expression was carefully neutral, but his eyes couldn’t hide the surprise as he took us in.
His gaze slid past me toward Isabella, then back to my face.
A slight, knowing smile tugged at his mouth before he suppressed it.
If the circumstances were different, I might have tried to hide her, might have appreciated at least an attempt at discretion.
But our position, state of undress, and the unmistakable context it suggested—who was I kidding?—there was no use in hiding anything.
I glared at him anyway, which sadly didn’t wipe the smug smile from his face.
“What is it?” I kept my voice low.
“Grey is here,” Anton said, his tone conveying the urgency his smug expression masked. “He’s demanding to see you. Now.”
My hatred for Grey, already a constant companion, intensified. Not just for what he’d done to Isabella, not just for his obsessive fixation on her, but for this specific intrusion—invading the single peaceful moment I’d allowed myself in forever.
I nodded once, sharply. “Give me thirty seconds.”
Anton stepped back and closed the door.
Isabella was still asleep.
I carefully extracted myself from her embrace, easing a pillow into the space where my body had been.
The sight of her dark hair spread across my pillow, her body curled under my sheets, burned itself into my memory.
Her hand reached out unconsciously, fingers curling into the fabric as if seeking me even in sleep.
Something twisted in my chest at the sight.
I leaned down and pressed my lips to her forehead in a gesture so foreign to me, I nearly startled at my own action. Her skin was warm against my mouth, and I lingered for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
“Sleep,” I whispered though she couldn’t hear me. “I’ll handle this.”
I got dressed, my movements precise despite the turmoil beneath the surface, then I moved silently to the door. I slipped out and closed and locked the door behind me. Anton was waiting, his stance casual but alert. Behind him, the hallway was empty—a small mercy.
“Does Grey know she’s with me?” I asked immediately, keeping my voice low as we moved down the hallway.
Anton’s expression tightened. “Nobody told him, but after everything that went down and considering his obsession with her? I wouldn’t be surprised if he knows exactly on which side of the bed she slept.”
A memory flashed through my mind—the way Grey had insisted on taking over the Salvini case himself, the unusual resources he’d dedicated to it. It had seemed excessive even then, before I knew what I know now. And then his face, his eyes, the way he’d looked at Isabella.
I straightened my shoulders, locked away the tenderness of the morning, and became the cold operative Grey had taught me to be.
The transition was familiar, practiced—a mental door closing between who I was with Isabella and who I needed to be now.
But for the first time, the door wouldn’t close completely.
A sliver of that other self remained, watching, judging, hating Grey with an intensity I rarely allowed myself to feel.
“Brief me,” I said to Anton as we walked.
“He arrived unannounced ten minutes ago. No advance warning, no communication. Just showed up with two guards I’ve never seen before. They’re waiting outside.” Anton’s voice dropped lower. “He seems agitated—probably knows he’s lost control and is in potential deep shit.”
We entered the family room where Grey waited.
My siblings were already there—Mila perched on the arm of a chair, her posture deliberately casual; Nina leaning against the wall, eyes watchful; Roman seated at the table with his laptop, fingers moving across the keyboard in a pattern that told me he was running code rather than actual work.
I exchanged glances with each of them—silently communicated with them.
A slight lift of Mila’s eyebrow said, What’s happening? A microscopic shake of my head said, Not now. A fractional narrowing of Nina’s eyes: Be careful. A barely perceptible nod from Roman: System’s secure.
Grey stood by the window, positioned so the morning light silhouetted him dramatically and would blind me while looking at him. Always the tactician, always staging for maximum psychological effect. His hands were clasped behind his back, his profile sharp against the brightness outside.
“Ivan,” he acknowledged without turning. “You took your time.”
I looked at my watch. It wasn’t even 7 a.m. What was he expecting?
Even though if today were a day like every other, I would’ve been up since five and would’ve completed my workout already.
“I was sleeping in.” My voice revealed nothing—not the hatred, not the suspicion, nor the protective rage coiled like a spring in my chest.
Grey turned then, his eyes scanning me with clinical precision. “Yes, I imagine you were.” His lips curved in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Enjoyed your night?”
The question carried a knowing edge that made my hand twitch. I wanted to lunge for his throat, to demand how he knew, to make him pay for every moment of pain he’d caused Shorty.
Instead, I remained impassive, my face a practiced mask. “Is there a reason for this unscheduled visit, sir?”
Grey’s eyes narrowed slightly at my deflection. He moved away from the window, stepping closer to me, invading my space in a calculated power move.
“The Salvini and Falcone families have proven more…taxing than anticipated,” he said.
I kept my expression neutral, but my mind raced. More taxing? What did he expect? For Isabella to just give him what he wanted and the rest of the Salvinis to just lie down and take whatever crap he was feeding them?
“I fail to see how that constitutes a surprise,” I said. “The way we treated them doesn’t help facilitate a positive attitude toward whatever the Paraskia Syndicate is proposing.”
Grey’s eyes flashed—a momentary crack in his composed facade. I’d struck a nerve, reminding him of the organizational objectives his personal agenda was compromising. To say it nicely.
“You fail to see quite a few things lately,” Grey said coldly. “Sadly, there’s a matter more pressing that requires my personal attention. Your orders remain the same. Keep the Salvinis on the island until I return.”
“Return?” I echoed, keeping my tone neutral despite my internal alertness. He was leaving again? Making a run for it, or what?
“I’m needed in Italy for approximately twenty-four hours. A matter that requires my personal attention.” Grey’s gaze swept across the room, taking in my siblings’ carefully arranged postures of attentiveness. “That’s your only responsibility. Keep our guests here. Don’t let them leave.”