Chapter 32 – Ivan
IVAN
The rope ran through my gloves as I descended rapidly toward the yacht. Wind roared past my ears, and raindrops lashed at my face with stinging precision.
Maybe Birdie’s quip about superheroes wasn’t so far off—rappeling from a helicopter during a storm wasn’t exactly a normal day in the office. But since the day I’d tackled down Isabella Salvini, nothing had been.
I caught sight of Birdie already down her line, moving with practiced efficiency despite the violent weather. If any of us was even remotely a superhero, it was clearly her.
She gracefully landed, just as the yacht pitched wildly in the massive waves, and the deck suddenly lurched several feet from my planned landing spot.
I made a split-second adjustment, released more line to avoid crashing into Birdie or the metal railings.
My muscles tensed as I prepared for impact.
I hit the deck hard and rolled to absorb the shock as the yacht rose on another wave. My body moved on autopilot—weapon drawn, scanning for threats.
Birdie, who was way ahead of me, signaled silently: split up, take opposite approaches.
I moved along the port side, keeping low. We met again at a flight of stairs and descended. The yacht’s interior provided immediate shelter from the storm. But the rolling motion was no joke.
I leaned over the railing and, through sheets of rain blowing in my face, I caught sight of Isabella being roughly handled, with Moretti following closely behind her, getting on board.
Cold fury flooded through me, but I kept it locked down. Emotion had no place here.
We descended one more flight but were still one deck above Moretti, Isabella, and the boarding area. I glanced over the railing again when Birdie tapped my shoulder.
“I see them,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Grey’s boat is approaching, as well. We should act quickly,” Birdie replied.
Two of Moretti’s men approached the stairs. I aimed at the same moment Birdie did. Our shots were perfectly synchronized, and the two men dropped before they could react. We hurried down, eliminated three more, and then the two holding Shorty.
Moretti jerked Shorty against him as a human shield, his head swiveling frantically between us and the speedboat still bobbing violently against the yacht’s side.
“Let her go,” I called out, my weapon trained on the small exposed portion of Moretti’s head.
“One more step and she dies, Zotov,” Moretti threatened, pressing his gun against Shorty’s temple.
Fuck.
I held my position, face impassive despite the rage burning inside me. “You won’t get that chance.”
Shorty locked eyes with me across the distance—recognition, relief, then determination flashing in their depths. The yacht lurched violently with another wave, momentarily throwing Moretti off-balance.
She seized the moment, drove her elbow back into his solar plexus with surprising force, before she sank down.
I didn’t hesitate—my shot hit Moretti’s shoulder, making him drop his weapon with a howl of pain. I covered the distance in seconds, reached Shorty as Moretti collapsed against the railing.
“Ivan,” she breathed, launching herself into my arms with unexpected force.
I caught her instinctively, one arm securing her while the other kept my weapon trained on Moretti. Even though there was no need since Birdie was already on him. She moved quickly to secure Moretti’s wrists despite his howls of pain.
“I knew you’d come,” Shorty whispered against my neck, her body trembling against mine.
“I love you,” she said suddenly, fiercely pulling back to look into my eyes. “I know this is early and kind of out of the blue, but I love you.”
The words hit harder than any physical blow, and I was momentarily stunned. Of course, she’d steal my moment—I’d been planning to tell her first. But before I could reply, she gripped my shoulders with unexpected urgency.
“Ivan, there’s something you need to know about Grey,” she said, her voice dropping to ensure only I could hear. “Nina and I went for the files on his computer.”
I narrowed my eyes. They went for the files on Grey’s computer? The one in his office?
She grabbed my shoulders. “Grey was most likely running an underground fighting ring. The one where he had kids fight each other, the one where you…”
The world tilted beneath my feet. My body went rigid as her words registered. “What?” The word escaped as barely a whisper.
“Oh, God, I mean, I didn’t even ask. I just thought after the story you told me.
Grey and probably Uncle Marcus were behind it all.
The Paraskia Syndicate rescued those kids, but Grey—he orchestrated everything.
He’s the one responsible for torturing those kids.
The files on his computer. There’s proof.
He’s been manipulating everything from the beginning. And then pretending to be the savior.”
My vision narrowed to a pinpoint, blood rushing in my ears.
Fifteen years. Fifteen years of loyalty to the man who had created that hell, who had forced children to fight like animals.
Who had broken us, then pretended to save us.
Every mission. Every kill. Every sacrifice. All in service to my tormentor?
Isabella’s hands framed my face, forcing me to focus on her. “Was that you? Were you that boy?”
I nodded.
“Shit. I’m so sorry.”
A distant part of my mind registered gunfire erupting from the opposite side of the yacht. I shielded Shorty with my body as bullets pinged against metal nearby, the protective motion pure instinct while my mind was still reeling from her revelation. Could it really be?
Of course it could.
Two rapid shots rang out, then my comm crackled to life.
“We’re near your location. Don’t shoot at us. Do you have eyes on Grey’s boat?” Anton’s voice was distorted by static.
I scanned the choppy waters but couldn’t locate the second vessel. “Negative. Maybe they’re boarding on the other side. Hawk?”
“I don’t have eyes on. But I’ve managed to land on the heli-pad,” Hawk responded. “Just waiting to bring you back.”
“Coming to you,” Anton confirmed.
I checked with Birdie. “Moretti secure?”
She nodded and yanked the restraints tighter, eliciting another pained cry from our captive.
Marcus Moretti, Grey’s business partner. Had he been involved, as well?
I would find out soon enough, and then both he and Grey would get what they deserved. By my own hands.
I hoisted Shorty higher into my arms. “Let’s head to the helipad.”
“I can walk,” she objected, but her body betrayed her, clinging to me like a spider monkey, her face buried against the side of my neck.
“Faster this way,” I murmured against the crown of her hair, ignoring her protests.
Birdie forced Moretti ahead at gunpoint, and to my surprise, she handed Isabella her backup weapon when she passed by. “You cover our back, monkey.”
Isabella nodded, and her expression shifted to focused determination.
These women were borderline frightening.
We navigated up the stairs and the yacht’s upper decks, encountering zero resistance. The storm’s intensity probably had most of the crew seeking shelter, or maybe Anton and Cristo had cleared the decks for us.
Then Isabella fired two shots before I even realized someone was behind us. I turned around. Two men dropped in slow-mo.
“I’ve got your back,” she explained at my surprised look.
“Remind me never to piss you off,” I said.
She winked at me, the unexpected playfulness catching me off guard.
Marcus stumbled ahead, occasionally requiring rough encouragement from Birdie’s weapon pressing into his back.
We encountered Anton and Cristo moving in from the opposite direction, both soaking wet from their own descent to the yacht.
“Cara’s still with Grey,” Cristo reported, his expression fierce. “They haven’t tried to board yet.”
Matt’s voice crackled over the comms: “Guys, I have bad news. I’ve got some engine troubles, so I need to head back, and the other boat is heading away from the yacht and toward open water.”
“Grey realized the yacht’s compromised,” Anton added. “He’s trying to escape with Cara.”
I processed this information instantly. “We can’t all fit,” I shouted over the rotor noise as we reached the helicopter with Hawk still at the controls. I looked at Anton, Cristo, then Birdie with Moretti.
Isabella’s arms tightened around my neck before she slid down and let go. “We need to get Cara.”
I clenched my jaw, my mind still reeling with Grey’s betrayal. How could the man I knew as my mentor be this fucked up? He was the one who’d formed me into a monster. Had made me what I was by forcing me to fight for my life, later using that knowledge to mold me into what…the perfect weapon?
Every muscle in my body tensed. Every instinct screamed for vengeance, for justice. For blood. Or maybe it was my programming. That single-minded focus on the target. The perfect killer Grey had created me to be. My body automatically moved toward the helicopter before I caught myself.
Isabella watched me. Probably saw the war raging inside me. “Go,” she said quietly. “Get your revenge. I can make it back on my own.”
The man I had been my whole life would already be moving, weapon ready, to exact revenge for a lifetime of manipulation and lies.
But as I looked at Isabella—brave, fierce, the woman who had somehow broken through years of conditioning, had torn down my walls and turned everything upside down—I realized the truth.
This choice defined who I truly was. Chasing Grey meant I was still a weapon. Still the fighting machine he had created. To stay with Isabella meant choosing the man I wanted to become. The man who promised to himself and her brother to protect her, to bring her back, to make sure she was safe.
“Go and get them,” I barked into my comms while looking at Cristo and Anton, “Save Cara. And get Grey for me,” I ordered Anton, who probably didn’t understand how torn I was and the rage I was barely keeping in check.
I would tell him later…after.
Cristo nodded once with a dangerous intensity in his expression, then jumped into the helicopter. His eyes were fixed on the direction Grey had taken Cara.
“You think we should take the bird?” Birdie asked and pointed at Grey’s helicopter, which was strapped down on the helipad.
“Too much work. Let’s take the boat,” I said and looked at Birdie, who nodded and made sure Marcus’s restraints were secure, then pushed him forward.
I grabbed Isabella’s hand. “We’re making our way back by boat.”
The surprise in her eyes was worth more than any revenge.
“But Grey—after what he did to you—”
“Doesn’t control me anymore. Anton and Cristo will handle Grey and get Cara. My place is right here next to you.”
We made our way back down toward the speedboat, and each step away from that decision, away from Grey, felt like shedding a piece of the identity he had constructed for me.
For the first time in my life, I truly wasn’t following anyone’s script.
I was writing my own.
We reached the speedboat, and I helped Isabella inside before helping Birdie force Moretti into the boat. None of it was as easy as the yacht, and the boat pitched violently in the storm.
Birdie pushed Moretti to sit in the back, keeping him secured and separated from Isabella. I released the mooring rope, then took the seat to pilot the boat.
To my surprise, Isabella climbed back into my lap, refusing to break contact even as I piloted the boat. Her weight against me felt right, like an anchor in the storm.
As we sped away from the yacht, the helicopter crossed our path, rotors battling the fierce gusts of wind as it headed in the direction Grey had fled. I glanced at it, silently praying for Hawk, Cristo, and Anton, then focused back on the waves in front of us.
Isabella’s hand found my cheek. “Thank you for choosing me,” she said, her words nearly drowned out by the wind and the engine’s roar.
I pulled her closer and navigated the violent waves with one arm while pulling her against me with the other.
Grey was still out there. Cara still wasn’t safe, but I was exactly where I wanted to be, needed to be. Because Shorty’s safety mattered more than anything else in the world.
And my place was right next to her.