Chapter 36 – Ivan
IVAN
Iopened my eyes when a ray of sunlight hit my face. We hadn’t drawn the curtains yesterday, and if I was being honest, after watching Shorty’s reflection when she came apart, I never would again. Or maybe I should put up some mirrors, so I could watch her from multiple angles next time.
The storm had passed during the night and left behind a calm that seemed almost surreal after the past forty-eight hours of chaos.
The calm after the storm? Or just a short respite before the next storm hit?
I lay still, acutely aware of Shorty’s weight against my chest, her body curled into mine as if she needed to feel close even in sleep.
Needed me as much as I needed her.
Her breathing was steady and deep, each exhale warm against my skin. The scent of her hair—salty, with undertones of vanilla and something uniquely her—filled my senses with every breath I took.
After we’d gotten the message yesterday that Cristo and Cara had taken the jet back to Italy despite the storm to get Cara the medical attention Cristo demanded she get—despite Cara’s protests—she had pressed herself against me, tucked her head beneath my chin, wrapped my arm around her slender frame, and fell instantly asleep.
My sleep had been on and off during the night, but I’d never experienced this sense of peace before, or maybe I just had never been present enough, aware enough, safe enough.
But those quiet moments, this sense of rightness, the simple weight of her body against mine anchored me to the present in a way nothing before her ever had.
My phone vibrated on the nightstand. I reached for it carefully, trying not to disturb Shorty, but she stirred anyway, murmuring something unintelligible as she pressed closer.
Anton’s message lit up the screen: “Cara’s okay. Still tracking Grey.”
I replayed yesterday’s scenario in my mind.
Cristo Falcone had jumped into a storm-ravaged sea to save Cara Donnelly.
The operation had been successful, though Grey had managed to slip away.
Not ideal, but the priorities had been spot-on—the girl’s safety came first. Grey would be dealt with later.
Because there was no way Cristo, the Paraskia, or I would ever let him roam free.
Against my chest, Isabella shifted, her eyes blinking open slowly. She looked up at me, momentary confusion giving way to recognition, then something softer that made my chest tighten.
“Morning,” she murmured, voice husky with sleep.
I brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Morning, Shorty.”
“Is that your phone? What time is it?”
“Early. Just after six.” I held up the screen. “News from Anton. Cara is okay.”
The sleepiness cleared from her eyes instantly. “Thank God, she’s okay.”
“Grey’s still on the run.” Or drowned, but I wouldn’t believe that until I saw his bloated corpse with my own two eyes. “Cristo’s quite the hero.”
Isabella pushed herself up on one elbow, fully awake now. A small smile curved her lips. “I’m not surprised he jumped after her. He’s been watching her like she’s made of gold.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Something you noticed?”
“Hard not to. The man practically stopped breathing when she walked into a room.” She stretched, catlike and graceful. “But Cara actually told me. I’m just glad she’s safe. Grey being free is…concerning.”
“We’ll find him,” I said with certainty. Finding targets was what I did best. And Grey had easily earned the number one spot on my shit list—along with Marcus Moretti.
Shorty settled back against me, her palm resting over my heart. “I know you will.”
The simple confidence in her voice affected me more than any praise from anyone else ever could. We lay like that for several minutes, existing in the quiet together, her fingertips occasionally tracing patterns on my chest.
A soft knock at the door shattered our sanctuary.
“Ivan?” Nina’s voice came through clearly. “Director Kozlova is demanding to speak with you. Now.”
I felt my body tense automatically. Isabella must have felt it, too, because her hand pressed more firmly against my chest as if to hold me there.
“Also,” Nina continued, “I intercepted communications. They’re transporting Marcus to a secure facility in an hour. Thought you would want to know.”
Shorty’s entire body went rigid against mine. The change was instantaneous—from relaxed warmth to frozen tension in a heartbeat. Her fingers dug into my skin, her breath catching audibly.
And in that moment, any lingering doubt I had about Marcus Moretti’s imminent future evaporated.
I’d seen Isabella face everything that was thrown at her with courage. She’d never backed down to me, Grey, or anyone else. But the mere mention of Moretti’s name turned her to stone.
The rage that flooded through me was cold and precise—not the hot, chaotic anger that would’ve clouded my judgment yesterday but a crystalline cold fury that sharpened my focus to a lethal point. Marcus Moretti had to go.
“I’ll be there in five,” I called to Nina.
“I’ll leave some clothes for Isabella,” Nina said, then her footsteps faded.
I turned my attention to Shorty. She was staring at nothing, her expression blank but her body still rigid with tension.
“Shorty,” I said gently, “I’m going to have a little chat with Moretti.”
She blinked rapidly as if coming back from somewhere far away. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
I brushed my fingers along her jaw and turned her face toward mine. “I saw how you reacted when Nina mentioned his name just now.”
Her eyes darted away, then back, something vulnerable and fierce battling within them. I recognized that look. “Before the Paraskia takes him, I’m going to have a little heart to heart with him.” I held her gaze steadily. “You can come with me or not. Your choice.”
The words hung between us, heavy with meaning. I wasn’t offering to handle her problem, to fix everything while she waited safely aside. I was offering partnership, agency—in this ugliness, in justice, in everything that would follow.
Shorty took a slow, deep breath, then exhaled with deliberate control. “I can face him,” she said finally. “With you.”
I nodded once. We got up, got the clothes Nina had left for Shorty, and dressed in silence.
I pulled on pants and a black sweater—clothing that allowed a full range of motion.
From the corner of my eye, I watched Isabella put on similar dark clothing, her movements increasingly steady as purpose replaced fear.
While she pulled her hair back, I removed a second handgun from my lockbox and checked it methodically. When I was satisfied, I offered it to her, grip first.
“If you want,” I said. I knew she knew how to use it, but I wanted to give her a chance to decline in case she didn’t want to carry it.
She took it with practiced ease. “Yes.”
“Good. Just in case.”
Nina was waiting in the hallway when we emerged, her posture casual but eyes sharp. She assessed us both in a glance, her gaze lingering on the weapon in Shorty’s hand. Something subtle passed across her features—approval mingled with fierce satisfaction.
“I’ll tell Kozlova you’re with her in thirty minutes,” Nina said, nodding toward Isabella. “Buy you twenty minutes with that asshole.”
“Thank you,” I said simply.
Nina’s smile was razor-thin. “Just doing my job. Family business and all that.”
The emphasis on “family” wasn’t lost on me. By now, my siblings hadn’t just chosen sides but were probably deep in making plans that didn’t include cooperation with the Paraskia Syndicate.
Security around the holding cells was minimal.
Most personnel had likely been reassigned to handle the Paraskia Council’s presence.
The few operatives we passed stepped aside with subtle nods, a mix of respect and wariness in their eyes.
I’d spent years building a reputation within the organization—now I was leveraging it for something entirely personal.
As we approached Marcus’s cell, Shorty’s resolve strengthened with each step. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin in defiance. But I needed to be certain.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said quietly as we reached the door.
She looked up at me, eyes clear and determined. “Yes, I do. We do.”
I studied her face for another moment, then nodded.
Roman handed me a small key before he opened the door for us, and we entered together—a united front.
Marcus Moretti sat on the single bunk in the spartan cell, his wounded shoulder freshly bandaged, his other hand in cuffs, fastened to a hook in the wall.
He looked up with irritation that shifted to genuine surprise when he registered who had entered.
“Isabella, my dear girl,” he said, voice dripping with false warmth. “Come to say goodbye to your uncle?”
I felt rather than saw Isabella flinch beside me. Seeing their interaction now, with what I already knew, ignited something primal in my chest, but I kept my expression impassive.
“Shut up,” I said, voice dangerously soft. “If you want any chance of walking out of here alive.”
Moretti’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes darted between Isabella and me, reassessing. “I’m not sure what she’s told you, Zotov, but family matters should remain private, don’t you think?”
I stepped forward, letting him see exactly what lurked behind my controlled exterior. “The Paraskia is transferring you to a secure facility.” I inserted the key and released him from the cuff.
A flicker of smugness crossed his face. “The council understands my value. My connections.”
“They might,” I stated flatly. “But nobody can protect you from the consequences of being a shitty human being.”
Moretti’s confidence wavered slightly before he caught himself. “Big words from someone who’s just a field operative. Grey’s dog. Disposable.” His gaze shifted to Isabella. “Perhaps your judgment is…compromised by my niece’s charms.”
Shorty stepped forward, her voice steadier than I expected. “Shut up.”