Chapter 38 – Ivan
IVAN
The luxury jet hummed around us while afternoon light streamed through the windows and cast golden patterns across the cabin’s polished surfaces.
Shorty led me to a seat opposite her brother and basically pushed me down before she settled down next to me.
Vince tracked Shorty’s hand with his eyes when she interlaced her fingers with mine. The subtle tension in his jaw—barely perceptible to anyone who hadn’t spent decades reading micro-expressions—told me everything I needed to know.
Someone was not happy to see his little sister cosying up to the former enemy.
This fight would be a whole other beast. And the stakes felt unexpectedly much higher.
The subtle scent of leather and expensive cologne that hung in the air only underlined the tension that no amount of luxury could disguise.
This flight would suck big-time.
I countered Vince’s stare while Shorty’s warmth against my side anchored me in a way I was still getting used to—a steadying presence where I’d always preferred isolation.
“You two seem…comfortable,” Vince observed, his voice carefully neutral while his eyes remained as cold as a Russian winter.
A familiar tension coiled inside me—the instinctive readiness before confrontation. I kept my face impassive and didn’t immediately respond; Vince Salvini wasn’t the only one good at mental games. And silence was a great way of unsettling an opponent.
Especially if he had the home turf advantage.
I mentally cataloged everyone in the cabin, assessing threats and alliances with the automatic efficiency that had kept me alive my entire life.
Maybe sharing a private jet with the Salvini family hadn’t been the smartest decision.
But then I would follow Shorty into the depths of hell if that was where she wanted me to go.
The seating arrangement had naturally divided us into opposing forces—Salvinis and Falcones in the front, Zotovs in the back. The only exemption was Shorty’s twin, who sat with Mila and Nina in the back.
Shorty and I were opposite Jemma and Vince in the middle—drawing the enemy line. Jemma sat pressed against Vince’s side, her eyes—full of concern—occasionally flickering from Shorty to me.
Across the aisle, Fee had positioned herself beside Alex, her head resting on his shoulder with the casual intimacy of established lovers.
But Matt Salvini was staring at me the same way Vince did—only interrupted by the charged glances he exchanged with Nina, who deliberately kept as much distance from him as possible in the confined space.
What the hell was this animosity between them? I really needed to take her aside and talk to her about it. Especially since the Salvinis and the Zotovs were practically family now.
The rest of the Salvini party had left last night, accompanying Cara and Cristo to the mainland.
Shorty chose that moment to press closer to my side, her hip and shoulder aligning perfectly with mine. “I am comfortable, thank you very much,” she said.
My pulse quickened in response to her not-so-silent declaration of allegiance, while something deeper, more primitive in me felt an unexpected satisfaction at her public alignment with me over her family.
“Wouldn’t you rather sit with Jemma and Fee and catch up?” Vince said, his displeasure barely concealed beneath his composed exterior.
Shorty’s muscles tensed against mine, a subtle shift I felt rather than saw.
Uh, oh. Big brother was pissing her off.
“I’m exactly where I want to be,” she replied, her tone light but leaving no room for argument.
Something fierce and protective unfurled in my chest at her declaration—a feeling foreign to the calculating coldness I’d cultivated over the years.
Harboring emotions usually led to tactical disadvantages, yet I couldn’t bring myself to regret this particular weakness.
Instead, I allowed my thumb to trace small circles against her hand—a gesture hidden from others but meaningful between us.
The jet engines changed pitch as we reached the start of the runway, and the jet accelerated.
We quickly gained altitude, the slight pressure shift barely noticeable.
Vince waited until we settled into cruising altitude before he leaned forward, elbows on knees, in the universal posture of a man getting down to business. “We need to discuss this…situation,” he said, gesturing between Shorty and me with barely disguised contempt.
My muscles tensed imperceptibly as my body prepared for conflict, but I shoved everything down and kept my mind as calm and analytical as possible.
This wasn’t personal. Vince would give every man the third degree who dared to date one of his sisters. Sure, I was probably the worst choice possible.
“There’s not much to discuss,” I replied, meeting his gaze directly, my expression neutral but firm. “Isabella made her choice, and we are together.”
Vince’s jaw tightened visibly, a pulse throbbing at his temple. His hands flexed once before he controlled them—the motion of a man wanting to reach for a weapon that wasn’t there.
“You kidnapped her, Zotov,” he stated, each word precise and cutting. “Then you fucked her. Now you think you own her?” He scoffed. “Not happening.”
The crude phrasing was deliberately provocative—a test of my control. I felt Shorty tense beside me, her breath catching as she opened her mouth to interject.
I squeezed her hand gently, a silent request for patience. My heartbeat remained steady despite the provocation. This was my battle to fight—at least this part of it.
“I don’t own her,” I stated with quiet certainty, keeping my voice level despite the anger simmering beneath the surface. “No one does. But I fell in love with her. And she’s chosen to give me a chance despite our beginning. We’ve chosen each other.”
The simple truth silenced the cabin momentarily.
I’d spent my life in shadows and half-truths, but with Shorty, the clearest truth felt like the strongest position.
I watched my words land, noted how Matt’s eyes narrowed slightly while Jemma and Fee shifted subtly closer, ready to support if needed.
Vince leaned forward, his voice dropping to a level meant to exclude the others. “You are not good enough for her.”
The words struck with unexpected force—not because they were meant to wound but because they were spot-on. I absorbed the impact without showing any reaction.
“You’re right,” I conceded without hesitation, surprising him and Shorty, whose head turned sharply toward me. “But I have a lifetime to prove my worth.”
My easy agreement seemed to throw Vince off balance. He blinked once, recalibrating his approach. Before he could respond, Matt seized the opening from across the aisle.
“Convenient timing,” he observed coolly. “Get our help to disentangle yourself from the Paraskia, and we’re supposed to believe you’re not using her to get what you want?”
The accusation burned like acid, more potent because it contained a kernel of truth—our relationship had indeed collided with my plan for the future of my family. I felt a muscle tick in my jaw before I could control it.
“There was nothing convenient about any of this,” I replied, my voice dropping to a dangerous register despite my efforts to remain diplomatic.
Shorty shifted closer in silent support, her thigh pressing more firmly against mine. The warmth of her body against mine centered me, helped me control the anger that threatened my carefully maintained facade.
“And what about Grey?” Vince asked, watching my reaction with careful assessment.
Grey’s name acted like a trigger, sending ice through my veins. I controlled my breathing deliberately, maintaining an outward calm that belied the storm of rage, betrayal, and hatred the name evoked.
“Grey is done,” I stated with deadly calm. “Even though I should be grateful to him.”
Three identical expressions of shock—Vince’s, Matt’s, and even Shorty’s—reflected back at me as if I’d suddenly started speaking in Russian.
The silence in the cabin was deafening.
Shit. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I never asked Shorty how much, if any of it, her brothers knew, and how much she wanted them to know. But it was too late now.
And honesty was my strongest tactical approach. “Your sister and I have a shared history none of us knew about until recently,” I began, gauging their reactions carefully.
Vince’s expression shifted to wary interest while Shorty’s hand tightened around mine—encouragement to continue? Or was she telling me to stop? I glanced at her and she nodded.
“Isabella saved my life fifteen years ago,” I stated simply. “Saved all of our lives. We didn’t know it was her until just days ago.”
I watched confusion bloom across the Salvini brothers’ faces, followed closely by suspicion. Carefully, I explained about the fighting rings, about a child who found evidence and reported it, triggering the raid that ultimately led to my “rescue” by Grey.
As I spoke, Isabella’s thumb traced gentle patterns against my hand—support offered without words. The simple touch grounded me.
Vince’s expression changed subtly as I spoke—not softening, exactly, but a reassessment was clearly happening behind those calculating eyes. He glanced at Isabella, then back to me, connecting pieces I could almost see slotting together in his mind.
“So you’re saying this is, what, fate?” he asked skeptically, the word sounding foreign in his mouth.
The question caught me off guard.
“I’m saying I owe her my life twice over now,” I answered carefully. “And I intend to spend mine making sure she never regrets saving me.”
Jemma leaned close to Vince and whispered something that made him smile despite the tension permeating the cabin. His hand covered hers protectively, his thumb absently stroking her wrist—a gesture remarkably similar to how I touched Shorty.
The realization was unsettling.