I felt heat rise to my cheeks. Wait, was she trying to steer the conversation away from Grey? Not that Ivan was a safer topic at all.
Mila leaned forward, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. “Yes, let’s talk about my brother. Is he responsible for that glow?”
I brushed my burning skin. I didn’t blush easily, so hopefully, at least my body wouldn’t confirm her suspicion before I could deny it. Now I just needed a comeback to shut it all down.
“Oh my God,” Nina chimed in, eyes widening with delight. “Ivan barely left your side for twenty-four hours. He wouldn’t even let us help look after you.”
The other women reacted instantly—Fee’s mouth dropped open, Mira gasped softly, and Jemma let out a low whistle.
“It’s not—” I started, then stopped, and my chest became increasingly tight. What wasn’t it? Not what they were thinking? It was exactly what they were thinking.
“Can we please change the subject?” I muttered, uncomfortable with the attention.
“She’s blushing,” Mira said, sounding annoyingly pleased. “I’ve never seen Bella blush over a man before.”
I shot her a betrayed look, but found myself fighting the unexpected urge to share and get their opinion. These women formed a strange circle of safety in the middle of danger, and the easy way they were teasing reminded me of the kind of friendships I’d been missing all my life.
“So you and Ivan…” Jemma trailed off suggestively.
“It’s complicated,” I admitted, surprised by my own honesty.
“Complicated how?” Mila pressed, leaning closer. “We’ve known Ivan for years. He’s never looked at anyone the way he looks at you.”
I twisted a strand of hair around my finger—a nervous habit I thought I’d outgrown. “There’s some spark between us, but…” I shrugged, not knowing how to express the tangle of emotions I felt. “Given the circumstances, it’s not exactly ideal.”
“If you’re playing with him, don’t,” Nina said, her playful tone suddenly hardening. “He’s been through enough.”
The protective edge in her voice surprised me. I’d known intellectually that the Zotov siblings were close, but this fierce protection gave it emotional weight. These weren’tjust colleagues or even friends—they were a unit forged through something brutal.
“I’m not the one playing games,” I said quietly, meeting Nina’s eyes directly.
The intensity of Nina’s stare made me uncomfortable, and a spark of self-preservation made me redirect. “Speaking of playing games, what’s the story with you and Matt, Nina?”
Nina froze mid-movement, her body tensing so quickly, it was almost comical. Beside her, Mila’s eyes widened, her head snapping toward me in surprise.
“There is no story,” Nina said, her voice flat and empty.
But her body told a different tale—the slight whitening of her knuckles, the almost imperceptible tightening of her jaw, the way her eyes fixed on a distant point beyond the pool. Something significant had happened between her and my brother—something that had affected her deeply, and it cost her a lot of effort to hide the effect he still had on her. Did they hook up, only for him to dump her?
“Well, that was convincing,” Fee drawled, breaking the tension.
“Almost as convincing as Jemma pretending she wasn’t head over heels for my brother after knowing him for about five minutes,” I shot back, deliberately changing course.
Jemma grinned, unrepentant. “What can I say? When you know, you know.”
“I hadn’t even seen you since the wedding,” Cara said, her voice soft but warm. “It all happened so fast.”
“Speaking of fast,” Jemma said, her eyes twinkling as she turned to Cara, “I’ve noticed Cristo Falcone can’t take his eyes off you.”
Cara’s cheeks bloomed with color. Her fair complexion couldn’t hide her blush at all. “Cristo is just being nice. I’m sure he’s like that with everyone.”
“Oh, honey”—Fee laughed—“Cristo is many things, but ‘nice to everyone’ isn’t one of them.”
“He’s actually not at all how he seems,” Cara admitted, her blush deepening. “He’s calling metopolina di biblioteca—little mouse.”
I exchanged a glance with Jemma, both of us biting back smiles. Cristo had nicknamed Jemma’s shy, bookish sister after a little library mouse—it was unexpectedly fitting.
“Is it a requirement that we all fall for dangerous men with tattoos?” Fee asked, tipping her sunglasses down to peer at us over the rim. “Because I’m seeing a pattern here. Maybe it’s genetic? This attraction to men who could kill someone with their pinky.”
