Ivan’s arm slipped around my waist, a silent reminder thatwhatever came next, we would face it together. I leaned into him, drawing strength from his solid presence.
“Ready?” he asked quietly.
I nodded, looking up at the man who had killed my childhood nightmare, defied his lifelong masters, and stood prepared to face my family—all for me.
“Ready.”
38
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 thathung 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.
