She used the moment to lean up and kiss my jaw—a gesture of approval that felt disproportionately significant given its simplicity. The warm press of her lips against my skin sent electricity through my body—a reaction I carefully controlled while in full view of her brothers.
I caught Vince watching this interaction, his gaze measuring the genuine connection between us. Something in his posture relaxed marginally—not acceptance exactly but perhaps the beginning of it.
My chance of survival had just gone up exponentially.
As the conversation shifted to lighter topics, I relaxed fractionally.
Shorty rested her head against my shoulder, and I wrapped my arm around her. The weight and warmth of heragainst me felt right in a way I was still adjusting to—a belonging I’d never expected to find.
Time to get rid of the tension she was still holding in her body.
I leaned close to her ear, inhaling the subtle scent of her hair—vanilla and something uniquely her. “We could finish what we started in the bathroom on the flight in,” I whispered, my voice low, my lips barely grazing her skin to send shivers down her spine.
Her body tensed, and she pulled back, eyes wide with scandalized shock. “In front of my family and yours?” she hissed, cheeks flushing beautifully. “You’re out of your fucking mind, Ivan Zotov.”
Her voice carried just enough for Roman to call out, “Get a room! Preferably one with soundproof walls.”
Everyone’s laughter only deepened Shorty’s blush, the color spreading down her neck in a way that made me wonder how far it extended.
Her brothers clearly enjoyed her embarrassment, which was inaccaptable.
I glared at them, then pulled her closer against me despite her token resistance. “Never mind, then,” I murmured against her hair. “I’ll just have to wait until Italy.”
“Damn right you will,” she responded but contradicted her stern tone by settling more comfortably against me, her body softening into mine despite our audience.
As the jet began its descent toward Italy, the pilot’s announcement prompted everyone to prepare for landing.
The tentative truce with the Salvinis felt too fragile. And ambiguity created its own risks. I weighed the temporary truce against my preference for clear boundaries and explicit understanding.
Vince’s attention kept returning to Isabella and me despite his conversation with Jemma. The unresolved tension needed to be addressed.
I made my decision, let go of Isabella, and leaned toward Vince.
Isabella’s eyes widened briefly before understanding dawned, and she gave me a slight nod of approval.
“When we land, before anything else, I want us clear on one thing,” I stated firmly, watching Vince’s expression shift to guarded attention. “Isabella isn’t a negotiation point between us. She’s her own person who’s chosen to be with me.”
I extended my hand toward him—not a gesture of submission but an offer of alliance. “I’m asking if we can move forward with respect, for her sake.”
The cabin fell silent, and everyone’s attention was on us. This was a pivotal moment. I maintained steady eye contact, neither challenging nor submitting—equal to equal.
After what felt like eternity, Vince took my hand in a grip that was more challenge than welcome, his fingers tightening fractionally beyond what would be considered polite.
“Hurt her, and there won’t be a place on Earth you can hide,” he said in a low growl—low enough to show it was meant for my ears alone.
I matched his grip strength precisely. “If I hurt her, I’ll save you the trouble,” I responded with equal intensity.
The handshake didn’t mean we were friends or that there wasn’t enough friction between us to cause a wildfire in pouring rain. But it was an understanding—a foundation to build on.
The jet landed smoothly, and most of the tension dissipated as we prepared to disembark. Shorty slid her arm around my waist and leaned into me with a familiarity that still surprised me. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” she asked, her lips quirked in amusement.
I raised an eyebrow, experiencing the unfamiliar urge to smile. “Your definition of ‘not bad’ needs work, Shorty.”
Her laughter lightened something in my chest, easing the tension I’d been carrying since we boarded. As we prepared to leave the jet, I noticed the subtle shift in positioning—no longer Zotovs versus Salvinis and Falcones but intermixed as we gathered our belongings.
Anton had engaged Fee in conversation while Roman helped Jemma with her bag—a small but significant change in battlefield arrangements.
Apart from Nina who was still maintaining maximum distance from Matt.
