I woke up drenched in sweat, my body remembering what my mind refused to acknowledge. But I had done something. I had helped. Maybe it would be enough.
It had to be enough.
1
IVAN
“Stop fucking around. Execute the plan and get on with it.”
Mr. Grey’s gravelly voice, so familiar and fucking annoying, echoed in my head as I ended the call and walked the perimeter of La Dimora. I forced myself to unclench my jaw.
Even after all these years, he still treated me like that feral sixteen-year-old boy he’d found in that basement—more monster than human. What did he see in me back then? Did he see the killer instinct? Or had I just been an easy target? Desperate and dirty enough so no amount of sunlight could lighten my soul?
The perfect tool.
Not that it mattered. Not for much longer. Not when my siblings and I were working on gaining our independence to finally live life on our own terms.
I paused, taking in the sprawling Mediterranean estate. This mansion was a testament to what bold autonomy and ultimate freedom looked like.
Only the leading Italian Mafia family would dare to build something like this right here. It should feel out of place here in the middle of rural Connecticut, but somehow, despite all the pompousness, it fit into the surroundings perfectly.
La Dimora Serena. My Italian was sub-par at best, so I had to rely on what I’d read in the report, but the estate, somehow, annoyingly fit the name. Serenity radiated from its cream-colored walls and perfectly manicured gardens—a false sense of peace, much like everything else in our world.
Movement caught my eye. Two figures emerged from the pool area, heading toward a secluded spot farther from the house.
One of the Salvini twins and Salvini’s soon-to-be bride, Jemma Donnelly. My attention sharpened as I watched the Salvini twin sweep the perimeter—casual, practiced yet intense.
Not the behavior of the airheaded socialite the file suggested. What was it with those women, who—on paper—should be nothing more than helpless Mafia princesses, destined to become arm candy or wifeys but who turned out to be much feistier, relentless, and kinda interesting.
They huddled together, the Salvini girl producing a laptop from somewhere under her coat. I mentally checked what I knew about them while observing their secretive behavior.
The reports painted the twins, Isabella, along with her twin sister, Mirabella, as typical Italian Mafia women, with not much substance, no interest in the family business, and obsessed with fashion and parties.
Even though one of the Salvini twins had been a math prodigy, it didn’t seem like she did anything noteworthy with that special talent of hers. Yet during the few times I’d shadowed them in NYC, both had shown flashes of weird behavior. Something that didn’t fit the socialite façade.
The disparity nagged at me like an itch I couldn’t scratch. I didn’t like surprises, good or bad. And I didn’t like wild cards. And the fact that I couldn’t tell them apart was unsettling, as well.
I followed at a distance, noting the Salvini girl’s fluid movements. Too fluid. Too aware. I hung back behind some carefully manicured foliage. The whole property was nature’s nightmare, what with all the coiffured plants that could give the Gardens of Versailles a run for their money.
I stayed hidden for a couple of beats, then watched them again.
They’d settled down at a stone bench, their heads bent together over the laptop screen, conspiratorial, suspicious.
My curiosity piqued. What secrets were the Salvini princess and her future sister-in-law sharing? Something she didn’t want her overprotective brother to know about? Was that why they chose this remote location, out in the cold?
I stepped closer and deliberately stepped on a twig to announce my arrival.
They both immediately stiffened.
“Ladies,” I said smoothly, stepping into view. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”
The transformation was immediate and fascinating. Salvini’s entire demeanor shifted; within a split second, she hid the sharp intelligence in her eyes behind a practiced mask of casual indifference. But I’d seen it—that flash of calculation while she expertly moved to block my view of the screen. Her body was angled perfectly, a defensive position disguised as a casual pose.
Too perfect to be instinctive.
“Mr. Zotov,” she purred, her voice dripping with—most certainly false—sweetness. “What a surprise to see you out here alone. Is this your yard time?”
I maintained my neutral expression, but something stirred in my chest at her quip. A chuckle? I usually had a tighter rein on my emotions.
