“Hey, bro,” Shorty said, her inflection changing slightly. Something about her pronunciation seemed deliberately altered.
I leaned in closer, wanting to control the interaction. “Get it on, girl. No pleasantries, no small-talk. Understood?”
She turned to glare at me, our faces inches apart. “Yes, I understand perfectly, you Russian weasel; just give me a second to say hello.”
The fire in her eyes was magnetic. I pulled her back slightly, my hand firm on her shoulder as I leaned into the frame, acknowledging Salvini with a nod. The movement brought my face alongside hers, close enough to catch the faint scent of her hair—something citrusy and clean.
She rolled her eyes dramatically. “Do you mind? This is a family moment,” she muttered, her breath warm against my cheek.
“And I’m ensuring it stays a moment,” I countered, equally quiet. The proximity was affecting my focus more than I cared to admit.
“God, you’re insufferable,” she hissed, then stared at me, momentarily forgetting the camera.
“Behave yourself, Shorty,” I warned, pitching my voice low enough that only she could hear.
“Make me, Zotov,” she shot back, then flicked her eyes down to my lips again before she locked eyes with me again.
Her challenge sent an inappropriate surge of heat through my body.
I looked down at her lips, then back at her.
Our eyes stayed locked in silent combat before we both remembered our audience.
She turned back to the screen where Salvini and his wife were watching our interaction with obvious confusion.Their expressions nagged at me—recognition, calculation, assessment.
“We’re just calling to tell you that Bella and I are okay,” Shorty said, emphasizing every word in a way that seemed deliberate.
I watched Salvini’s reaction closely. His eyes widened slightly before narrowing, processing something beyond the obvious message. His wife glanced at him, then back at the screen.
“That’s great to hear…Mira,” Jemma said, pausing before she said the name while giving Salvini a meaningful look.
Something passed between them—an unspoken communication I couldn’t quite decipher.
Shorty’s face broke into a small smile, a moment of genuine relief that I found myself wanting to preserve rather than interrupt.
Instead, I leaned closer, partially blocking her from view, asserting control over the situation. Her response was immediate—a sharp elbow to my ribs.
“You’re hogging the camera,” she complained.
Her casual disrespect sparked something possessive in me. I grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at me, our faces close enough that I could count her eyelashes. “You’re the bossiest, most annoying young woman of all of them,” I growled.
She chuckled, the sound vibrating through my fingers. My eyes dropped to her lips involuntarily, then back to her challenging gaze.
Something electric passed between us, a current I couldn’t—shouldn’t—acknowledge. Just like last night.
Her grin deepened, the expression transforming her face. “That would imply you met ‘all of them’, and I’m really sorry to say”—she pulled my hand from her chin, her small fingers surprisingly strong as she gave me a deliberate once-over—“you’re not handsome enough to have had more than you can count on both hands.”
The audacity of this woman. No woman had ever spoken to me this way—not even my sisters. I should’ve been angry, but instead I found myself fighting an inappropriate surge of amusement. I grabbed her neck, leaning close enough that my lips brushed her ear.
“Keep pushing me, Shorty, and I’ll show you exactly how I handle bossy little girls who don’t know when to shut up,” I whispered, the threat emerging more sensual than intended.
I felt her sharp intake of breath, the pulse at her throat jumping beneath my fingers. Her skin flushed where my lips had touched her ear. Not fear—something else entirely.
She pulled away, pushed me out of the frame with surprising strength, and focused back on her brother and his wife.
“It would be dope if you’d come, but if you’d rather not, that’s okay, too; I can handle the weasel,” she said, throwing me a sidelong glance that promised further defiance.
“Where are you?” Salvini asked, his voice tight with controlled emotion.
