“Been there, done that. I’d rather stab myself with a nail file,” Shorty retorted, but there was less venom in her voice than before.
“Why not use a knife?” I countered.
A hint of a smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Why not use the gun you’ve been trying so hard to hide?”
Anton let out a low whistle. “She’s got you in the quick wit department, bro. Just surrender already.”
I ignored him, focusing instead on the approaching jet. The Salvini and Falcone families were powerful, dangerous players in their own right. Thank God we’d reestablishedthe relationship with Gabe Falcone a while ago. And Anton and Cristo Falcone had almost become friends over the last couple of months. So it was more the Salvinis and, in particular, Vince I was wary of.
He was probably pissed and out for blood, on top of being hypervigilant.
But who wouldn’t if your sisters were used as bait and you were forced into a trap?
“Ready for the family reunion?” I asked Isabella quietly as the others turned their attention to the landing aircraft.
She met my eyes, and for a moment, I saw past her defenses—the fear, the determination, the fierce protectiveness for her sister.
“Are you?” she countered.
The jet’s door opened, and they descended like a dark invading force. Vincenzo Salvini led the way, his face carved from stone, eyes scanning the tarmac with lethal precision until they locked onto Isabella and Mirabella.
He was flanked by Matteo Salvini, intense and silent, and Domenico “Dom” Rossi, his best friend. They were followed by Cristo Falcone, with his deceptive charm he used to hide his lethality, and Alex Falcone—or Moretti—with his quiet but raw intensity.
The women emerged last—Jemma Salvini, Vince’s new wife, held her head in a defiant posture; Cara Donnelly, Jemma’s sister, took the steps with calculated grace, but I was pretty sure she quietly took in everything and everyone. Cara’s reserved, almost timid appearance was similar to Mirabella Salvini’s. And was quite the contrast to that of her cousin, who was the last woman who descended fromthe jet. Fee Falcone’s fiery presence was a joy to experience—from a distance. Only a maniac like Alex Falcone would ever touch or tame a woman like that. And yet I had a soft spot for her.
Eight people. Eight threats. All heavily biased against us.
I found myself moving closer to Shorty, my body reacting before my mind could catch up. My hand hovered near her elbow, a protective gesture I had no right to make. When I realized what I was doing, I forced myself to step back and schooled my features into professional detachment.
Too late. Anton had noticed, his eyebrow raised in silent question. Mila’s knowing smile didn’t help either.
Grey’s jet touched down behind us, adding another layer of tension to an already volatile situation.
Perfect timing, as always. The old bastard knew exactly how to make an entrance.
Shorty stood rigid beside me, her breathing controlled but shallow. I could almost feel the war raging inside her—relief at seeing her family, fear for what might come next, and determination to protect her family at all costs.
Then she moved.
Without warning, Isabella stepped forward and crossed the invisible line between our groups.
I fought the instinct to grab her arm, to pull her back to safety—my safety—and watched instead as she walked directly into Vince Salvini’s embrace with Mirabella directly on her heels.
His arms closed around them, protective and possessive, and Matt and Dom moved in, as well.
Something twisted in my gut, sharp and unexpected. I had no claim on her. No right to the jealousy that surged through me at the sight of her pressed against her brother’s chest, his hand cradling the back of her head as he whispered something in her ear.
Idiot. I was a complete idiot. Bringing Vince Salvini here was my mission, and Isabella was just part of the mission, not my—what? What exactly did I think she was to me?
I forced myself to look away, focused instead on Grey’s approaching figure. Whatever I felt needed to be buried, controlled, eliminated. I might feel attracted to Isabella Salvini. And she might’ve saved me as a child, but that changed nothing about our present reality.
Shorty stepped out of her brother’s embrace, squeezing his arm once before moving slightly to the side and toward the other women. Her eyes locked with Jemma’s, a silent communication passing between them.
I’d seen that look before—in the garden of La Dimora. When Isabella handed Jemma her laptop. So those two shared some secrets? Did Jemma know about Shorty’s alter ego? Did Vincenzo Salvini know?
Grey approached with measured steps, his smile too wide, too practiced. I found myself moving before I could think, positioning my body slightly between him and Isabella and the other women.
The movement was subtle, almost unconscious, but Salvini noticed and raised a brow. And Grey did, as well. His eyes flickered to mine for a fraction of a second, amusement dancing in their depths.
