I gave them a subtle signal to check the whole building. And they acknowledged with the slightest nods.
Then I continued to lead Isabella outside, away from potential listening devices. “Grey’s gone until tomorrow. I’ve initiated the process to expose him.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” Isabella’s response was fierce, her eyes burning with determination. “Let’s take this dirtbag down.”
I studied her intensity with concern. “We wait until he’s actually left the island. Don’t be hasty. Emotional decisions get people killed.”
The way she straightened her spine, put her hands on her hips, and narrowed her eyes, I knew a lecture was imminent.
But before she could argue, Nina and Mila approached us, their movements deliberately casual despite the tension in the air.
“We need to borrow Isabella for girl talk,” Mila said, but her eyes communicated more—a warning, perhaps, or information I wasn’t meant to hear.
I hesitated, reluctant to let Shorty out of my sight. Grey had grabbed her when she was with Mila and Nina before. I wouldn’t risk it happening again, not when everything was heating up.
Nina read my hesitation perfectly. “He just arrived at the airport. He won’t catch us off guard again,” she said quietly. “Trust me on that.”
I opened my mouth to refuse, a list of specific safety instructions already forming on my tongue.
Before I could speak, Cristo, Matt, and Vince, followed by Jemma, Fee, Cara, Alex, and Dom, appeared out of nowhere and physically positioned themselves between me and the women, their movement so synchronized, it had to be pre-planned.
“We need to have a little chat, men to men,” Cristo said, his stance subtly threatening despite his casual tone.
I noticed something in Cristo’s eyes—knowledge, suspicion, or perhaps both. Whatever he knew or thought he knew, he wasn’t friendly about it.
As Shorty left with the rest, she glanced back, her expression a mixture of concern and determination. Our eyes locked for a moment, and I realized the fragile new trust between us was about to be tested in ways neither of us had expected.
“Let’s talk somewhere more private,” Vince suggested while glancing up to one of the surveillance cameras, his tone leaving no room for refusal.
I nodded once, acutely aware that while Isabella was moving farther away with each step, at least she was surrounded by people who would die to protect her. That would have to be enough for now.
I caught Roman’s eye. He and Anton had silently joined our little huddle. He gave me an almost imperceptible nod—he would keep track of Isabella and the girls while I dealt with this situation.
“After you,” I said to Vince, my voice betraying none of the calculations running through my mind or the turmoil I was feeling leaving Shorty out of my sight.
The balance had shifted. Grey was making moves. The Salvinis were making theirs. And I had placed myself—and my siblings—directly in the crossfire by choosing Isabella over everything else.
But if there was one thing I’d learned in this life, it was that loyalty to people mattered more than loyalty to institutions. Grey had violated that fundamental truth, and he hadn’t even been loyal to the institution, only to himself. Now he would pay the price.
23
IVAN
My shoulders tensed with each step separating me and Shorty. I forced myself to take my eyes off her, took a deep breath, and let the salt-laden air fill my lungs.
“Let’s get this over with,” I murmured more to myself than everyone around me as I led Vince Salvini and his entourage across the compound to a secluded patio overlooking the sea. But every nerve ending in my body remained acutely aware of her absence. This separation felt like another tactical error but unavoidable given the circumstances. At least Grey was almost gone.
The ocean crashed against the rocks below, a rhythmic backdrop and protection against potential listeners to the conversation about to unfold…or a beating, because let’s be honest, if the Salvinis and Falcones wanted to get rid of me, this was their chance.
And I wouldn’t put it past them. Five pairs of eyes tracked my movements—Vince, Cristo, Matt, Alex, and DomRossi. Each man carried himself with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to violence.
I’d studied their files extensively, knew their capabilities, their weaknesses. Still, surrounded by them without backup, aside from Anton, felt like walking naked into a tiger’s den with raw meat strapped to my chest. Asking to get mauled.
Anton positioned himself casually by the entrance to the patio, appearing relaxed as he established a clear exit route. Smart man. If this went sideways, we’d need it.
The tension hung so thick in the air, I could practically taste it, metallic and sharp like blood. I kept my expression neutral, my stance open but alert. The first rule of hostile negotiations: never show weakness.
We arranged ourselves in an unspoken formation, ignoring the patio furniture and opting to stand. Vince and Cristo positioned themselves directly across from me, Matt slightly to their right. Alex hung back, leaning against the stone balustrade, his relaxed posture belied by the alertness in his eyes. Dominic Rossi, Vince Salvini’s childhood friend, stood slightly apart, his stance more thoughtful than threatening, though I didn’t mistake that for harmlessness. The man had a black belt in BJJ for God’s sake.
