Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
I slip away from the crowd, needing space free from all the fake smiles and calculated conversations. The balcony offers the perfect escape—cool night air and silence. Almost silence. Her music still floats through the open doors behind me, wrapping around my thoughts like a vise.
Evelyn Anderson. The violinist.
I light a cigarette, inhaling deeply as I watch her through the glass doors. Her eyes are closed as she plays, lost in a world I'll never understand. Those delicate fingers dance across the strings with precision that reminds me of the way I handle my knife—expert, controlled, deadly in its own way.
From the first moment I saw her at Damiano's wedding something shifted inside me. Something I didn't recognize, didn't want. She stood there in a blue dress that matched her stormy eyes, playing as though the instrument was part of her body. I couldn't look away then. Can't look away now.
It's not just her beauty—though, fuck, she's beautiful. It's the contradiction. So controlled on the surface, following every note perfectly, but underneath I see it—a wildness she keeps caged. A fire burning behind those proper manners and polite smiles.
I take another drag, feeling the smoke fill my lungs. She doesn't belong in our world. Too clean. Too untouched. But here she is anyway, playing for killers and criminals, completely unaware of how close she stands to the edge of something dark.
Or maybe she knows exactly what she's doing.
I watch her bow slice through the air, her body swaying slightly. What would it be like to break that perfect composure? To see what happens when all that discipline crumbles?
I crush the thought along with my cigarette. Women are complications I can't afford. Distractions. Weaknesses. My father taught me that lesson along with my mother's blood.
Yet I can't stop watching her. Can't stop wondering what her skin would feel like under my hands. If she'd tremble or fight back. If her eyes would still hold that defiance when I?—
"Enjoying the view, Rivera?"
I don't turn as Matteo joins me on the balcony. Don't give him the satisfaction of catching me off guard.
"Just getting some air," I say, my voice flat.
"Sure. And I'm just drinking water tonight." He laughs, following my gaze to Evelyn. "Careful with that one. Ivan's been circling her for months."
My jaw tightens at the mention of Ivan. That Russian piece of shit has no business touching what doesn't belong to him.
Not that she belongs to me either.
But maybe she should.
"Fuck off, Matteo." I keep my voice even, bored almost. Won't give him the satisfaction of seeing how his words hit their mark.
He laughs, the irritating sound that's followed me for years. "Always so charming, Noah. It's why everyone loves you."
I light another cigarette, letting silence hang between us. Inside, the music has stopped. Evelyn's taking a break, accepting a glass of champagne from one of the waiters. Her fingers brush back a strand of hair that's fallen loose and I find myself tracking the movement.
"Damiano wants us to handle that situation in Queens next week," Matteo says, switching to business. "The Colombian shipment got complicated."
"It always does." I exhale smoke into the night air. "Tell him I'll take care of it."
"You always do." He leans against the railing. "Though I'm starting to think you enjoy the bloody parts too much."
I shrug. "It's just work."
"Is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night?"
"Bold of you to assume I sleep."
Matteo laughs again, but there's something different in it this time. Almost concern. I hate it.
"Speaking of Damiano," he continues, "he's got plans for expansion down south. Wants us both in the meeting tomorrow."
I nod, barely listening. Evelyn's disappeared from view and I scan the room for her. Can't find her anywhere.
"You hear what I said?"
"Tomorrow. Meeting. I'll be there."
Matteo follows my gaze into the ballroom. "Jesus, you've got it bad."
"I don't have anything." My voice drops to something dangerous. "Drop it."
He holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Whatever you say, Ghost." He pushes off from the railing. "I'm going to find something to eat before these rich fucks devour everything."
I don't acknowledge him as he leaves. Don't need to. That's always been our way—appearing and disappearing without ceremony.
Alone again, I finish my cigarette and crush it under my shoe. The party continues inside, but Evelyn's nowhere to be seen. Something cold settles in my chest at the thought of her with Ivan. His hands anywhere near her.
I straighten my jacket and head back inside. Just to check. Just to make sure.
Not because I care. Not because I want.
Just because some things, once seen, can't be unseen. And Evelyn Anderson, with her storm-blue eyes and disciplined grace, is something I can't look away from.
No matter how much I should.
I weave through the crowd, keeping my distance but never losing sight of her. She's moved to the center of the room where Damiano stands with his wife. Perfect Zoe with her bright smile, holding court beside him like she was born for this life instead of dragged into it.
But it's Evelyn who draws my eye. She looks small next to them, yet somehow just as commanding. Her violin case rests against her leg as she speaks, one hand gesturing gracefully.
I position myself behind a cluster of guests, close enough to hear without being noticed. Years of moving undetected serve me well tonight.
"The performance was beautiful, Ms. Anderson," Damiano says, his Italian accent thickening when he's trying to be charming. "My daughter may be too young to appreciate it now, but one day she'll understand the honor."
Evelyn smiles, a practiced thing that doesn't reach her eyes. "Thank you for having me, Mr. Feretti. It was my pleasure."
"You must stay for dinner," Zoe insists, touching Evelyn's arm lightly.
Evelyn shifts her weight, uncomfortable with the contact. Interesting.
"I'm afraid I can't," she says, reaching for her violin case. "I have another engagement tonight. A charity concert downtown."
My jaw tightens. Another engagement. Another performance for another group of rich fucks who think they own a piece of her talent. Of her.
"Such dedication," Damiano says, raising his glass slightly. "We won't keep you then."
"Thank you again for the opportunity," Evelyn says, that polite mask never slipping. "And congratulations on your beautiful daughter."
She turns to leave and something inside me lurches. I step back deeper into shadow as she moves past, close enough that I catch the scent of her perfume. Something subtle. Expensive.
My fingers twitch at my side. One movement and I could touch her arm, stop her, make her look at me. Again.
I do nothing. Just watch as she weaves through the crowd toward the exit, her back straight, head high.
Ivan appears in my peripheral vision, also tracking her movement. My hand instinctively moves to where my gun rests against my ribs.
I follow at a distance as Evelyn collects her coat from the attendant. She checks her phone, frowning slightly at whatever she sees there.
I slip out the side door before she reaches the main entrance. The night air hits me like a slap, clearing my head. I've memorized her routine.
I've been watching her for months now. Since Damiano's wedding, when she played a haunting melody that made something crack inside me. Something I thought had died with my mother.
I position myself behind a tall hedge, waiting. Her heels click against the stone pathway as she approaches, violin case swinging slightly with each step. She's alone. No security. Fucking careless, what with Ivan's eyes on her.
This isn't the first time I've followed her. I know where she lives—that fancy high-rise in Manhattan with the doorman who takes a smoke break at 11:45 every night. She practices at 5 a.m. before the world wakes. She takes her coffee black and sometimes sits by her window, staring at nothing.
She reaches her car, fumbling with her keys. The overhead light catches her face when she opens the door, illuminating those storm-blue eyes.
My mother played violin too. Not professionally, not like Evelyn. But in our small apartment, when my father was away, she'd play these soft, melancholy pieces that made the world feel less sharp. Less dangerous.
Evelyn slides into the driver's seat, checking her mirrors. She pauses, scanning the darkness where I stand. For an instant I think she sees me, but then she starts the engine.
I shouldn't be doing this. Following her like some fucking obsessed psycho. I have business to handle, shipments to oversee, men to command. But here I am, drawn to her like she's gravity itself.
Something about her calls to the last human part of me—the part I thought my father had killed along with my mother. The part that still remembers what it was like to feel something besides power and control.
And that makes her dangerous. More dangerous than Ivan. More dangerous than any enemy I've faced.
I trail her car at a safe distance, keeping two vehicles between us at all times. My Ducati handles like it's part of me, responding to the slightest shift of my weight as I weave through traffic. The night air whips against my face but I barely feel it. All my focus is on that sleek black sedan ahead.
She drives carefully. Precisely. Just like she plays. Just like she moves through a room full of killers with that practiced smile.
The car turns onto Fifth Avenue, heading toward the more polished part of the city. Where old money lives in high towers and pretends its hands are clean. I gun the engine, cutting between a taxi and a delivery truck to keep her taillights in view.
Fifteen minutes later she pulls up to the Carlyle Hotel. Fancy place for a charity event. The kind where rich fucks drop thousands on auction items they'll never use, just so they can feel good about themselves.
I park my bike across the street, staying in the shadows as valets rush to open her door. She steps out, a vision in that simple black dress, violin case in hand. The doorman nods respectfully as she passes.
I watch her disappear inside, my fingers drumming against my thigh. Following her inside would be stupid. Our earlier encounter is enough for her to notice if she sees me again tonight. And Evelyn Anderson doesn't strike me as someone who misses details.
Besides, these charity events have guest lists, security. I could get in – I always find a way – but the risk isn't worth it. Not tonight.
I light a cigarette, inhaling deeply as I lean against my bike. Through the hotel's massive windows, I catch flashes of the event. Crystal chandeliers. Women dripping in diamonds. Men in tailored tuxedos congratulating themselves on their generosity.
And somewhere in there, Evelyn. Playing for them. Smiling that vacant smile.
The thought makes something dark twist inside me. She doesn't belong to them. She doesn't belong to Ivan either, despite whatever arrangement he thinks they have.