Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
T he Carlyle Hotel's glittering chandeliers cast diamonds across the crowd as I slip through the side entrance. The charity organizer—Mrs. Wellington, with her ever-present clipboard and pearl earrings—spots me immediately.
"Evelyn! Thank goodness. We're running ten minutes behind." She fusses with my sleeve. "The Ashcrofts just donated another fifty thousand, so we added them to your dedication list."
I nod, barely listening as she rattles off names of wealthy patrons whose egos need stroking tonight. My fingers already ache from playing at the Feretti celebration. The weight of eyes watching me there—Ivan's cold stare, that intense consigliere, Damiano's expectant gaze—has left me drained.
"Just an hour," I remind myself, tightening my grip on my violin case.
The backstage area buzzes with waitstaff carrying trays of champagne. I find a quiet corner to prepare, opening my case and running my fingers over the polished wood of my instrument. This violin has been my voice when I had none, my escape when there was nowhere to run.
I close my eyes, letting the chaos around me fade. Tonight's selections are pieces I could play in my sleep—Vivaldi's ‘Winter’, a Bach partita, ending with Paganini to impress the donors. An hour of my life traded for their money, which will fund music education for underprivileged children. At least this performance serves a purpose beyond my father's ambitions or Ivan's manipulations.
"Five minutes, Miss Anderson." A stagehand appears with a glass of water.
I drink half, check my appearance in a small mirror. The woman who stares back looks composed, professional. Only I can see the exhaustion in her eyes, the slight tremble in her hands.
The announcer's voice booms through the speakers. "Ladies and gentlemen, we are honored to present one of the finest violinists of her generation..."
I step onto the small stage, blinking against the spotlight. Applause washes over me as I take my position. The faces before me blur into a sea of expectation—wealthy patrons in designer clothes, sipping champagne, waiting to be moved, impressed, entertained.
I lift my violin to my shoulder, feeling its familiar weight. For a moment, I imagine walking off stage, driving home to my apartment, crawling into bed and sleeping for days. The fantasy is so vivid I almost smile.
Instead, I draw my bow across the strings and the first notes of Vivaldi fill the room. The music takes over, muscle memory guiding my fingers while my mind drifts. Just one hour and then I can escape. One hour of being the perfect performer they expect. One hour until I can be alone.
What I wouldn't give for my bed, a cup of tea, and silence. Complete, blessed silence.
The final notes of Paganini's Caprice No. 24 hang in the air as I lower my bow. For a moment, there's silence—a perfect pause before the applause when I can breathe. Then the room erupts, people rising to their feet. I offer a practiced smile and bow, my back aching from standing so long.
Mrs. Wellington bustles onto the stage with a bouquet. "Absolutely magnificent, my dear!"
I accept the flowers, nodding at the appropriate moments as she thanks me profusely. My cheeks hurt from smiling. The violinist's mask is slipping and I need to leave before it falls completely.
"Thank you for the opportunity," I say, the words automatic. "I'm honored to support such a worthy cause."
Wealthy patrons crowd forward, eager to shake my hand, to tell me how moved they were. I shake hands, smile, nod. My responses are on autopilot—"Thank you." "How kind." "I'm so pleased you enjoyed it."
After what feels like an eternity I manage to step away. "If you'll excuse me, I need to pack up my instrument."
Mrs. Wellington touches my arm. "The Vandermeres were hoping you might join them for a nightcap in the lounge."
I suppress a sigh. "Please extend my apologies. I have an early rehearsal tomorrow."
The lie comes easily. What I have is bone-deep exhaustion and a desperate need for solitude.
Back in the small dressing room I carefully place my violin in its case, after wiping it down with a soft cloth. My fingers feel stiff, and I flex them, wincing. Two performances in one day was too much but turning down either would have elicited consequences I can't afford.
I gather my belongings quickly, slipping out the side door before anyone else can request ‘just a moment’ of my time. The night air feels cool against my flushed skin. I inhale deeply, tasting freedom.
The parking garage is quiet and my heels click against concrete as I walk to my car. The day replays in my mind—the Feretti celebration, Ivan's cold eyes following me, that strange intensity from Damiano's man, and now hours of performing for New York's elite.
I reach my car, fumbling with my keys. My shoulders drop as I slide into the driver's seat, setting my violin carefully on the passenger side. The silence inside the car is blissful. I rest my forehead against the steering wheel for a moment, allowing myself this small vulnerability now that no one is watching.
"Just get home," I whisper to myself. "Just get home and you can fall apart there."
I pull away from the Carlyle, exhaustion weighing on me like a physical thing. The city lights blur as I drive through Manhattan's late-night streets, my violin case a silent companion beside me.
That feeling crawls up my spine again—the sensation of being watched. I check my rearview mirror for the third time. Nothing unusual, just the normal flow of traffic. Still, the feeling persists.
It's been happening more frequently since that night at Ivan's Moscow estate two months ago. The night everything changed. The night I realized what kind of man I'd signed my career to.
I grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles whitening. Ivan's face flashes in my mind—those ice-blue eyes watching me at the Feretti celebration today, calculating something I couldn't decipher. He'd been different since Moscow. More unpredictable.
"Just paranoia," I mutter to myself, but I take an unnecessary turn anyway, circling a block before continuing toward my apartment. An old trick my father's security guard taught me years ago.
Ivan had seemed almost normal when we first met—charming even, in that cold, powerful way that makes you feel special when their attention lands on you. He'd promised to elevate my career, introduce me to the right people, open doors my father couldn't. I was naive enough to believe him.
I didn't understand I was signing more than a management contract until it was too late.
A car follows my turn. My heart rate spikes but then it continues past when I slow down. Just coincidence. But with Ivan, I can never be sure anymore. Not since he showed me what happens to people who displease him.
I tail Evelyn's car at a distance, keeping three vehicles between us. Not that she'd notice—most civilians don't have the situational awareness to spot a tail. But Evelyn isn't most civilians.
Interesting.
She pulls into the parking garage beneath her building and I circle the block twice before finding a spot with a clear view of the entrance. I kill the engine of my Ducati and wait. This has become my routine—watching her come and go, learning her patterns.
The night air has a bite to it. I light a cigarette and inhale deeply, eyes never leaving the building's entrance. Upper East Side. Fancy doorman. Security cameras. She's comfortable but not flashy.
Something doesn't feel right tonight. I scan the lobby through the glass doors, and that's when I notice it—the doorman isn't at his post. He is a heavyset guy with a mustache, always sits at that desk from eight to midnight. Never leaves except for his smoke break.
It's 11:30. He should be there.
"Fuck," I mutter, crushing my cigarette under my boot.
I'm already moving when I see her enter the lobby. Evelyn's still in her performance dress, violin case clutched in one hand. She stops abruptly, her body going rigid.
A scream tears from her throat—sharp, primal. That's when I see the doorman sprawled across the marble floor.
I break into a sprint across the street, hand already reaching for the gun holstered at my back. Three men materialize from the shadows of the lobby, surrounding her in a tight circle. Black suits. Crew cuts. They move with military precision.
Ivan's men. Has to be.
Evelyn backs away, violin case held in front of her like a shield. Her eyes dart frantically, searching for an escape route that doesn't exist.
I'm twenty feet from the entrance when one of them grabs her arm. She lashes out, swinging her violin case. It connects with his face—good girl—but the other two close in.
I barrel through the glass doors, my gun already drawn. The first man spins toward me, but I'm faster. I drive my knee into his groin and slam my elbow into his temple as he doubles over.
"The boss wants her unharmed," one of them barks at the others. "Just get her in the fucking car."
Ivan. That Russian piece of shit thinks he can take what's mine. Well, not really mine, but that doesn't matter.
The second guy charges at me while his partner moves toward Evelyn. I duck under his swing and drive my fist into his kidney. He grunts but doesn't go down. These aren't street thugs—they're trained. Military background, maybe ex-Spetsnaz.
"Get your hands off me!" Evelyn shouts, her voice sharp with fear and rage. "I'm not going anywhere with you!"
I block a punch aimed at my face, twist the man's arm behind his back until I hear the satisfying crack of bone. He howls, dropping to his knees. I kick him in the face and he crumples to the floor.
When I look up I see the third man has Evelyn cornered. Her eyes meet mine for a split second—wide, terrified, but defiant.
"I said get your fucking hands off?—"
The crack of his palm against her face echoes through the lobby. Her head snaps back, violin case clattering to the floor. She slumps against the wall, then slides down, unconscious.
Everything goes red.
I cross the distance in three strides. The man turns, reaching for his weapon, but he's too slow. My first punch crushes his windpipe. The second breaks his nose. The third splits his cheek open.
He falls to his knees, gasping for air that won't come. I grab his head between my hands and slam it into the marble floor. Once. Twice. The wet crunch tells me he won't be getting up.
The first guy I hit is struggling to his feet. I turn, pull my gun, and fire. The bullet catches him in the shoulder, spinning him around. Before he can recover I'm on him, pressing the barrel against his temple.
"Who sent you?" I already know, but I want to hear it.
He spits blood onto the floor. "Fuck you."
I press harder. "Ivan Volkov sent you, didn't he?"
His eyes widen slightly. That's all the confirmation I need.
I crack the butt of my gun across his face, and he joins his friends on the floor.
I move to Evelyn, kneeling beside her. A bruise is already forming on her cheekbone. I check her pulse—steady and strong. She'll have a headache when she wakes up but she'll live.
I holster my gun and lift her into my arms. She weighs nothing, fragile as a bird. Her violin case lies nearby and I grab that too. Can't leave it behind.
I cradle Evelyn against my chest, her body limp and trusting in unconsciousness. Something tightens in my chest—something I don't have time to examine. I need to move. Fast.
I glance at my Ducati across the street. Shit. Can't take her on the bike.
I shift her weight to one arm and dig through her small purse with my free hand. Lipstick, phone, wallet, and—there. Car keys.
"Let's go, music girl," I mutter, carrying her toward the parking garage.
I lay Evelyn across the back seat as gently as I can, then slide her violin case beside her. She stirs slightly, a small moan escaping her lips. The bruise on her cheek is darkening. My jaw clenches. Ivan will pay for that mark.
I slip into the driver's seat and adjust the mirrors. As I pull out of the garage I grab my phone and dial Matteo.
"What?" His voice is thick with sleep.
"I need you to meet me on the Belt Parkway, exit 17, in ten minutes."
"Do you know what fucking time it is?"
"Now, Matteo."
"What's going on?" He sounds more alert now.
"Just do as I fucking tell you." I cut him off, taking a sharp right to avoid a red light camera.
"Jesus, Noah. Fine. Ten minutes."
I hang up and check the rearview mirror. Evelyn is still out cold. Good. I don't need her screaming or fighting right now.
I weave through late-night traffic, constantly checking for tails. Nothing obvious, but Ivan's men are good. They wouldn't have moved on her without backup plans.
My phone buzzes with a text from Matteo: On my way. You better explain this shit.
I don't respond. Instead I reach back and brush a strand of hair from Evelyn's face. Her skin is soft under my calloused fingers.
"You're safe now," I say to her, though she can't hear me. "No one's going to hurt you again."
It's a promise I intend to keep, although I don't examine why. I just know that Evelyn Anderson is mine now—whether she wants to be or not.