Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
T he reality hits me like a slap. Noah didn't just happen to be there when those men attacked. The timing was too perfect.
"Why were you there in the first place?" My voice sounds hollow in the car's interior. "At my apartment building. Right when those men showed up."
Noah's eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, dark and unreadable. He doesn't answer.
The silence stretches between us and something clicks in my mind—a terrible possibility that suddenly seems obvious.
"You set this up, didn't you?" The words tumble out before I can stop them. "Those men weren't really Ivan's. You put them there just to have an excuse to take me."
Matteo barks out a laugh from the driver's seat. "She thinks you're that clever, Rivera? That's fucking hilarious."
But Noah doesn't laugh. His jaw tightens and something dangerous flashes across his face. He turns in his seat, the movement so sudden it makes me flinch back against the leather.
"You think I hired those men to attack you?" His voice drops to something barely above a whisper. "You think I need to create a fucking situation to take what I want?"
The car feels smaller suddenly, the air thinner.
"If I wanted you, little violinist, I would have taken you. No games. No excuses." He leans closer and I press myself against the door. "I don't play with my food."
Matteo glances over, his amusement fading as he senses Noah's anger.
"She doesn't know you yet, man. Cut her some slack."
Noah ignores him, his eyes locked on mine. "Those men were Ivan's. They were going to take you to him. And whatever he had planned for you—" He stops, something shifting in his expression. "Let's just say what I'm doing is merciful in comparison."
"Then why were you there?" I demand, refusing to back down despite the fear crawling up my spine. "Were you following me?"
A cold smile touches his lips. "Yes."
His simple "yes" hangs between us like a blade.
"Why?" I ask, my voice barely audible even to my own ears. "Why follow me?"
Noah turns back to face the windshield, his profile sharp against the passing streetlights. The silence stretches between us, heavy and oppressive. I wait for an answer that doesn't come.
"Cat got your tongue?" I press, anger giving me courage I shouldn't have. "You seem to have plenty to say when you're threatening me."
Still nothing. Just that unnerving stillness, like he's carved from stone.
Matteo clears his throat, glancing between us in the rearview mirror. "Don't take it personally, princess. Noah here has a thing for watching beautiful women from afar. It's kinda his hobby—like bird watching, but creepier."
I catch Matteo's eyes in the mirror and despite everything, a laugh bubbles up in my throat. It's absurd—this whole situation is absurd.
"Bird watching?" I repeat, raising an eyebrow. "So what am I then? A rare tropical species?"
Matteo's face cracks into a genuine smile. "More like a nightingale in a city full of pigeons."
"Shut up, Matteo," Noah growls, but there's less edge to it than before.
"What? I'm just making conversation." Matteo glances at me again. "It's called being polite. You should try it sometime."
I seize the moment of lightness. "Is he always this charming, or am I getting special treatment?"
Matteo throws up his hands from the steering wheel in mock surrender. "Hey, I'm just the driver in this kidnapping operation. Don't drag me into your lovers' quarrel."
His laugh fills the car and I find myself smiling despite everything. It's strange how the human mind works—finding humor in the darkest moments, clinging to any scrap of normalcy.
Noah turns to look at me again and the half-smile freezes on my face. There's nothing humorous in his expression—just that same intense focus that makes me feel like I'm being dissected.
"You're not a bird," he says. "You're much more dangerous than that."
The silence returns to the car, heavy and suffocating. My mind races, trying to process everything that's happened. Three men attacked me in my own building. Noah somehow appeared at the perfect moment to ‘save’ me. And now I'm being taken to some unknown location against my will.
What would those men have done if they'd succeeded? The thought sends ice through my veins. I've heard whispers about Ivan's operation—the trafficking, the disappearances. Would I have become just another missing person? Another name in a police report gathering dust?
And Noah... why was he watching me? Following me? His intense gaze feels like a physical weight whenever it lands on me. There's something predatory about it, something that makes my skin crawl and yet?—
I push that thought away immediately.
My sister Jessica will be worried sick if she doesn't hear from me. We have a system—I always text her when I get home after performances. It's a habit we formed after I started traveling internationally for concerts.
I pat my pockets frantically, though I already know my phone isn't there.
"I need my phone," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I need to call my sister."
Noah doesn't even turn around. "Your purse is back in your car."
Panic rises in my chest. "You left my purse? With my phone, my wallet, my ID—everything?"
"We were in a hurry," he says flatly, as if that explains everything.
"I need to contact my sister. She'll be worried when I don't check in. She might call the police."
This gets his attention. He turns slightly, his profile sharp in the dim light.
"And tell them what? That her adult sister didn't text goodnight?"
"That I'm missing," I snap. "That I always call and suddenly I'm not answering my phone. That something is wrong."
Noah considers this for a moment, his expression unreadable.
"Please," I say, hating how desperate I sound. "She's all I have. I can't let her think something happened to me."
"Something did happen to you," he points out.
Noah's jaw tightens, but after a moment he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a sleek black phone. He holds it just out of my reach.
"One call. No location details. No help signals. Just tell her you're safe and will contact her tomorrow. I'll be listening to every word."
Noah extends the phone toward me, his eyes never leaving mine. I reach for it, but he pulls it back slightly.
"Speaker," he commands, tapping the screen before handing it to me.
My fingers tremble as I take the phone, the cold metal a stark reminder of my situation. I dial Jessica's number, one I've known by heart since she got her first cellphone at thirteen.
The phone rings once, twice?—
"Hello?" Jessica's voice fills the car, sounding alert despite the late hour. "Who's this?"
"Jess, it's me," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Evelyn? Why are you calling from a strange number? I've been texting you for hours!" The relief in her voice quickly shifts to concern. "Are you okay? What happened?"
I glance at Noah, who watches me with unwavering intensity. His silent warning is clear.
"I'm fine," I lie, swallowing hard. "My phone died after the performance and I left my charger at home. I'm borrowing a friend's phone."
"A friend? Which friend?" Jessica's voice sharpens with suspicion. She knows all my friends, and I rarely make new ones.
"Just someone from the charity event," I say vaguely. "Listen, I just wanted to let you know I'm okay. I'll be home... soon." The last word catches in my throat.
A beat of silence follows.
"You don't sound okay, Evie." Her voice drops lower, more intimate. "You sound scared. What's really going on?"
Noah's eyes narrow and he extends his hand, silently demanding the phone back.
"Nothing's wrong," I insist, my voice cracking slightly. "I'm just tired. It's been a long day with two performances."
"Evelyn Anderson," Jessica says, using the full-name tone she reserves for when she knows I'm lying.
I freeze. Noah's watching me intently, his hand still outstretched.
"I'm really fine, Jess," I say carefully. "No need to worry about me or... Aunt Martha's cookies."
Noah's eyes flash with understanding. He lunges forward, snatching the phone from my hand.
"Your sister is fine," he says coldly into the speaker. "She'll call you tomorrow."
He ends the call before Jessica can respond, his face a mask of controlled fury.
"That was stupid," he says, his voice dangerously soft. "Very, very stupid."
I snatch the phone from her hand, rage boiling under my skin. The code she slipped to Jessica – so fucking transparent. Did she really think I wouldn't catch that?
"You think I'm stupid?" My voice comes out low, dangerous. I grip the phone so tight my knuckles go white. "You think I don't know what you just did?"
Evelyn stares back, defiance blazing in those eyes. Same fire I've watched for months now, playing that violin like she's tearing her soul open. That fire that pulled me in from the first moment.
"What did you expect me to do? Thank you for kidnapping me?"
I lean closer, close enough to see the gold flecks in her brown eyes. "I expected you to be smarter."
Disappointment cuts deeper than I expected. Ten months. Ten fucking months I've watched her. I've seen how she reads rooms, notices details others miss. The way she slips between worlds – classical music halls one night, mafia parties the next – never losing her step.
"I know you, Evelyn." I hold her gaze, watching recognition flicker across her face. "Better than you think."
I hold her gaze for another moment before turning to look out the window. Matteo pulls up to my building—a modern high-rise with enough security to make Fort Knox jealous. Perfect place to keep something valuable. Or someone.
"We're here." I unlock the door and step out, circling around to Evelyn's side. Her face is a mask of fury and fear when I open her door. "You gonna walk in yourself, or do I need to carry you again?"
She glares daggers at me, those blue eyes electric with hate. "Don't you dare touch me."
"Your choice." I step back, giving her space to exit. "But if you try anything I won't be gentle this time."
Evelyn slides out of the car, clutching her violin case to her chest like a shield. It's the only thing of value she has left now.
"Welcome home," I say, watching her take in the building. It's not what most people expect—glass and steel, legitimate on paper. No bodies buried in the foundation. At least none I put there.
"This isn't my home," she snaps, her voice steady despite everything. "This is a prison."
I shrug. "Call it whatever you want. You're staying."
Matteo leans against his car, amusement dancing in his eyes. "You two are adorable. Like watching a cat try to pet a porcupine."
"Fuck off," I tell him without heat. He's the closest thing I have to a friend, but that doesn't mean I won't put him in his place.
"I'll call you later," Matteo says, pushing off the car. He nods toward Evelyn, then looks back at me with a smirk. "Try not to kill each other before morning."
"No promises," I mutter.
Matteo laughs, sliding into his car. "Good luck, violinist. You're gonna need it with this one."
Before Evelyn can respond he's pulling away, tires squealing slightly against the pavement.
I place my hand on the small of her back, guiding her toward the entrance. She flinches but doesn't pull away—progress.
"Touch me again and I'll break your fingers," she hisses.
I lean close to her ear. "I'd like to see you try."
I guide her into the elevator, pressing the button for the penthouse. We ride up in silence, her body rigid beside mine. The doors open directly into my apartment—all black leather, steel, and glass. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a view of the city that people may fantasize about but could never afford.
Evelyn turns to face me, her eyes hard as ice. "You seem to like playing with me."
I keep my face blank. "This isn't a game."
"Then what is it?" She clutches her violin case tighter. "Why were you stalking me? Why did you take me?"
For a moment I consider telling her everything. But knowledge is power and right now I need her powerless.
"You need to rest." I nod toward a hallway. "You can take my bed. I'll sleep on the couch in the room."
She laughs, a sharp, bitter sound. "You think I'm going to sleep? Here? With you?"
"You don't have much choice." I move past her toward my bedroom. "Unless you prefer the floor."
She follows, her heels clicking angrily against the hardwood. "I need a shower."
I stop, turning to look at her. She's still wearing that black dress from the performance—elegant, expensive, now wrinkled from our struggle. Her makeup is smudged, hair falling from its perfect arrangement. Even disheveled, she looks like something that doesn't belong in my world.
"Fine." I walk to the dresser, pull out a black t-shirt and sweatpants. They'll swallow her whole but it's better than nothing. I toss them onto the bed. "These will have to do."
She eyes the clothes like they might bite her. "I need my own things."
"Not happening." I move to another door, pushing it open to reveal the bathroom. "Towels are in the cabinet. Soap, shampoo—whatever you need is in there."
She stands frozen, violin still clutched to her chest.
"Your precious violin will be safe," I tell her, nodding to the case. "No one's going to touch it."
Slowly, reluctantly, she sets the case on the bed, treating it with more care than most people show their children. Her fingers linger on the case before she grabs the clothes I've left out.
"Ten minutes," I say as she walks past me into the bathroom.
She pauses in the doorway, looking back at me with defiance. "I'll take as long as I want."
The door slams in my face and I hear the lock click into place. Not that it would stop me if I wanted in.
I lean against the wall outside the bathroom, listening to the water run. The sound of her moving around in there—my space—hits differently than I expected. Like she belongs here.
Fuck.
This is bad. So fucking bad.
I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the floor, head in my hands. What the hell am I doing? Ten months watching her from a distance, telling myself it was just surveillance. Just business. Just keeping tabs on a potential asset.
Bullshit.
I watched her because I couldn't look away. Because something about the way she moved, the way she played—like she was both perfectly controlled and completely wild at the same time—got under my skin.
I watched her because in her world, in those concert halls and charity events, there was something pure. Something I lost a long time ago. Something I never really had.
And now I've dragged her into my darkness.
I run my hands through my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt. Pain keeps me focused. Keeps me from thinking about her on the other side of that door.
She doesn't belong here. Not with me. Not with someone who's killed more men than he can count. Not with hands so covered in blood that sometimes I swear I can still feel it sticky between my fingers.
Evelyn Anderson. So fucking delicate. So fucking strong. The way she stood up to me in the car, even after everything—most people would be broken by now. Not her.
From a distance I could pretend. I could watch her play, watch her smile, watch her move through the world untouched by the filth I live in. I could protect her without contaminating her.
But this?
This is kidnapping. This is forcing her into my life. This is marking her as mine in a way that can't be undone.
Ivan will never stop looking for her now. I've painted a target on her back, and for what?
Because I couldn't stand the thought of Ivan having her? Because I'm selfish enough to destroy her life just to keep her close?
The water shuts off in the bathroom. I close my eyes, listening to her movements. Soft footsteps. The rustle of fabric. She's putting on my clothes.
My clothes touching her skin.
This is bad. Fucking bad.