Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
I lie in the dark, my eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. The sheets smell like him. I clutch my violin case against my chest like a warrior. My only connection to who I really am.
Sleep won't come. Not in this strange bed. Not with him just a couple of feet away.
I turn my head slightly. Noah's silhouette is visible on the sofa by the window, illuminated by the faint glow of city lights filtering through the blinds. His breathing isn't deep or regular. He's awake too.
My thoughts drift to Jessica. By now she must be frantic. She'll have gotten my message, understood the code we created years ago when we were just girls playing spy games. Never imagining we'd need it for real.
I picture her pacing her apartment, calling everyone we know. Maybe even the police. My sweet, innocent sister who thinks I'm just a violinist. Who believes my trips abroad are nothing more than concerts and cultural exchanges.
She has no idea about Ivan. About any of this.
I close my eyes, remembering the first time I met him. Seven months ago in Moscow. After my performance at the Bolshoi Theater he approached me backstage. Distinguished. Elegant. His accent refined as he complimented my playing.
"Your Paganini was exquisite, Miss Anderson. Like you were born with the devil's own talent in your fingers."
I should have recognized the warning in those words.
He invited me to dinner. Just a patron of the arts supporting a young musician, he said. I went because my father insisted—Alexander Anderson never missed an opportunity to make connections.
That dinner led to another. Then a private performance at his estate outside Moscow. Then a contract—exclusive performances for his ‘associates’ when I visited Europe. The money was extraordinary. My father was thrilled.
I didn't know who Ivan really was until three months later, when I saw him in a back room after a performance in Vienna. Saw the blood on his knuckles. Saw the man on the floor.
By then, it was too late. The contract bound me to him for a year of performances. My father had already spent the advance. And Ivan made clear what happened to people who broke agreements with him.
I shift in the bed, trying to find a comfortable position that doesn't exist.
Jessica knows nothing about any of this. She thinks I'm just busy, successful, living the dream our mother had for me. She teaches kindergarten and dates normal men who work normal jobs. Her world is safe.
Or it was, until tonight.
I wonder if Noah is right. Would Ivan have taken me to hurt me? I hear Noah shift on the sofa, the leather creaking slightly.
"I know you're awake," he says, his voice low in the darkness.
I don't answer right away, letting the silence stretch between us. There's something intimate about lying so close in the dark, both awake, both pretending we're not.
"I thought assassins slept like babies," I finally say, my voice softer than intended. "All that practice shutting off your conscience."
The leather creaks again as he shifts. "Who says I have a conscience?"
"Everyone has a conscience, Noah. Some people just bury it deeper than others."
I sit up, still clutching my violin case. The moonlight catches his profile—sharp jawline, the curve of his lips. Even in shadow he's beautiful in that dangerous way that makes my heart race.
"What about you, princess?" he asks. "What keeps you awake? Guilt about that coded message to your sister?"
"Worried she'll send the cavalry after you?" I raise an eyebrow he probably can't see in the darkness. "Maybe you should be."
He laughs, a low rumble that sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. "The only cavalry coming is Ivan's. And they won't be looking to rescue you."
I tuck my legs under me on the bed. "You know, for someone who claims to be protecting me, you're not very reassuring."
"I didn't sign up to be your therapist."
"No, you signed up to be my kidnapper. Much more straightforward."
He sits up too now, and I can feel his eyes on me even through the darkness. "I saved your life."
"After stalking me for how long exactly?" I challenge. "Months? Were you watching me through my windows too? While I changed? While I slept?"
Noah stands, his tall frame blocking the faint light from the window. He moves toward the bed, close enough that my breath catches.
"I had people watching your building," he says, his voice controlled. "Not you. Not like that."
"And that distinction matters?"
"Yes." He's at the edge of the bed now. "It matters."
The mattress dips as he sits on the far corner, keeping his distance. I clutch my violin case tighter.
"You need to rest," he says, his tone shifting to something almost gentle. "Tomorrow won't be easy."
"Is that concern I hear, Mr. Rivera? Careful, your conscience is showing."
He doesn't rise to the bait. "Sleep, Evelyn. While you can."
I want to keep pushing, to find the cracks in his armor, but exhaustion suddenly hits me like a wave. The adrenaline that's kept me going is finally crashing.
I look away from him, from those dark eyes that seem to see right through me. My fingers trace the worn edges of my violin case. This case has been with me through concert halls in Vienna, Moscow, New York. Through applause and standing ovations. Through my greatest triumphs.
And now it's here, my only companion in this stranger's bedroom.
"I'm not interested in conversation," I say, my voice sharper than before. "You're not my friend. You're not my protector. You're the man who took me against my will."
Noah stays at the edge of the bed, that infuriating calm never leaving his face. Even in the dim light I can see the definition of his shoulders through his T-shirt, the strength in his arms that carried me so effortlessly earlier.
A monster in a god's body. That's what he is.
I lie back down, turning away from him. The sheets smell like him. I hate that I notice it. Hate that some traitorous part of my brain finds it comforting.
I hear him settle back onto the sofa, the leather creaking under his weight. The city hums outside, cars passing, sirens in the distance. New York never sleeps and tonight, I didn't think I would either.
But exhaustion pulls at me, dragging me down despite my determination to stay alert. My eyelids grow heavy. The violin case slips slightly in my loosening grip.
I shouldn't sleep. Not here. Not with him watching. Not when I need to plan, to think, to find a way out.
But my body betrays me, surrendering to fatigue that seeps into my bones.
The last thing I remember before darkness claims me is the steady sound of Noah's breathing across the room, and the thought that tomorrow, somehow, I need to escape this beautiful monster who's decided that I belong to him.
I wake to the vibration of my phone. The screen lights up the dim room as I quickly grab it before the sound can wake Evelyn.
"What?" I keep my voice low, moving toward the window to put distance between me and the bed where she's still sleeping.
"Good morning to you too, sunshine." Matteo's voice comes through, too cheerful for the hour. "Just checking whether our guest is still breathing or if you've scared her to death."
I glance back at Evelyn. She's curled on her side, one arm still wrapped protectively around that violin case. Her hair spills across the pillow and I allow myself a second to appreciate how peaceful she looks compared to the fury and fear of last night.
"She's fine. Still sleeping."
"And you? You good with this whole situation?"
I turn back to the window, looking out at the skyline. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Matteo says, his voice dropping the playful tone, "that I need to know you're sure about going further with this. You've crossed a line, Noah. Taking her like that?—"
"I didn't have a choice."
"There's always a choice. And now we have to deal with the consequences." He pauses. "I need to inform the Ferettis."
My grip tightens on the phone. "Why the fuck would you do that?"
"Because Ivan had men at her place. This isn't just about you wanting to play hero for a pretty violinist. This is business now."
"Damiano doesn't need to know for now."
"He already suspects something. Word travels fast. Those men you put down? Their bodies were found. Questions are being asked." Matteo sighs. "Look, I'm not saying we hand her over, but Damiano deserves to know what's happening on his turf."
I watch a bird land on the railing of the terrace, then take off again. "Fine. But I talk to him. Not you."
"Whatever you want. Just don't wait too long. And Noah…?"
"What?"
"You need to figure out what your endgame is here. Because protecting her from Ivan is one thing. Keeping her against her will is another."
I end the call without responding and turn back to look at Evelyn. Her breathing is steady, face relaxed in sleep—so different from the woman who fought me like a wildcat last night. The morning light catches her hair, turning the brown strands almost golden against the dark linen.
I need to think. Clear my head.
Moving quietly across the room, I grab fresh clothes from the dresser and head to the bathroom. I lock the door behind me—not that I think she'll wake up anytime soon after the night she had, but old habits die hard.
The shower hisses to life, steam quickly filling the space. I strip and step under the scalding spray, letting it pound against my shoulders and back. Water sluices over the tattoos that mark my skin—reminders of promises, losses, power.
What the fuck am I doing?
Ten months of watching her from a distance. Now she's in my bed, and I've started a war with the Russians.
I press my forehead against the cool tile, letting the water beat down on my neck.
Matteo's right. I need an endgame here. I can't keep her locked up in my apartment forever, no matter how much the thought appeals to me. Sooner or later Ivan will track us down. And Damiano…shit. Damiano's going to want answers about why I've dragged the Feretti family into this mess.
The soap slips through my fingers, hitting the shower floor with a dull thud. I pick it up, working it into a lather across my chest and arms.
I could take her somewhere else. But that's just delaying the inevitable. Ivan won't stop looking. And now that she sent that message to her sister...
I rinse off, turning the water hotter until my skin burns red.
For now, we stay put. This place is secure—high-tech security system, reinforced doors, private elevator access. I have weapons stashed throughout the apartment. If Ivan's men find us, I'll be ready.
But I need more than just firepower. I need leverage. Something to make Ivan back off permanently.
I shut off the water and grab a towel, roughly drying myself. The mirror has fogged over completely, my reflection nothing but a blur. Fitting. I barely recognize myself in this situation.
For now, we stick to the original plan. Keep her safe. Keep her here. Figure out our next move.
And hope she doesn't try to kill me in my sleep.
Damiano would back me on this. I know it. If I tell him Ivan's men tried to take her—tried to hurt her—he'll understand why I stepped in. The Ferettis don't tolerate that kind of disrespect on their territory, especially not from the Russians.
But the timing is shit. Damiano just welcomed his daughter into the world. After everything the family's been through these past ten months, he deserves this moment of peace with his wife and baby. The family's been through hell. We all have. Damiano finally has something good in his life, something pure. I can't bring this mess to his doorstep. Not yet.
I'll handle it myself for now. Keep Evelyn safe. Figure out what Ivan wants with her. Then, when I have more information, I'll go to Damiano.
The water pounds against my back, each drop a reminder of the mess I've created. My fist connects with the tile wall before I even realize I've moved. Pain shoots up my arm, a welcome distraction from the chaos in my head.
The second I hear the shower running, I'm on my feet. My muscles protest after hours of tense sleep in an unfamiliar bed, but adrenaline pushes through the stiffness. I have minutes at most.
I scan the bedroom.
"Think, Evelyn," I whisper to myself, moving toward the bedroom door.
I turn the handle slowly, expecting resistance. It opens. He didn't lock it. Arrogance or oversight?
The hallway stretches before me, all sleek minimalism and shadows. The shower still runs, a steady backdrop to my racing heart. I pad forward on bare feet, my borrowed clothes hanging loose on my frame.
The living room opens up—spacious and sparse. A kitchen gleams with stainless steel to my right. I spot the front door immediately—heavy, reinforced metal with what looks like a keypad lock beside it.
No way I'm guessing that code.
I check my watch. Two minutes since the shower started.
The kitchen yields nothing useful—knives locked in a drawer that won't budge. Smart man. I scan for phones, computers, anything with which to contact Jessica. Nothing.
My eyes land on a small side table near the couch. A drawer. I slide it open silently, finding a sleek tablet inside. My fingers tremble as I power it on.
Password protected.
"Damn it," I hiss, replacing it exactly as I found it.
Three minutes now. The shower still runs.
I move to the windows in the living room—same as the bedroom, sealed tight. Thirty floors up means jumping isn't an option anyway.
There's a balcony door, glass like the rest but with a heavy lock. I try it, knowing it's futile. Locked from the inside with a key I don't have.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I sprint back toward the bedroom, scanning desperately for anything I missed. There's a closet I haven't checked. I slide it open, finding rows of dark clothing, all men's. I push aside hanging shirts, searching the back wall.
Nothing but smooth drywall.
I hurry back to the entrance door, my bare feet silent against the cold floor. The shower still runs—I have time. The keypad mocks me with its blinking light. I examine it closer this time, looking for smudges, worn buttons, anything to give me a clue.
Four digits. Standard. I notice slight wear on the 3, 7 and 9 keys. I try different combinations—3797, 7939, 9373—my fingers trembling with each attempt.
The pad flashes red. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
I close my eyes, forcing myself to think. What would a man like Noah use? Birthdate? Too obvious. Some kind of code?
"Trying to leave so soon?"
The voice freezes me in place. My stomach drops through the floor as my body goes rigid. The shower isn't running anymore. How did I miss that?
I turn around slowly, my mouth dry.
Noah stands just feet away, water still clinging to his skin. A white towel hangs dangerously low on his hips, and nothing else. My eyes betray me instantly.
Broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist. His chest and arms are sculpted muscle, not the bulky kind but the lean and sculpted, dangerous kind that speaks of function over vanity. Tattoos sprawl across his skin—intricate black designs, maybe reptilian, maybe Oriental characters, wrapping around his biceps, covering parts of his chest, disappearing beneath the towel.
Water droplets trace paths down the ridges of his abdomen. My gaze follows one as it slides down past his navel, along the dark trail of hair that disappears beneath white cotton.
Scars mark his body like a roadmap—a jagged line across his ribs, a circular mark near his collarbone, others I can't name. Each one tells a story I'm not sure I want to hear.
His dark hair is slicked back, water making it appear even darker. Rivulets run down his neck, across shoulders that seem impossibly wide this close.
I force my eyes back up to his face, mortified by my own reaction. His expression is unreadable but there's something in his eyes—amusement? Satisfaction?
"I—" My voice fails me. My cheeks burn with embarrassment and something else I refuse to acknowledge.
Noah's mouth curves into the barest hint of a smile. "See something you like, Evelyn?"
"You're flattering yourself," I manage to say, trying to inject venom into my voice despite the heat creeping up my neck. My eyes dart away from his half-naked form, focusing on a spot over his shoulder.
Noah steps closer, water still glistening on his skin. The scent of his soap—cedar and something sharper—fills my senses. He's close enough now that I can feel the heat radiating from his shower-warm body.
"I don't need to flatter myself," he says, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. His eyes hold mine, unflinching and dark. "I can tell your pussy is wet and wants to be fucked."
The words hit me like a physical blow. My mouth falls open, shock stealing my breath. The crude assessment—the absolute audacity—sends a jolt of anger through me that finally breaks my paralysis.
"You're an asshole," I spit out, my hands curling into fists at my sides. The words feel inadequate against his vulgarity, but they're all I can manage through my rage and humiliation.
Noah's expression doesn't change. He simply turns his back to me, and in one fluid motion drops his towel to the floor.
My breath catches. I should look away—I want to look away—but I can't.
His back is a canvas of muscle and ink. Tattoos sprawl across his shoulder blades and spine, intricate designs I can't fully make out. A large piece dominates his right shoulder, something with dark wings that disappears under his armpit to his chest.
My eyes travel down the curve of his spine to the dimples at his lower back, then lower still. His ass is as sculpted as the rest of him—firm, perfectly proportioned. Another scar cuts across his left hip, disappearing around the front.
He moves with casual confidence, completely unconcerned with his nudity as he steps towards a dresser. The muscles in his back and shoulders shift beneath his skin with each movement, a lethal grace that reminds me of predator beasts I've seen in documentaries.
I finally manage to tear my eyes away, turning to face the door again. My heart hammers against my ribs, my face burning with shame at my own reaction. I'm angry—furious —but underneath that anger is something else I refuse to acknowledge.
I jerk my head away from him, my face burning with a mix of humiliation and rage. "Go to hell," I spit out.
"Is that the best you've got?" Noah chuckles, the sound low and infuriating as he pulls on a pair of black boxer briefs. "For someone who moves in high society your vocabulary is disappointingly limited."
"And for someone who claims to be protecting me, you're acting like a complete pig," I snap back, keeping my eyes fixed on the wall. "Put some clothes on."
"Why? You seemed to be enjoying the view." He steps into dark jeans, the fabric sliding up his legs with practiced ease.
"I wasn't—" I start, but he cuts me off.
"You were." His voice drops an octave. "Your pupils dilated. Your breathing changed. Your cheeks flushed." He lists these physical observations like he's reading items off a grocery list. "Your body betrays you, Evelyn."
I whirl around, fury overriding embarrassment now that he's at least partially dressed. "You think highly of yourself, don't you? That every woman just falls at your feet?"
Noah pulls a black T-shirt over his head, the fabric stretching across his chest before settling into place. His lips quirk up at one corner—not quite a smile, but something more dangerous.
"I don't think anything. I observe." He takes a step closer. "And what I observed was you checking me out while claiming to hate me."
"I do hate you," I insist, holding my ground despite every instinct telling me to back away. "You kidnapped me. You're holding me prisoner. The fact that you're attractive doesn't change that."
The moment the words leave my mouth, I regret them. His eyes light up with triumph.
"So you admit it," he says, and a full smile breaks across his face. The transformation is startling—his features softening for just a moment before hardening again. "You find me attractive."
"That's not—" I stammer, mortified. "I didn't mean?—"
Noah throws his head back and laughs—actually laughs—the sound rich and unexpected in the tense space between us. It's the first genuine emotion I've seen from him, and it catches me off guard.
"For someone who performs in front of thousands, you're a terrible liar," he says, shaking his head. "But don't worry, Evelyn. Your secret's safe with me."
"There is no secret," I growl, hating how defensive I sound. "And you're flattering yourself if you think?—"
"Flattering myself?" He steps closer, close enough that I smell the clean scent of his soap. "No, sweetheart. I don't need to flatter myself. Your eyes do all the talking for you."