Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
I sit cross-legged on Noah's sofa. Matteo leans against the bookcase, watching me with undisguised curiosity. The silence stretches between us, uncomfortable and thick.
"So," Matteo finally says, "how are you enjoying your stay at Hotel Rivera?"
I glare at him. "About as much as I'd enjoy a root canal."
"That bad?" He grins, completely unfazed by my hostility. "Noah's place is nicer than most five-star hotels in the city."
"The accommodations aren't the issue." I encircle my violin case in my arms. "It's the whole kidnapping situation I find problematic."
Matteo laughs, the sound unexpectedly warm. "Noah told me you had fire. I see he wasn't exaggerating."
"Is that why you're here? To observe the captive in her natural habitat?"
"I'm here because Noah asked me to babysit." He walks closer. "Though I prefer to think of it as providing security."
"I don't need a babysitter."
"No?" He raises an eyebrow. "What would you have done if Ivan's men had gotten to you first?"
The question hits like a slap. I look away, unwilling to admit I have no answer.
"That's what I thought." Matteo sits on the armchair across from me. "So, you play the violin."
"Brilliant observation."
"Are you always this pleasant, or am I special?"
"I reserve my charm for people who aren't complicit in my abduction."
Matteo leans forward, elbows on his knees. "You know, most people would be thanking Noah right now, not treating him like he's the villain."
"Most people haven't been detained in a stranger's apartment against their will."
"Most people haven't had Russian mobsters trying to drag them off to God knows where." His tone sharpens. "Do you even understand what Ivan would have done to you?"
I resettle the case in my arms like a new mother. "Noah keeps saying the same thing, but neither of you will tell me why Ivan wants me in the first place."
"That's for Noah to explain." Matteo studies me. "How long have you been playing?"
The abrupt change of subject throws me. "Since I was four."
"You must be good then."
"I'm adequate."
Matteo snorts. "Right. That's why you perform at Feretti christenings and Carlyle charity events. Because you're adequate."
"What do you want from me, Matteo?"
"Just making conversation." His eyes gleam with mischief. "Unless you'd prefer we sit in silence until Noah returns?"
"Silence sounds wonderful."
"Too bad." He grins wider. "You know what I think?" Matteo leans closer. "I think you like him."
"Excuse me?"
"Noah. I think you like him more than you're willing to admit."
"I don't like Noah one bit," I protest, heat rising to my cheeks. "That's ridiculous. He kidnapped me."
"Sure, sure." Matteo's smirk grows wider. "And I'm the Pope."
"You don't know anything about me."
"I know enough." He taps his fingers against the armrest. "I've known Noah for years, and I've never seen him act this way about anyone."
"Act what way?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
"Like he cares." Matteo's eyes lock with mine. "Noah doesn't care about people. It's not in his nature."
I scoff, desperate to hide how his words affect me. "Well, he doesn't care about me either. I'm just a... a possession to him. Something he took from Ivan."
"If that's what helps you sleep at night."
"How long have you worked with Noah?" I change the subject before it gets more awkward.
He leans back. "Trust me, you don't want to hear about my job."
"Why not?"
"Because it would confirm all your worst fears about what kind of men we are." His tone remains light, but his eyes don't match. "Let's talk about music instead. What's your favorite piece to play?"
I hesitate, surprised by the genuine interest. "Paganini's Caprice No. 24. It's technically challenging but emotionally rewarding."
"I don't know much about classical music," Matteo admits. "My mother used to play old records sometimes, but that's about it."
"What kind of music do you like?"
"Classic rock, some jazz." He grins. "Nothing as sophisticated as what you play."
For a while the conversation flows naturally. I find myself relaxing slightly, the grip on my violin case loosening.
Then Matteo chuckles, shaking his head.
"What's so funny?" I ask.
"You." He points at me. "That was smooth, by the way. Getting me to change the subject when things got uncomfortable."
My cheeks burn. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you do." Matteo leans forward again. "We were talking about how you feel about Noah, and suddenly we're discussing Paganini."
"I was just trying to have a civil conversation."
"No, you were deflecting." His eyes sparkle with amusement. "Which means I hit a nerve. You do like him."
"I don't?—"
"It's okay to admit it, you know. I won't tell him." Matteo winks. "Well, maybe I will. Depends on how entertaining his reaction might be."
I need to end this conversation before I say something I'll regret. Matteo's knowing smirk makes my skin crawl—not because he's unpleasant but because he sees right through me.
"Is there a TV in here?" I ask abruptly, scanning the room.
Matteo raises an eyebrow. "Changing the subject again?"
"Just looking for a distraction from this stimulating conversation." I stand up, still cradling my violin case. "Where does Noah keep the remote?"
"Cabinet under the TV." Matteo points to a sleek panel on the wall that I hadn't even recognized as a television. "But you're not going to find any trashy reality shows if that's what you're hoping for. Noah's not much for television."
I walk to the cabinet and pull it open, finding a single remote. "I'll settle for the news. Anything to drown out your amateur psychoanalysis."
"Ouch. You really know how to hurt a guy's feelings."
I press the power button and the massive screen flickers to life. A financial news channel appears—all stock tickers and serious-faced anchors discussing market trends.
"Fascinating viewing choice," Matteo comments dryly.
I increase the volume slightly and return to the sofa, positioning myself so the blaring financial news creates a wall between us. The anchor drones on about interest rates and corporate earnings, and I've never been so grateful for boring television.
Matteo shakes his head, amused. "You know, turning on Bloomberg doesn't make this conversation disappear."
"I'm not trying to make anything disappear. I just want to catch up on the markets." I force my eyes to stay fixed on the screen.
"Right. Because captive violinists are typically concerned with the Dow Jones Industrial Average."
I ignore him, pretending to be absorbed in a segment about tech stocks. The numbers and graphs mean nothing to me but they're infinitely preferable to Matteo's probing questions about Noah.
After a few minutes of blessed financial jargon filling the silence, Matteo sighs dramatically. "Fine. Have it your way." He pulls out his phone and starts scrolling, apparently giving up on conversation.
I relax slightly, the tension in my shoulders easing. The mindless drone of market analysis washes over me, creating a buffer between Matteo's observations and my confused feelings.
For now, at least, I've found refuge in the most unlikely place—financial news. And if pretending to care about stock prices keeps Matteo from dissecting my relationship with Noah, I'll become the world's most dedicated viewer.
I glance at Matteo from the corner of my eye. The market news drones on, neither of us really watching. The silence between us feels less hostile now, almost comfortable. Almost.
My mind races with questions about Noah. The photograph I found—his mother with a violin—feels like a key to something important. Something I could use.
"So," I say, keeping my voice casual. "How many years have you known Noah?"
Matteo's lips quirk up. "Fishing for information already? That didn't take long."
"Just making conversation." I shrug, turning the volume down on the TV. "Better than sitting here in silence."
"We grew up together. Sort of." Matteo stretches his legs out. "Both worked for the Ferettis since we were teenagers."
I shift on the couch, angling toward him. "And his family? He never mentions them."
A shadow crosses Matteo's face. "Not my story to tell."
"The violin in the photo. His mother played?"
His eyebrows shoot up. "You found that picture? Shit. No wonder he stormed out of here."
"He caught me snooping," I admit. "But he didn't explain anything."
"He wouldn't." Matteo studies me. "Noah doesn't talk about his past. Ever."
I press on. "But you know about it."
"Some." He sighs. "Look, if you're trying to find his weakness, good luck. Man's made of stone."
"I'm not—" I stop myself. Aren't I? "I just want to understand who's holding me captive."
Matteo laughs, the sound sharp. "Captive? Princess, if Noah wanted to hurt you, you'd be suffering. If he wanted to use you, you'd be used. Instead you're sitting here in his apartment, watching Bloomberg and wearing his clothes."
"That doesn't make this okay."
"Never said it did." He leans forward. "But I know Noah. And this—" he gestures around the apartment, "—this isn't normal. Noah doesn't bring people here. Ever."
My pulse quickens. "What do you mean?"
"I mean in all the years I've known him, he's never had a woman stay in his place. Not once."
"So what am I? Special?" The sarcasm drips from my voice.
Matteo's eyes narrow. "Maybe. Or maybe you're just the first one he's wanted for himself in a long time."
I swallow hard. "The violin. Is that why he watches me play?"
Something shifts in Matteo's expression. "You noticed that, huh?"
"It's hard not to notice someone staring at you for months."
"You knew he was watching you? Before all this?"
I nod. "Not who he was. Just that someone was there. I sensed eyes watching without seeing them."
Matteo rubs his jaw. "Interesting."
"What happened to his mother?"
"That's definitely not my story to tell." He stands up. "But if you want my advice? Don't mention her unless you want to see a side of Noah that scares even me."
I stare at the TV screen without really seeing it after Matteo walks away. His words about Noah's mother linger in my mind, pulling me toward memories I usually keep locked away.
My own mother.
Margaret Anderson. Concert pianist turned trophy wife. I remember her hands—elegant, with long fingers that could stretch across octaves effortlessly. Those same hands that would smooth my hair before recitals, straighten my dress collar, and occasionally, very occasionally, offer comfort.
But never protection.
I close my eyes, letting the memory surface. I was eleven, standing in our living room, violin clutched in my hands. My father's voice booming through the house.
"Four hours of practice isn't enough! You think this is a game, Evelyn? You think Carnegie Hall is for children who practice when they feel like it?"
My mother sat at her piano, shoulders stiff, eyes down. Silent.
"Mom," I whispered. "Please."
She never looked up. Just placed her fingers on the keys and began to play, drowning out my father's tirade with Chopin.
That was her answer to everything. When my father pushed too hard, when I cried from exhaustion, when Jessica begged to quit ballet—my mother played. As if the music could wash away the reality of what was happening.
I pull my knees to my chest, hugging them tight. What would she think of me now? Trapped in an apartment by a man who killed without hesitation, entangled with the mafia, a pawn between powerful men.
She'd probably just sit at her piano and play louder.
The last time I saw her was three years ago. My father had organized a special performance—me on violin, her on piano. A duet for his business associates. We played beautifully together, our instruments weaving a tapestry of sound that made the audience rise to their feet.
Backstage, I told her I was thinking of breaking my contract with my father's management company. Of playing what I wanted, where I wanted.
She just kissed my cheek and said, "Don't rock the boat, darling. It's easier to float with the current."
I grip the remote tighter, fighting back tears. I won't be like her. I won't just accept this situation, play along, and pretend everything is fine.
Unlike my mother, I will find a way out.
I'm still lost in my thoughts when the front door clicks open. Noah strides in, his arms loaded with shopping bags. His eyes find me immediately, his expression unreadable as always.
He sets the bags down with careful precision. Something about his movements seems tense, controlled even more rigidly than before.
"I got what you asked for," he says, not looking at me. His voice is flat, emotionless. "Clothes. Books. Toiletries."
I stand up, curious despite myself about what he's bought. "Thank you."
He ignores my gratitude, turning to Matteo who's leaning against the wall watching our interaction with obvious interest.
"Need to talk to you," Noah says to him. Then he glances at me. "Alone."
I cross my arms. "This is about me, isn't it? I should be part of any conversation?—"
"Not now, Evelyn." There's a hard edge to his voice I haven't heard before. "Go to the bedroom. I'll bring your things in when we're done."
"I'm not a child you can send to my room."
Noah's jaw tightens. "Five minutes. That's all I'm asking."
Something in his expression makes me pause. There's tension radiating from him, something beyond our usual antagonism. Whatever he needs to discuss with Matteo, it's serious.
"Fine," I say, not bothering to hide my irritation. "Five minutes."
As I walk toward the bedroom I hear Matteo mutter something that sounds like ‘whipped’ under his breath. Noah doesn't respond, which seems unusual for him.
I close the bedroom door behind me but immediately press my ear against it. Their voices are too low to make out distinct words, but the tone is unmistakable—urgent, intense. I hear Noah's voice rise slightly, then Matteo's response, sharp and quick.
Whatever's happening, it can't be good. I step away from the door and move to the window, staring out at the New York skyline. The city looks deceptively peaceful from up here, all sparkling lights and geometric patterns. No hint of the violence and danger lurking beneath.
I wonder what's changed since Noah left this morning. Has Ivan made a move? Is Damiano Feretti involved now?
Or is this about me? About the photograph I found?
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the comfortable temperature in the apartment. Whatever storm is brewing, I'm caught in the middle of it.
And I have a feeling it's about to get much worse.