Chapter 12
CHAPTER 12
I pull Matteo into the kitchen, keeping my voice low so Evelyn can't hear us. The granite countertop feels cold under my palms as I lean against it.
"It was a fucking disaster," I mutter, running a hand through my hair. "Damiano was ready to put a bullet in my head."
Matteo crosses his arms. "What did you expect? You killed three of Ivan's men and kidnapped a woman who played at his daughter's christening."
"I didn't have a choice." My jaw flexes. "Ivan's men were there to take her. What was I supposed to do? Let them?"
"You could have called for backup instead of going lone wolf." Matteo's eyes narrow. "So what's the damage?"
"He said that I won’t be alone but If anything goes sideways, it's on me."
"Could be worse," Matteo says with a shrug. "You're lucky Damiano has your back. Anyone else would be feeding the fish in the Hudson by now."
"He doesn't have my back. He's cutting me loose if this blows up."
"Bullshit. If Damiano wanted you gone, you'd be gone." Matteo leans closer. "He values you too much. That's why you're still breathing after this stunt."
I let out a humorless laugh. "Lucrezia cornered me on the way out. Warned me about getting attached."
"Smart woman." Matteo glances toward the living room. "So what's the plan now?"
"I need to figure out what Ivan wants with her. It's not just about her playing violin at his events. There's something else."
"And in the meantime?"
"She stays here where I can protect her." I straighten up. "Ivan's men are searching the city. I need you to keep your ear to the ground, find out what they know."
Matteo nods, then a smirk forms on his face. "You know, I think she likes you."
"Shut the fuck up."
"I'm serious. The way she was asking about you?—"
"She hates me. I kidnapped her, remember?"
"There's a thin line between hate and?—"
"We're done with this conversation." I push off from the counter. "Just find out what Ivan's planning."
"Whatever you say, boss." Matteo's smirk doesn't fade.
I walk Matteo to the door, keeping my voice low.
"Just find out what you can. I need to know what Ivan's planning."
"Will do." Matteo glances back toward the bedroom door. "Try not to get too attached."
"Get the fuck out," I mutter, shoving him through the doorway.
I close the door and punch in the security code, my mind racing with everything Damiano said. When I turn around, Evelyn is standing there, arms crossed over her chest..
"I heard all of it," she says, chin tilted up in defiance.
"Of course you did." I walk past her toward the kitchen. No point denying what she already knows.
"So I'm the reason you're in trouble with your boss." She follows me, keeping her distance. "The reason you might start a war."
I grab a bottle of water from the fridge. "You're not the reason. Ivan is."
"But if you'd just left me?—"
"You'd be with Ivan right now." I twist the cap off with more force than necessary. "Trust me, you wouldn't prefer that alternative."
She stares at me, those blue eyes calculating something. "What does he want with me? You said it's not just about my playing."
"I don't know yet." I take a long drink. "But I intend to find out."
Evelyn shifts her weight, glancing toward the shopping bags I left by the couch. The conversation feels too heavy, too loaded with things neither of us wants to address.
"I brought your stuff," I say, nodding toward the bags. "Check if there's everything you need."
She hesitates before moving toward the couch, pulling the bags closer. I watch as she rifles through them, pulling out clothes, toiletries, books.
"You actually got everything on the list," she says, sounding surprised.
"I can follow instructions." I lean against the doorframe, watching her.
She holds up a paperback copy of Jane Eyre . "This wasn't on my list."
"You said you wanted books. That was in the classics section."
A small smile plays at her lips before she catches herself and forces it away. "I've read it before."
"Then you know if it's any good."
She continues sorting through the items, her fingers lingering on the soft fabrics of the clothes I picked. Nothing fancy or revealing—just comfortable things she can move in. Things that won't make her feel more trapped than she already is.
"Thank you," she says quietly, not looking at me.
The words hang in the air between us. It's the first time she's thanked me for anything.
"Don't mention it. Why don’t you go change, see if I got your size right?"
I'm halfway through a glass of whiskey when I hear the bedroom door open. I don't turn around, keeping my eyes fixed on the city lights through the window. The amber liquid burns a path down my throat as I take another sip.
Soft footsteps pad across the hardwood floor. Then silence.
When I finally turn, Evelyn stands in the center of the living room, violin in hand. Her face is unreadable as she raises the instrument to her shoulder, tucks it under her chin.
"You don't have to," I say, my voice rougher than intended.
She doesn't respond. Just closes her eyes and draws the bow across the strings.
The first note hits me like a tsunami wave. Low and mournful, it fills the space between us, vibrating in my chest. I set my glass down, forgotten.
This isn't the polished performance from the garden or charity event. This is something raw. Something private. The melody starts slow, almost hesitant, before building into something that makes my breath catch.
I don't recognize the piece. Don't care what it’s called. All I know is that watching her play is like watching someone bleed out their soul.
Her body sways with the music, completely lost in it. Her face transforms—eyes closed, lips slightly parted. The violence of the past few days melts away from her features, replaced by something close to ecstasy.
My fingers tighten. I want to cross the room. Want to run my hands through her hair, feel the heat of her skin under my palms. The urge to touch her hits me with unexpected force.
The melody shifts, grows more intense. Her movements become more passionate, more abandoned. Sweat glistens on her neck, and I find myself staring at the pulse point there.
I've never wanted to kiss someone so badly in my life.
My body stiffens, fighting against the pull of her. This isn't part of the plan. She's leverage against Ivan, a means to an end.
But watching her play, I can't remember any of those reasons.
The music reaches a crescendo, her bow flying across the strings with controlled violence. Then it slows, softens, until the final note hangs in the air between us like a question.
When she opens her eyes, they're wet with emotion. She looks directly at me, and for the first time since I took her there's no hostility in her gaze. Just vulnerability.
"That was..." I start, but words fail me.
Her chest rises and falls with rapid breaths. "My mother taught me that piece."