Chapter 13
CHAPTER 13
I lift the violin to my shoulder, feeling its familiar weight. This is my world, the only place where I've ever been truly free. Even here, in Noah's apartment, with the walls closing in, the violin offers escape.
My fingers find the strings and I begin to play.
Not for him. For me. That's what I tell myself.
But I know it's a lie.
I chose Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto. Something raw and emotional. Something that might reach whatever's left of his soul.
The photograph I found earlier—his mother with a violin—it clicks into place now. The way he watches me when I play. The hunger in his eyes isn't just for me. It's for something lost.
I close my eyes and let the music flow. Each note vibrates through my body, an extension of myself. I don't need to see Noah to know he's there, standing at the windows, frozen.
The melody soars, passionate and melancholy. I think of my own mother, sitting silently while my father pushed and pushed. I think of Noah's mother, who must have played like this once. Before whatever happened that left her son with just a photograph.
I feel him move closer. His presence is like gravity, pulling at me even when I resist.
"Stop." His voice cuts through the music.
My eyes snap open. Noah stands inches away, his face a mask of controlled pain.
"Why are you playing that?" His words come out strangled.
I lower the violin slowly. "Because you wanted me to play."
"Not that piece."
I hold his gaze. "Your mother played, didn't she? That's why you've been watching me. That's why you took me."
His jaw tightens. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"I saw the photograph," I say. "She had a violin."
Noah's hands clench at his sides. Briefly I think he might lash out, but instead he turns away.
"She used to play every night," he says, his back to me. "Just for me."
The vulnerability in his voice catches me off guard. This isn't the cold, calculating man who kidnapped me. This is someone else. Someone broken.
"What happened to her?" I ask, though I'm afraid of the answer.
Noah doesn't respond. The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken pain.
"Play something else," he says.
I hesitate, then lift the violin again. This time I choose Bach's Partita No. 2. Something precise and structured. Something that won't tear open old wounds.
As I play I watch Noah's shoulders relax slightly. He turns back to face me, his eyes never leaving my hands as they dance across the strings.
I understand now. This obsession isn't just about me. It's about what I represent. A ghost from his past that he can't let go.
I lower the violin as the last notes of Bach fade into silence. Noah still watches me, his eyes dark and unreadable.
"Happy now?" I ask, my voice softer than I intended.
He doesn't answer, just keeps staring like he's trying to memorize every detail of my face. The intensity makes my skin tingle.
What is wrong with me? This man kidnapped me. He's dangerous—I've seen what his hands can do. Those hands that killed Ivan's men without hesitation.
Yet when he talks about his mother, when that mask slips even for a moment, something inside me immediately responds. It's terrifying.
"You play like her," Noah says. His voice is rough, like the words are being dragged out against his will.
"I'm not her."
"I know that." His jaw tightens. "Trust me, I fucking know that."
The harshness returns to his voice, but I've seen beneath it now. I can't unsee it.
"Noah—" I start, not even sure what I'm going to say.
He steps closer and my heart hammers against my ribs. I should back away. I should be afraid. Instead I'm rooted to the spot, caught between wanting to run and wanting to...what? Touch him? Comfort him? The thought is absurd.
"Don't," he warns. "Don't try to understand me. Don't try to find something good in this."
"There's nothing good about being kidnapped," I snap, anger flaring to protect me from these confusing feelings.
"Then why did you play for me?" His question hits like a slap.
I have no answer that makes sense. Nothing about how I feel makes sense. He's a monster. A killer. The enemy.
But he's also a boy who lost his mother. A man who looks at me like I'm both salvation and damnation.
"I don't know," I whisper, and it's the most honest thing I've said since arriving here.
Noah reaches out, his fingertips barely grazing my cheek. I should flinch away, but I don't. His light touch sends electricity through me.
"You're going to hate yourself for this," he says quietly. "For not hating me enough."
He's right. I already do.
"Noah," I whisper, not sure if I'm asking him to stop or begging him not to.
He answers by closing the distance between us. His lips find mine and everything else disappears.
The kiss is gentle at first, almost hesitant—so different from the violence that I know lives in him. Then something breaks. His hand slides to the back of my neck, pulling me closer as the kiss deepens.
I should push him away. I should scream. I should remember who he is and what he's done.
Instead, I melt.
My violin slips from my fingers, landing with a soft thud on the rug. My hands find his shoulders, feeling the solid strength beneath his shirt. He tastes like coffee and something darker, something dangerous.
The world tilts beneath my feet. I'm falling, drowning, losing myself in him. And God help me, I want more.
I press closer, my body acting on its own, seeking his heat. Noah groans against my mouth, the sound vibrating through me. His hands tighten, one at my waist, one tangled in my hair.
"Evelyn," he breathes my name against my lips like a prayer.
It tears something loose inside me. I've spent my whole life controlled by others—my father, Ivan, and now Noah. But this—this desire burning through me—feels like my choice. The first real choice I've made in so long.
I want him. All of him. The monster and the man. The killer and the boy who lost his mother.
My hands slide down his chest, feeling his heart hammer beneath my palm. He's as affected as I am, as lost in this impossible moment.
When we break apart to haul at a breath, reality crashes back. What am I doing? This man kidnapped me. He's holding me prisoner. He's killed people.
But I can't make myself care. Not now, with his forehead pressed against mine, his breath hot on my face, his hands holding me like I might shatter.
"I shouldn't want this," I say, my voice breaking.
Noah's eyes meet mine, dark and hungry. "Neither should I."
But we both do. It hangs between us, this terrible, beautiful truth.
"I need to..." She doesn't finish the sentence. Doesn't need to. She turns and walks to the bedroom, each step deliberate. The door closes behind her with a soft click that sounds like a gunshot in the silence she leaves behind.
Fuck.
I run my hand through my hair, pacing the living room like a caged animal. What the fuck was I thinking? I wasn't thinking. That's the problem. For the first time in years I let something other than cold calculation drive my actions.
The ghost of her lips still burns on mine. I can still taste her—vanilla and something deeper, something that makes me want to kick down that bedroom door and finish what we started.
But I won't. Because I know what happens next. I've seen this story play out before. People get close to me, they get hurt. Or worse.
I grab a glass and pour myself two fingers of whiskey, downing it in one burning swallow. It doesn't help.
I pour another drink, remembering the way her body fit against mine, the small sound she made when our lips met. The way her fingers curled into my shirt like she was afraid to let go.
The violin sits abandoned on the ground where she left it. Her most prized possession, forgotten in a moment of weakness. Just like I forgot everything I know about survival the instant I tasted her lips.
I should never have let this happen. Should never have let her play that music. Should never have told her about my mother. Should never have shown her that crack in my armor.
Because now she knows. She's seen something real in me, and that gives her power I can't afford to give anyone.
I set the glass down hard enough that it nearly shatters. My own weakness disgusts me. I'm not some lovesick teenager. I'm Il Fantasma. I don't feel. I don't break. I don't fucking kiss prisoners I'm supposed to be protecting.
I've been sitting on this sofa for two hours, staring at nothing, my mind a battlefield of thoughts I don't want to have. The whiskey bottle sits half-empty on the coffee table. It hasn't helped.
Behind that closed door, Evelyn hasn't made a sound. No movement. Nothing. Just silence that's louder than any scream.
My phone buzzes. Matteo.
On my way up. Got news.
Fuck. I'm not in the mood for company, but Matteo wouldn't come unless it was important. I down the last of my whiskey and set the glass aside, trying to look like a man in control instead of someone who's just had his entire world flipped upside down by a single kiss.
Three sharp knocks at the door. I unlock it to find Matteo leaning against the wall, eyebrows raised as he takes in my appearance.
"You look like shit," he says, pushing past me into the apartment.
"Thanks." I close the door behind him.
Matteo's eyes scan the room, landing on the whiskey bottle. "Started the party without me?" He picks up the bottle, examining the label. "The good stuff too. Must be serious."
"What do you want, Matteo?"
Matteo's expression shifts, the humor vanishing. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small metal box, setting it on the coffee table with a dull thud.
"We got a delivery at the mansion an hour ago."
Something in his tone makes my blood run cold. I stare at the box, already knowing I don't want to see what's inside.
"What is it?"
Matteo's jaw tightens. "A finger. Cut clean. Man's finger."
My stomach turns but I keep my face blank. "Whose?"
"Don't know yet. Alessio's running the prints, but..." He pulls a folded note from his pocket and hands it to me. "This came with it."
I unfold the paper. Three words, written in neat block letters: brING HER BACK.
"Ivan," I say, crumpling the note in my fist.
"Has to be. This is his style—dramatic, public." Matteo glances toward the bedroom door. "Where is she?"
"In there." I don't elaborate. Don't need to explain the tension hanging in the air or why she's hiding behind a closed door.
"She needs to know, Noah. This isn't just about you and her anymore." Matteo lowers his voice. "Ivan's sending body parts to the Feretti mansion. That's a declaration of war."
I run my hand down my face, feeling the stubble I haven't bothered to shave. "Who delivered it?"
"Some kid. Paid cash. Said a man in a black car gave him fifty bucks to drop it off."
Matteo eyes the box again. "We need to figure out whose finger that is."
I pick up the box, feeling its weight. Someone's pain, someone's terror, all packaged up as a message to me. This is the consequence of my selfishness. Of taking what I wanted instead of thinking clearly.
"Did Damiano see this?"
Matteo nods. "He's furious. Wants to meet with you tomorrow morning. Early."
"Tell him I'll be there."
"And what about her?" Matteo jerks his chin toward the bedroom. "You can't keep her locked in here forever, especially not now. Ivan's making his move."
I set the box down, hating the choice in front of me. "I know."
"So what's the plan?"
The plan. As if I have one beyond keeping her alive, keeping her close, keeping her from Ivan's grasp. But now there's a severed finger on my coffee table and the game has changed.
"I need to talk to her first," I say, staring at the bedroom door. "She needs to understand what she's in the middle of."
Matteo heads toward the door but pauses with his hand on the knob. "If you need me to be here with her tomorrow when you're at the Ferettis, just text me. I can rearrange some things."
The offer surprises me. Matteo isn't the type to volunteer for babysitting duty.
"Thanks," I say, meaning it.
He gives me a quick nod, then slips out, leaving me alone with the weight of decisions I'm not sure how to make.
I lock the door behind him and stare at the metal box on the coffee table. Inside is someone's pain, someone's blood—all because I decided to take Evelyn. All because I couldn't stand the thought of Ivan having her.
I pick up the box and tuck it into my jacket pocket. She doesn't need to see this part. Doesn't need to know how Ivan delivers his messages.
But she needs to know the rest. She needs to understand what's at stake.
I walk to the bedroom door and knock once, firmly.
"Evelyn." My voice comes out rougher than I intended. "We need to talk."
No answer.
I press my forehead against the cool wood of the door. "Evelyn, please. Something's happened."