Chapter 16
CHAPTER 16
I zip up my leather jacket as Matteo steps into my apartment, his eyes darting between me and the bedroom door.
"She's still in there?" he asks, tossing his keys from hand to hand.
"Yeah. Don't let her out." I grab my helmet from the side table. "And don't let her charm you either. She's good at that."
Matteo smirks. "Unlike you, I can resist a pretty face."
"Fuck off." I check my phone, making sure it's charged. "I won't be late. Damiano doesn't like waiting."
"What's the plan with Ivan?"
I shake my head. "That's what I'm going to find out."
Matteo settles onto the couch, already making himself comfortable. "She's really got you twisted up, huh?"
I don't answer. Don't need to. The bike keys feel cold in my palm as I punch in the exit code and step into the hallway.
The elevator ride down gives me too much time to think. About Evelyn's body against mine. About the way she looked at me this morning—like I was something she needed to scrub off her skin.
She was right. Last night was just sex. Nothing more. The kind of release that happens when two people are trapped in a pressure cooker together. I've seen it before. Felt it before. It doesn't mean shit.
My bike waits in the underground garage like a loyal friend. Black, sleek, powerful. Unlike people, it never disappoints. I swing my leg over and feel the engine rumble to life beneath me. The vibration travels up my spine, clearing my head.
The morning air hits cold and sharp as I weave through traffic. New York is already awake, already moving, already forgetting yesterday's tragedies while creating new ones. I cut between cars, pushing the speed limit, letting the rush drown out my thoughts.
She doesn't want me. She wants out. I was just a means to an end.
I knew this going in. Knew it from the moment I took her. Women like Evelyn Anderson don't end up with men like me. They use us when they need protection, when they need the monster under the bed to fight the monsters at the door. Then they walk away.
The Feretti mansion comes into view, sprawling and elegant against the morning sky. I slow the bike, feeling that familiar tightness in my chest. The guards at the gate recognize me, waving me through without stopping.
I park next to Damiano's collection of cars, each one worth more priceless than the next. My helmet comes off and I run a hand through my hair, straightening my jacket.
Time to focus. Ivan's finger. The war he's starting. Evelyn's safety. That's all that matters now.
Not the way she felt in my arms. Not the sounds she made. Not the hollow feeling in my chest when she looked through me this morning like I was nothing but a necessary evil.
I know what I am. What I'm worth.
And it isn't much.
I step into the Feretti mansion, the familiar scent of polished wood and old money filling my lungs. Alessio nods at me from his post by the grand staircase.
"He's in his office," he says, not needing to specify who. "Waiting."
I make my way through the house I know almost as well as my own apartment. These marble floors have seen me covered in blood more times than I can count. These walls have witnessed my transformation from a scared kid to the man they call Il Fantasma.
My footsteps echo as I approach Damiano's office. The heavy oak door stands like a barrier between two worlds—the civilized facade the Ferettis present and the bloody reality of our business.
I knock twice. Firm. Respectful.
"Enter."
Damiano sits behind his massive desk. He doesn't look up immediately, making me wait. It's a power move I've seen him use countless times.
While I stand there memories flood back. My first job for the family—just a simple message delivery that turned into my first kill when the recipient pulled a knife. Damiano had patched me up himself afterward, his hands steady as he stitched the gash in my arm.
Then there was Moscow, three years ago. Four days in sub-zero temperatures, tracking a traitor who'd sold Feretti shipment routes to the Russians. Damiano had been the voice in my ear the whole time, guiding me through unfamiliar territory.
The Ferettis aren't saints. They deal in death, drugs and corruption. But they've been the only constant in my life since my mother's body hit our apartment floor, her blood seeping into the cracks between the floorboards while my father stood over her.
When my father died two years later—a ‘work accident’ that everyone knew was Don Feretti's doing—they took me in. Not out of kindness, but because they recognized something useful in the empty-eyed boy who didn't cry at his father's funeral.
"Noah." Damiano finally looks up. "Sit."
I take the chair across from him, noting the tension in his shoulders. Whatever's coming, it isn't good.
"You look like shit," he says, studying my face. "Trouble sleeping?"
The Ferettis are the closest thing to family I've had since I watched my mother die. They'll never see heaven—none of us will—but they've always had my back.
"I'm fine," I reply, meeting his gaze. "What's the plan for Ivan?"
Damiano rubs his temple, the gesture making him look older than his years. "Ivan called this morning."
My stomach wrings. "And?"
"One of the men you killed that night—the one who tried to take Evelyn—apparently had some final words." Damiano's eyes harden. "Our family name was the last thing he said before dying."
"Fuck." The word slips out before I can stop it.
"Indeed." Damiano leans back in his chair. "Ivan claims this proves we orchestrated the whole thing to steal her from him."
I shake my head. "That's bullshit. I was following her on my own. Those were Ivan's men."
"I know that." Damiano's voice stays level, controlled. "But Ivan is using this to justify what comes next. He's given us an ultimatum. Seventy-two hours to return Evelyn Anderson to him or, as he put it, face the consequences."
The room feels suddenly colder. Seventy-two hours. Three days.
"What consequences?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"War." Damiano stands, walking to the window that overlooks the garden. "Full-scale war between our families."
My mind races through the implications.
"We're not giving her to him," I say, the words coming out more forcefully than intended.
Damiano turns, studying me with new interest. "No," he agrees after a moment. "We're not. But I need to understand why you're so certain about this, Noah."
I struggle to find words that won't reveal too much. "Ivan wants her for more than her music. You've seen how he looks at her. And you know what he does to women. What he'll do to her." I pause, forcing myself to meet Damiano's gaze. "I can't let that happen."
"Can't?" Damiano repeats, his eyebrow raising slightly. "Or won't?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications I'm not ready to address.
"Does it matter?" I finally ask.
Damiano returns to his desk, sitting down with the deliberate movements of a man weighing lives in his hands. "It might. Seventy-two hours isn't much time to prepare for war, Noah. Not unless we're absolutely certain it's worth it."
"It's worth it," I say, the words coming out harder than I intended. I take a breath, steadying myself.
"What's the plan?" I ask, scanning the documents.
I stay in the bedroom after Noah leaves, my back pressed against the headboard, knees pulled tight to my chest. The sheets still smell like him. I push them away.
I don't want to face Matteo. His knowing smirk would be too much right now. He'd make some crude comment about Noah and me, and I might actually slap him. Better to stay here, locked away with my thoughts. My shameful, confusing thoughts.
What was I thinking?
I wasn't thinking. That's the problem. My body took over, responding to Noah like he was oxygen and I was drowning. The way his hands felt on my skin, the weight of him covering me, the sounds he made when?—
No. I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars. This can't happen again.
Noah Rivera isn't just some guy I met at a bar. He's my kidnapper. He's dangerous. He kills people. And here I am, falling into bed with him.
I laugh bitterly. My father would be horrified. The perfect Evelyn Anderson, trained since childhood to be disciplined and controlled, throwing herself at a man who took her against her will. But maybe that's exactly why I did it—to finally break free from the cage my father built around me.
Only to land in another cage. Noah's cage.
I reach for my violin case at the foot of the bed, running my fingers along its familiar edges. At least this is still mine. The only thing that truly is.
My body aches in places I've forgotten about. It's been a long time since I've been with anyone. David was my last and that ended over a year ago. He was safe. Predictable. Nothing like Noah.
Noah probably does this all the time. Takes women to bed, makes them feel like they're the only one who's ever mattered, then discards them. I'm just another conquest. A convenient body to amuse himself with while he's keeping me prisoner.
So why did it feel so different? The way he looked at me, touched me, like he was memorizing every inch...
It doesn't matter. It was just sex. My body wanted release from the stress, the fear, the uncertainty. That's all it was. Biology. Chemistry. Nothing more.
I hear Matteo moving around in the living room, the sound of the TV, his footsteps. He'll be waiting for me to emerge, ready with his teasing comments and knowing glances.
He can wait forever for all I care.
I pull the sheets back up, hating how I inhale deeply when Noah's scent surrounds me again. This won't happen again. I won't let it.
When Noah returns I'll be cold. Distant. I'll remind him that I'm his prisoner, not his lover.
No matter what my traitorous body wants.
I must have fallen asleep, curled up with my thoughts. The sound of the bedroom door opening startles me awake. Noah stands in the doorframe, his broad shoulders nearly filling the space. The room has grown dark with evening shadows and his face is half-hidden in the dimness.
"You hungry?" His voice is neutral, carefully stripped of emotion.
I sit up, pulling the sheet around me like armor. My hair falls in tangles around my face and I push it back, trying to look composed. Like I haven't spent hours overthinking what happened between us.
"No," I say, my voice coming out raspy. "I'm not hungry."
Noah nods, still not stepping into the room. He keeps his distance, one hand on the doorframe, the other shoved in his pocket. The space between us stretches wide and cold.
Of course he's distant now. What did I expect? That he'd come rushing in with declarations of feelings? That last night meant something?
It was just sex to him. Another conquest. Another woman in his bed.
And that's fine. That's what it needs to be for me too. A moment of weakness. A biological response to stress. Nothing more.
"You should eat something," he says, but there's no force behind it. Just words filling the awkward silence.
"I said I'm not hungry." I look away from him, fixing my gaze on the window where night presses against the glass. "I just want to be alone."
He hesitates and it seems he might say something else. Something about last night. Something that would make this all more complicated than it already is.
But he doesn't.
"Fine," he eventually says. "There's food in the kitchen if you change your mind."
The door closes softly and I'm alone again with the sheets that still smell like him and the memory of his hands on my skin.
I close my eyes and try to convince myself this is better. Simpler. Safer.
I sit alone in the bedroom until the walls start closing in on me. My stomach growls despite my claims of not being hungry. Still, I can't face Noah right now. Not after everything that happened.
I reach for my violin case at the foot of the bed, running my fingers over the latches. My violin has always been my voice when words fail me. My escape when there's nowhere to run.
Right now, I need that escape more than ever.
I open the case and lift the instrument, feeling its familiar weight in my hands. The polished wood gleams in the dim light as I tuck it under my chin. I draw the bow across the strings, testing the sound. Perfect, as always. I tune it by ear, the ritual calming my racing thoughts.
Walking to the window, I stand in a spot where the last light of day filters through the glass. The city stretches before me, lights beginning to twinkle in the dusk. I'm so high up that the people below look like ants, going about their lives, unaware of the woman trapped in this gilded cage.
I close my eyes and begin to play Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto in E minor. It's always been one of my favorites—passionate and melancholy, with moments of hope breaking through the darkness. My bow dances across the strings as my fingers find each note from memory.
The music fills the room, wrapping around me like an old friend. During these precious minutes I'm not a prisoner. I'm not a pawn in some mafia war. I'm just Evelyn, speaking through my violin the words I can never say aloud.
The concerto builds and I sway with it, losing myself in its familiar rises and falls. My body moves as one with the music, tension flowing from my shoulders through my arms and into the instrument. The world falls away—no Noah, no Ivan, no danger. Just me and the music.
As I draw out the final notes, letting them hang in the air before fading to silence, I open my eyes and turn from the window.
Noah stands in the doorway, completely still. His dark eyes are fixed on me but they're different now—glassy and bright, like he's holding back tears. His jaw is clenched rigid, a muscle flexing at the hinge.
I lower the violin slowly, suddenly aware of how exposed I feel. Not because I'm standing here in borrowed clothes, but because I've just revealed more of myself through that music than I ever intended.
"How long have you been standing there?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Noah doesn't answer. He just stares at me, that glassy look still in his eyes, something raw and vulnerable breaking through his usual mask of control.