Chapter 23
CHAPTER 23
T he moment I step inside Ivan's house, cold air hits my skin. Not the refreshing kind of cold that brings relief on a hot day, but the kind that makes your bones ache. The vampiric kind that warns you to turn around and run.
I don't run.
Dmitri leads me through a marble foyer where my heels click against the floor, each sound a countdown. The house is a study in opulence—not the warm luxury of old money, but the contrived display of wealth of somebody with something to prove.
Everything is pristine white and metallic. The walls display abstract art in harsh reds and blacks that look like blood spatter and empty voids. No family photos. No personal touches. Just expensive emptiness.
"This way," Dmitri says, his accent thick as he gestures toward a hallway.
I follow him past rooms filled with furniture that looks as if it's never been sat on. The kind of furniture meant to impress, not comfort. Steel chandeliers hang from high ceilings, catching light and fracturing it into cold, sharp patterns on the walls.
The scent of the place is wrong too. Clean, but with an underlying chemical smell—like something hidden beneath layers of expensive cologne and cleaning products.
As we move deeper into the house I notice the windows are all covered with heavy drapes despite the daytime hour. No natural light penetrates this place. Only the artificial glow of recessed lighting that casts everyone's face in unflattering shadows.
We pass a dining room with a table that could seat twenty, though I doubt Ivan has ever hosted a dinner party here. The table is bare except for a single white orchid in the center—beautiful but sterile.
The silence is the most disturbing part. No music. No distant conversations. Not even the hum of appliances. Just the sound of our footsteps and my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
Dmitri stops at a set of double doors at the end of the hallway. They're made of dark wood—the only non-white surface I've seen so far—with intricate carvings that don't match the modern aesthetic of the rest of the house.
"Wait here," he says, then knocks three times.
I hear Ivan's voice from the other side, speaking Russian. The words are unfamiliar but the tone is unmistakable—calm, controlled and utterly malevolent.
Dmitri opens the door and gestures for me to enter.
I sit rigid on the edge of Ivan's hard leather sofa, my hands folded so tightly in my lap that my knuckles have stretched white.
This was stupid. So incredibly stupid.
But what choice did I have? Jessica and Michael are suffering because of me. Because I signed that contract. Because I got tangled up with Noah. Because I exist.
"Would you like some tea, Miss Anderson?" Dmitri asks, his thick accent oddly polite for a man who works for a monster.
I shake my head. My throat is too dry to speak.
The townhouse is quiet—too quiet. Shouldn't I hear something? Jessica crying? Michael calling for help? The silence is worse than screams would be.
"Where are they?" I finally manage to ask.
Dmitri's face remains impassive. "Mr. Volkov will be with you shortly."
I stand up, unable to contain my nervous energy. "I didn't ask about Ivan. I asked about my sister and my friend."
"Please sit, Miss Anderson." His tone hasn't changed but his hand shifts slightly toward his jacket. I know what that means.
I sit.
What would Noah do right now? The thought comes unbidden and I push it away immediately. Noah is the reason I'm here. Noah and his possessiveness. Noah and his refusal to trade me. Noah and his?—
No. I can't think about him. Not now.
I try to focus on what I'll say to Ivan. I need to be clear. Direct. I'm trading myself for Jessica and Michael. He gets me—my performances, my name on his programs, whatever he wants—and they go free. Simple.
But as the minutes stretch on, doubt creeps in. What if Ivan doesn't want a trade? What if he just wants all of us? What if?—
The door opens and Ivan Volkov strolls in. He looks exactly as I remember him from Moscow—impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, his ice-blue eyes calculating, that permanent smirk on his lips.
"Evelyn," he says, my name sounding wrong in his mouth. "How nice of you to visit."
I stand again, this time forcing myself to meet his gaze. "Where are they?"
He laughs softly. "No pleasantries? No catching up with an old friend?"
"We were never friends," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I want to see my sister and Michael."
Ivan takes a seat in an armchair across from the sofa, crossing one leg over the other like we're having a casual business meeting.
"All in good time," he says. "First, let's discuss how you managed to escape Noah Rivera. I'm quite curious."
I take a step back, lifting my chin in what I hope appears as confusion. "Noah Rivera? I don't know anyone by that name."
Ivan's smirk stretches into a full grimace. Those eyes remain cold, calculating—like a predator watching its prey make a fatal mistake.
"Oh, Evelyn." He laughs, the sound echoing through the elegant room. "I never thought you would be so stupid." He stands, buttoning his suit jacket with deliberate slowness. "Did you really think such a childish trick would work? That I would believe you?"
My heart hammers against my ribs but I manage to keep my expression neutral. "I came here of my own free will."
Ivan circles me slowly, like a shark. "Let me explain something to you. I have men watching Rivera's building. I know exactly when you left. I know which taxi you took." He stops directly behind me, his breath on my neck making my skin crawl. "And I certainly know that you've been his little pet for days now.
"How did you know I was with Noah?" I ask, hating how my voice wavers.
Ivan's smile widens as he walks to a small bar cart in the corner. The clink of crystal against crystal fills the silence as he pours amber liquid into two glasses.
"You think I wouldn't keep tabs on Rivera?" He extends a glass toward me, which I don't take. He shrugs and sets it on the coffee table. "I've been watching him for months. Just as he's been watching you."
My stomach drops. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, come now." Ivan takes a sip from his glass. "Did Rivera tell you he's been obsessed with you since Damiano's wedding? Following you to performances, learning your routines?" He studies my face. "Ah, he did mention it. How romantic."
The memory of Noah's confession burns through me—six months of surveillance, knowing my favorite foods, my habits. Things I'd found both disturbing and oddly touching when Noah admitted them.
"My men have been following Rivera for weeks," Ivan continues. "When they saw him take you naturally I knew exactly where you were."
I clench my fists, fighting the urge to shift away from him. "Where is my sister?"
"Your sister is fine. For now." He moves to stand in front of me again. "Michael, on the other hand... has been less cooperative."
The blood drains from my face. "What have you done to him?"
"Nothing compared to what Rivera will face when he comes charging in here to reclaim what he thinks belongs to him." Ivan reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. I flinch away from his touch.
"Noah doesn't know I'm here," I say, hating how my voice wavers. "I left while he was out."
Ivan's laugh is sharper this time. "Do you think I don't understand men like Rivera? Men who take what they want and destroy anyone who threatens their possessions?" His eyes narrow. "He'll be on his way soon, little bitch. And when he arrives?—"
Ivan's words make my chest heave. Noah is coming here? No, no, no. This is exactly what I was trying to prevent.
"What the hell do you want from me?" I demand, my voice rising with panic despite my efforts to stay composed. I take a deep breath, steadying myself. "Why are you doing this? Taking Jessica, Michael... sending men to grab me from my apartment? What is this about?"
Ivan circles back to his chair, sitting down with the casual grace of a man who has all the time in the world. That smirk never leaves his face.
"It's quite simple, my dear. Our contract."
"The performance contract?" I shake my head in disbelief. "This is about violin concerts? You're kidnapping people and threatening war with the Ferettis over a music contract?"
"Don't be naive," Ivan says, his voice hardening. "It was never just about music."
My mind races back to concerts I have played during our contract. I remember playing at his private party in St. Petersburg. The room filled with men whose names I never learned but whose eyes followed my every movement. I remember the whispered conversations that stopped when I walked by.
Then there was Vienna. The concert hall where half the audience seemed to be there for reasons other than music. The way Ivan introduced me to businessmen who seemed more interested in my connection to him than my playing.
"I fulfilled every performance," I say, struggling to keep my voice steady. "I played every venue you scheduled."
"And you played beautifully," Ivan agrees, his eyes never leaving mine. "But surely you realized you were providing more than entertainment. Your presence—an American virtuoso under my patronage—opened doors. Created opportunities."
The realization hits me like a striking gong. I was never just a musician to him. I was a front. A respectable face for whatever criminal dealings he conducted under the guise of cultural patronage.
"You used me," I whisper.
"I invested in you," he corrects. "And I expect a return on my investment. One that Rivera interrupted when he took what belongs to me."
I stare at Ivan, my mind racing to make sense of everything.
"But why send men to take me that night?" I ask, my voice steadier than I feel. "Why not just call me? We had a contract—I would have met with you."
Ivan's lips curl into that infuriating grin as he takes another sip of his drink. The ice clinks against the crystal.
"Because I knew about Rivera's... interest in you." His eyes flick over me, assessing. "I've been watching him watch you for months. The way he followed you, how he sat outside venues while you performed."
My stomach twists. "So?"
"So I knew he wouldn't stay in the shadows forever." Ivan sets his glass down with deliberate precision. "Men like Rivera don't just observe what they want—they take it. And I couldn't allow that."
"I don't understand."
"It's quite simple, Evelyn." Ivan leans forward, his elbows on his knees. "I've invested considerable resources in you. Your reputation. Your career. Your connection to me opens doors that would otherwise remain closed."
He stands, straightening his already perfect suit.
"So you sent men to grab me off the street? To what—lock me away somewhere?"
"To bring you back under my control before Rivera could claim you." Ivan's voice hardens. "I needed to remind you of our arrangement before he poisoned you against me."
"Our arrangement was about music," I snap.
"Our arrangement was about whatever I decided it was about." His smile vanishes, replaced by something cold and calculating. "You signed the contract, Evelyn. You're mine until I say otherwise."
The possessiveness in his voice mirrors Noah's, but where Noah's claims stir something deep inside me, Ivan's make my skin crawl.
"I'm not property," I say, but my voice lacks conviction. After all, haven't I been treated exactly like property my entire life? First by my father, then by Ivan, now by Noah.
"We're all property to someone," Ivan says, as if reading my thoughts. "The difference is who holds your leash."
"Stop," I say, cutting through Ivan's self-satisfied speech. "Just stop talking. I don't care about your investments or your business dealings." My voice grows stronger with each word. "I want to see my sister and Michael. Now."
Ivan's smirk fades, replaced by something colder. "You're not in a position to make demands."
"Then what am I doing here?" I step forward, emboldened by desperation. "If you brought me here as leverage against Noah, fine. But at least let me see that Jessica and Michael are alive."
Ivan studies me for a long moment, his ice-blue eyes weighing the odds. "What I find curious is why Rivera was at your apartment that night in the first place." He leans forward. "Why was he there, Evelyn? How did he know my men would be coming for you?"
My mouth goes dry. "I don't know."
"You expect me to believe that was coincidence?" Ivan stands, closing the distance between us. "Rivera just happened to be there the exact moment my men arrived?"
"I don't know why he was there," I insist, holding my ground even as he towers over me. "I'd never met him before that night."
"Yet you've been quite comfortable in his bed since then, haven't you?" Ivan's voice drops to a dangerous whisper.
Heat floods my face – from anger or shame, I'm not sure. "You kidnapped my sister. You took my friend. What I've done to survive isn't your concern."
Ivan's eyes narrow. "You're lying about something. I can always tell." He turns abruptly, gesturing to his man standing by the door – broad-shouldered with a shaved head. "Dmitri." The man steps forward, his expression blank. "Take Ms. Anderson to the basement and lock her up," Ivan orders. "Perhaps some time alone will improve her memory about Rivera's convenient timing."
Panic surges through me. "No! I told you the truth! I don't know why he was there!"
Dmitri grabs my arm, his fingers digging into my skin.
"When you're ready to be honest with me," Ivan says, straightening his cuffs, "perhaps we can discuss you seeing your sister."
I struggle against Dmitri's grip as he drags me toward the door. "Ivan! Please! I came here willingly – I'm cooperating!"
But Ivan has already turned away, dismissing me with a wave of his hand. "Make sure she's secure, Dmitri. We'll be having company soon."
Dmitri drags me down a narrow staircase, my attempts to break free proving futile against his iron grip. The basement air hits me—cold, damp, and tinged with something chemical that makes my stomach turn.
"Please," I try again, "I need to see my sister. I need to know she's okay."
Dmitri remains silent, his face expressionless as he shoves me into a small room. The space is barely larger than a closet, with concrete walls and a single flickering lightbulb overhead. There's nothing inside except a metal folding chair.
Before I can turn around the door slams shut. The lock clicks with chilling finality.
"Wait!" I pound my fists against the door. "Jessica! Michael! Can you hear me?"
Nothing. Just the hollow echo of my own voice bouncing off concrete walls.
I press my ear against the door, straining to hear any sound that might indicate my sister or friend are nearby. The silence is deafening.
"Jessica!" I scream her name until my throat burns. "Michael! Please, answer me if you can hear me!"
Still nothing.
I slide down against the door, wrapping my arms around my knees. What have I done? I came here thinking I could save them, thinking I could fix everything by offering myself to Ivan. But they're not even here. Or if they are, they can't hear me.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid," I say, banging my forehead against my knees.
I thought I was being brave but I've only made things worse. Now Ivan has me too, and he's using me as bait for Noah.
Noah.
The thought of him sends a confusing wave of emotions crashing through me. Anger. Fear. Something else I don't want to name.
"Don't come," I whisper, as if he could somehow hear me. "Please don't come."
But I know he will. Despite everything—despite my hatred, despite my accusations—Noah will come for me. And Ivan will be waiting.
I close my eyes, remembering the look on Noah's face when I told him I hated him. The way his eyes hardened, masking the hurt I glimpsed for just a second.
It doesn't matter what happens to me now. Jessica and Michael are what matter. And Noah?—
I can't think about what might happen to Noah. Not now.
I stand up, examining the room for any possible escape. The walls are solid concrete. The door is heavy metal. The light fixture is too high to reach.
I'm trapped. Completely and utterly trapped.
And all I can do is wait and hope that somehow, by some miracle, this doesn't end with more blood on my hands.
I've been pacing this concrete cell for what feels like hours, my thoughts spiraling between panic and despair. My throat's raw from screaming for Jessica and Michael, but no one's come. No one's answered.
The silence is suffocating.
I sink down onto the small cot, pressing my palms against my eyes. What have I done? Noah was right—I should have stayed put, let him handle this. But I couldn't just sit there while Ivan had Jessica. My little sister, who's never hurt anyone, who doesn't deserve any of this.
A soft sound breaks through my thoughts.
I freeze, holding my breath to listen.
There it is again—a faint tapping coming from the wall to my right.
Tap-tap... tap.
My heart lurches. I know that pattern.
When we were kids Jessica and I had adjacent bedrooms in our house. On nights when Dad was particularly harsh during my practice sessions, when I'd retreat to my room fighting back tears, Jessica would tap on our shared wall.
Tap-tap... tap. Our secret code. Our way of saying ‘I'm here’ when words weren't possible.
I scramble off the cot and press my ear against the cold concrete wall.
Tap-tap... tap.
"Jessica?" I say, my voice cracking. I knock back the same pattern, my hand trembling.
Tap-tap... tap.
"Oh my God, Jess, is that you?" I press both palms against the wall, as if I could somehow reach through it to her. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"
The response comes: two quick taps, then three slow ones. Our childhood code for ‘I'm okay’.
Tears spring to my eyes. "Jessica," I breathe, relief flooding through me. She's here. She's alive.