Chapter 29
CHAPTER 29
I don't know what the fuck this feeling is.
Pain. Sharp, then dull, then sharp again. My chest feels like someone's pressing a hot poker into it with each breath I take.
Light filters through my eyelids. Too bright. I try to move but my body won't cooperate. Something beeps nearby, steady and annoying. The smell hits me next—antiseptic, bleach-like, death masked by chemicals.
Hospital. I'm in a fucking hospital.
Memory comes back in fragments. Ivan. The cell. The gun. Matteo. I took a bullet. For Matteo.
My eyes crack open, vision blurry at first. White ceiling. White walls. The steady rhythm of machines tracking my heartbeat. I try to swallow but my throat feels like sandpaper. I want to speak but can't remember how.
Then I see them. Those eyes. The same ones that have haunted me for months.
Evelyn's eyes.
Dark, deep, watching me with an intensity that cuts through the fog in my brain. She's here. Not with Ivan. Not dead. Here .
"You're awake," she says, leaning forward in her chair. Her face is pale, dark circles under her eyes. Her hair falls in messy waves around her shoulders. She looks exhausted. Beautiful.
I try to speak but only manage a grunt. My throat burns.
"Don't try to talk," she says, reaching for something. "Here."
Cool water touches my lips as she holds a cup with a straw. I drink, the liquid soothing my parched throat.
"How long?" I rasp when I can finally form words.
"Two days," she says. "You've been unconscious for two days."
Two fucking days. The bullet must have done more damage than I thought.
"Ivan?" I manage to ask.
"Dead," she says simply. "Matteo shot him after you went down."
Good. That's fucking good. I close my eyes briefly, relief washing over me. When I open them again she's still watching me, something unreadable in her expression.
"You shouldn't have done that," she says quietly. "Taken that bullet."
I try to laugh but it comes out as a pained cough. "Wasn't planning to."
I try to sit up but pain rips through my chest. Fucking bullet. Evelyn's hand presses gently against my shoulder, easing me back down.
"Jessica?" I ask, my voice still rough. "And Michael?"
Something flickers across Evelyn's face—relief mixed with something darker.
"Jessica's fine. She's staying at the Feretti mansion. Lucrezia's looking after her." Evelyn pauses, her fingers absently smoothing the edge of my blanket. "They found Michael too."
My muscles tense despite the pain. "And?"
"His finger was missing but besides that, he's okay." Her voice catches slightly. "Physically okay, at least."
The missing finger. Ivan's fucking message. I close my eyes briefly, processing this information. No more music but at least the cellist is alive. One less death on my conscience.
"Where was he?" I ask, opening my eyes to study her face.
"They found him in a warehouse in Red Hook," Evelyn says, her gaze dropping to her hands. "Ivan had him moved there before we arrived at the townhouse. Apparently it was some kind of... backup location."
I nod slightly, making a mental note to have Matteo check if Ivan had other properties we don't know about. The Russian bastard might be dead but his network isn't. We need to make sure there are no more surprises.
I notice something shift in Evelyn's expression as she looks at me. Her eyes soften and before I realize what's happening, she leans forward and presses her lips against mine. The kiss is gentle, almost hesitant, but I feel the warmth of her tears falling onto my face.
When she pulls back I see wet streaks glistening on her cheeks, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy. Something twists in my chest that has nothing to do with the bullet wound.
"You know," I rasp, trying to lighten the moment, "there are easier ways to get me into bed than having me shot."
Instead of laughing, more tears spill down her face. She shakes her head, her fingers trembling as they brush against my jawline.
"I'm so sorry," she says, her voice breaking. "This is all my fault. You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't have been shot."
"Hey," I say, reaching for her hand despite the pain that shoots through my chest. "I chose this, remember? No one forced me to go after Ivan."
"But if I hadn't left?—"
"You were trying to save your sister," I interrupt. "And that friend of yours. I understand why you did it."
She looks down at our joined hands. "I didn't think about what would happen to you. I was so angry and I just wanted to fix everything, and now you're?—"
"Alive," I finish for her. "I'm alive, Evelyn. And so are you. And Jessica. And even your friend with nine fingers."
A small, reluctant laugh escapes her, though it sounds more like a sob. She wipes at her tears with her free hand.
"I've never had anyone risk their life for me before," she admits quietly.
I squeeze her hand, ignoring the fire in my chest. "Get used to it. I'm not going anywhere."
Her lips meet mine again, this time with more urgency. The pain in my chest feels distant compared to the fire her touch ignites. When she pulls away her cheeks are flushed, and those eyes—those fucking eyes that have haunted me for months—are dark with something that has nothing to do with tears.
"Jesus, I want to fuck you so badly right now," I growl, my voice still rough from disuse.
Evelyn's eyes widen, and then she bursts into laughter—real laughter that makes her throw her head back. It's the first time I've heard that sound from her without restraint.
"You're unbelievable," she says, shaking her head. "You've been shot. You almost died. And that's already what you're thinking about?"
I manage a weak smirk despite the pain. "What can I say? Near-death experiences make a man appreciate life's pleasures."
She laughs again and her fingers tighten around mine. "The doctor said you need to rest for at least a week before any... strenuous activity."
"A week?" I groan, letting my head fall back against the pillow. "That's fucking torture."
Her smile fades slightly as she studies my face. "I thought I'd lost you," she whispers, serious again. "When you fell... there was so much blood."
I lift my hand, ignoring the pull of the IV, and brush a strand of hair from her face. "Takes more than a Russian with a gun to get rid of me."
The last two days blur together in my mind—a nightmare of antiseptic aromas, harsh fluorescent lights and the constant beeping of monitors. I barely left Noah's side, dozing in uncomfortable chairs and subsisting on vending machine snacks and terrible coffee.
The doctors worked on him for nearly seven hours. Seven hours of me pacing the waiting room, watching Matteo make hushed phone calls in the corner, and Alessio standing guard at the door like a sentinel. Seven hours of wondering if Noah would live or die because of me.
"You need to eat something," Matteo had said, pushing a sandwich toward me around hour five.
I just shook my head no, my stomach too knotted to accept food.
When the surgeon finally emerged, his scrubs spattered with blood—Noah's blood—I nearly collapsed. "He's stable," was all I needed to hear before the tears came.
The most surreal part was watching Damiano handle the aftermath. He arrived at the clinic like a force of nature, speaking in low, commanding tones to administrators. Somehow, despite a man being shot near the heart, despite another man being killed, no police were called.
"How is this possible?" I'd whispered to Matteo as Damiano spoke with the hospital director.
"Money. Influence. Fear." Matteo shrugged as if it were obvious. "The Ferettis own half this city, including several board members of this clinic."
I watched as paperwork disappeared, as security footage was erased, as the bullet removed from Noah's chest vanished into Enzo's pocket rather than police evidence.
Now I watch as Noah drifts back to sleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The tension in his face relaxes, making him look younger, almost vulnerable. It's strange to see him this way after knowing his dangerous side.
"This is normal," the doctor says, noticing my concerned expression. "The first time a patient wakes after this kind of trauma they often don't stay conscious long. His body is healing."
I nod, my fingers still intertwined with Noah's. "But he'll be okay?"
"With proper rest and care, yes." The doctor makes a note on his chart. "He's strong. Most men wouldn't have survived that bullet."
After the doctor leaves I sit alone with my thoughts, watching Noah sleep. Something has shifted inside me during these chaotic days. The woman who cowered under her father's demands, who signed away her freedom to Ivan, who initially feared Noah—she's fading away.
In her place stands someone stronger. Someone who walked into Ivan's house knowing the danger. Someone who survived.
My father. The thought comes unbidden but with surprising clarity. I need to see him. Not because I miss him or desire his approval but because I need him to see what he's done. How his controlling nature, his relentless pursuit of perfection through me, led me straight into Ivan's trap. How he made me the perfect victim—obedient, eager to please, unable to recognize predators.
For years I've dreamed of standing up to him, of finding my voice. Now, with Noah fighting for his life because of a situation my father helped create, I finally have the strength to do it.
When Noah recovers I'll go to my father's house. Not as the dutiful daughter returning to the fold but as a woman who has survived the worst consequences of his controlling behavior. I'll make him see what his ambition has wrought—not just on me, but on everyone caught in this bloody aftermath.
For the first time in my life I'm not afraid of Alexander Anderson.
I check my phone again, a small smile forming as I see another text from Jessica. Matteo brought my phone two days ago, having recovered my car after everything went down at Ivan's. It's been my lifeline to Jessica ever since.
Alessio showed me around the gardens today her latest message reads. Did you know he speaks four languages? He's teaching me Italian phrases.
I shake my head, amused at how quickly Jessica has adapted to life at the Feretti mansion. While I've been keeping vigil at Noah's bedside my sister has apparently been thriving under the protection of the Feretti family.
That's the third time you've mentioned Alessio today I text back. Should I be concerned?
Her response comes quickly: He's just being nice! Besides, after everything that happened, it's good to have something... normal to focus on .
I understand what she means. After the trauma of being kidnapped, finding something—or someone—that makes you feel safe again is precious. For Jessica that seems to be Alessio's steady presence. Weird, considering that he is as scary as any man in that huge house.
Lucrezia invited me to join her yoga class tomorrow , Jessica continues in another text. And Zoe asked if I'd help her organize the baby's closet. They're being so kind.
It's strange how quickly the Ferettis have folded Jessica into their world. The dangerous mafia family I feared has shown my sister nothing but kindness and hospitality. Lucrezia especially has taken Jessica under her wing, treating her like another new sister.
Alessio says they consider us under their protection now, Jessica's next message reads. He explained that's a big deal in their world .
I glance at Noah's sleeping form. His chest rises and falls steadily, the bandages stark white against his olive skin. Because of him—because he chose to save me—we've been drawn into the Feretti orbit permanently. I'm not sure how I feel about that yet.
When are you coming back? Jessica asks. Alessio says he can drive me down to visit tomorrow if you're staying there .Alessio again. I smile despite myself, wondering if my fearless little sister has developed a crush on the stoic Feretti enforcer.