Chapter 34
CHAPTER 34
I drive the busy highway with Jessica beside me. Periodically I steal glances at her profile. She looks tired but somehow lighter, as if a weight has been lifted from her shoulders. After everything that's happened I still can't believe she's here, safe beside me.
"So," I begin, breaking the silence. "How were they treating you at the mansion? The Ferettis, I mean."
Jessica turns to me with a small smile. "Honestly? Better than our own parents ever did." She fiddles with the hem of her borrowed sweater. "Lucrezia was so kind, bringing me books and checking on me every few hours. And Zoe let me hold the baby."
"And what about Alessio?" I ask, unable to resist. I'd noticed how Jessica's eyes followed him whenever he was close by.
Jessica's cheeks flush pink. "God, Evie, he's hot as hell."
I laugh, genuinely laugh for what feels like the first time in days. "You've known him for what—a week?"
"It's not like that," she protests, slapping my arm lightly. "He's like... I don't know. A big brother or something."
"A hot big brother," I tease, feeling a moment of normalcy between us.
"Stop!" She groans but she's smiling. "Seriously though, there's something about all of them. The way they look out for each other. When Alessio came in to check security, Damiano would always ask if he'd eaten or slept. And Enzo brought coffee for everyone at like five in the morning before going out to look for Michael."
I grip the steering wheel tighter. "That sounds... nice."
"It's more than nice, Evie. It's kind of sweet. They're protective of each other in a way our family never was." Jessica's voice drops. "Dad never once asked if I was okay, just if I'd messed up. And Mom would just stand there with that plastic smile."
I swallow hard. "I know."
"With the Ferettis, it's different. Even when they're arguing, you can tell they care. Alessio told me stories about when they were kids—how Damiano would beat up anyone who picked on him or Enzo."
I think about Noah, taking a bullet meant for Matteo. The loyalty these men have for each other is something I never understood before.
"Must be nice," I say softly, "having people who'd do anything to protect you."
Jessica gives me a long look. "You have that now too, don't you? With Noah."
I don't answer right away, my mind flashing to Noah's face when he found me in that cell. The raw emotion there. The willingness to die for the people he cares about.
"Maybe I do," I finally admit.
Jessica shifts in her seat, her expression growing serious. "So, what are you going to say to Dad?"
I tap my fingers against the steering wheel, the steady rhythm matching my heartbeat. "I'm not really sure," I admit. "Part of me just wants to tell him to go to hell."
"Evie!" Jessica's eyes widen, though I can see the hint of a smile playing at her lips.
"What? It's true." I shrug, checking the rearview mirror. Noah's security detail is keeping their distance as promised but I know they're there. "After everything he put us through, all those years of... of being locked in practice rooms, of being told I was nothing without the violin, of having every minute of my life controlled... I just want to look him in the eye and tell him exactly what I think of him."
Jessica is quiet for a moment. "I never had it as bad as you did."
"Because you weren't the prodigy," I say, my voice softer now. "He put all his expectations on me."
"And Mom just let him."
"She always did." I sigh, remembering our mother's blank stare whenever Dad dragged me back to practice. "But that doesn't really matter right now, does it? I mean, telling him to go to hell won't change anything. It won't give me back those years."
Jessica reaches over and squeezes my hand. "But maybe it will help you move forward."
I nod, feeling a strange mix of dread and anticipation building in my chest. "Maybe. Or maybe I just need to see him face to face to remind myself that I'm not that scared little girl anymore."
We drive in silence for a few blocks, the familiar streets of our childhood neighborhood coming into view. I realize I'm gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles have turned ghostly.
"You know," Jessica says suddenly, "you're different now."
"Different how?"
"Stronger." She looks at me with something like admiration. "The old Evelyn would never have gone to Ivan's by herself to save me. And she definitely wouldn't be driving back to face Dad like this."
I think about Noah, about Ivan, about everything that's happened in the past weeks. "I guess facing deathly danger a few times changes your perspective."
"It's more than that," Jessica insists. "It's like you finally found your voice."
I smile slightly, thinking how ironic it is that after spending my life letting my violin speak for me, I'm finally learning to use my own voice. "I just hope I don't lose it when I see him."
We pull into the familiar driveway and I cut the engine. The Anderson family home looks exactly as it always has—pristine white Colonial, perfect landscaping, not a blade of grass out of place. Just like the image my father has always wanted to project.
"We're here," I say unnecessarily.
Jessica doesn't move. Neither do I.
"Are you ready?" she asks.
I stare at the front door, my heart hammering against my ribs. "No. But I don't think I'll ever be ready."
We sit in silence for another minute, gathering courage. Finally I open my door.
"Let's get this over with."
We walk side by side up the stone path. At the door, Jessica reaches for my hand and squeezes it.
"Whatever happens in there," she says, "we're in this together, okay?"
I nod, suddenly overcome with emotion. "I couldn't have done any of this without you, Jess."
She pulls me into a tight hug and I cling to her, drawing strength from my little sister who somehow always knew how to be brave when I didn't.
"I love you," she murmurs against my shoulder.
"I love you too."
We're still embracing when the door swings open. My mother stands there, one hand flying to her mouth.
"Girls," she gasps.
I pull away from Jessica, straightening my shoulders as I face the woman who stood by and watched while my father broke me down piece by piece.
"Hi, Mom," Jessica says.
Mom reaches out with trembling hands, pulling first Jessica and then me into an embrace. Her arms around me feel foreign—when was the last time she hugged me? Before Ivan, before David, before college even?
"We've been so worried," she says, her voice thick. "Your father's been beside himself."
I doubt that very much, but I say nothing as she ushers us inside.
When she turns to close the door I notice her eyes—red-rimmed and glassy with unshed tears. She's been crying, or trying not to. It's such an unfamiliar sight that I'm momentarily stunned. In all my years of being punished, criticized, and pushed to my breaking point, I never once saw my mother cry over it.
"Are you both alright?" she asks, her gaze darting between us. "When we saw the news about that Russian businessman being killed and then we couldn't reach either of you..."
So they know about Ivan’s demise. I wonder how much else they know.
"We're fine," Jessica assures her.
Mom's eyes linger on my face, taking in the faint bruise still visible on my cheekbone from Ivan's men. Her hand hovers near my face but doesn't quite touch me.
"Your father is in his study," she says quietly. "He'll want to see you both."
I bet he will.
I follow my mother and Jessica down the hallway towards my father's study. The walls are lined with photographs of me at various competitions and performances—a gallery of achievements rather than childhood memories.
My hand finds Jessica's again as we reach the heavy oak door. Mom knocks twice, then opens it without waiting for a response.
"Alexander, the girls are here," she announces, her voice suddenly smaller.
My father sits behind his massive desk, reading glasses perched on his nose, not bothering to look up from whatever document commands his attention. He doesn't stand. Doesn't rush to embrace his daughters who were missing. Doesn't show any sign that he was worried at all.
"Come in," he says, still not looking up.
Jessica and I step into the study. Mom hovers in the doorway for a moment before slipping away, closing the door behind her.
The silence stretches as my father continues reading, making us wait. It's a power move I recognize from childhood—establishing who controls the room.
Finally he removes his glasses and looks at us. His eyes are shrewd, scheming.
"Sit," he commands, gesturing to the chairs across from his desk.
We sit. I feel like I'm twelve again, waiting to be reprimanded for a missed note in practice.
"Jessica," he says, turning his attention to my sister. "Do you have anything you'd like to tell me?"
Jessica shifts in her chair. I can feel nervousness radiating off her in waves.
"No," she says, her voice small but firm.
My father's eyebrows rise slightly. "Nothing at all? About where you've been? Who you've been with?"
Jessica glances at me, then back at him. "No."
"Very well," he says, his tone clipped. "You may leave. I need to speak with your sister alone."
I squeeze Jessica's hand, silently telling her it's okay to go, but she doesn't move.
"No," she says.
My father's head jerks back slightly, as if he's been slapped. His eyes narrow.
"Excuse me?"
"I said no," Jessica repeats, her voice stronger now. "I'm staying with Evelyn."
A strange look crosses my father's face—confusion mixed with something else. Disbelief, perhaps. Or the dawning realization that his carefully constructed world of absolute obedience is crumbling.
"I wasn't asking, Jessica," he says, his voice dangerously quiet. "I was telling you to leave."
"And I'm telling you I won't," Jessica counters. "Whatever you have to say to Evelyn, you can say to both of us."
I feel a surge of pride watching Jessica stand up to our father. My little sister, who used to hide behind me when he raised his voice, is now refusing to leave my side. The transformation in her gives me strength.
"Fine," my father says through clenched teeth. "Both of you can stay."
His gaze shifts to me, cold and accusatory. "Evelyn, do you have any involvement in what happened to Ivan Volkov?"
The question hangs in the air. I meet his eyes without flinching.
"Yes," I say simply. "I do."
My father's face contorts with rage. He slams his fist on the desk, making both Jessica and I jump.
"You stupid, stupid girl!" he shouts. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"
"Yes. I survived," I reply, my voice steadier than I feel.
"I had an arrangement with the Russians!" He's on his feet now, pacing behind his desk. "Years in the making! Your contract with Ivan wasn't just about your performances—it was about building connections, establishing our family in their circles!"
Jessica gasps beside me. I feel her hand tighten around mine.
"You were working with Ivan?" I ask, though the pieces are already falling into place. The way Ivan seemed to know so much about me from the beginning. How urgently my father had encouraged me to sign that contract.
"Of course I was!" he spits. "Everything I've done has been for you, for our name. Do you think your talent alone would have taken you where you needed to go? I made arrangements, I opened doors!"
"You sold me," I say, the realization hitting me like a boxer’s right-hander.
"I secured your future!" he roars. "And now you've ruined everything. Do you understand what happens now? Ivan had allies. Powerful allies who might think we had something to do with his death. They could come after us, after this family!"
"After you ," I correct him. "They'll come after you, not us. We were Ivan's victims, not his business partners."
My father's face pales. For the first time in my life I see fear in his eyes.
"What have you done, Evelyn?" he whispers. "What have you done to this family?"
I stare at my father, trying to reconcile the man before me with the one who raised me. His face is ashen now, the anger giving way to something I've never seen in him before—genuine fear.
"Since when?" I ask, my voice quiet but firm. "Since when have you been doing business with the Russian mafia?"
He sinks back into his chair, suddenly looking older than his years. "I haven't," he says, running a hand over his face. "Not before Ivan."
"You expect me to believe that?" I press.
"It's the truth," he insists. "Ivan approached me after your performance at Carnegie Hall last year. He had connections, influence. He offered to elevate your career to international status." My father's eyes meet mine. "I never knew what he really was until it was too late."
"And now you're scared," I say, not a question but an observation.
"Yes." The admission seems to pain him bodily. "I'm terrified, Evelyn. These people... they don't forgive, they don't forget."
I take a deep breath, feeling Jessica's supportive presence beside me. This fear, this vulnerability—it's exactly what I needed in order to say what I came here to say.
"I didn't come here for your excuses or your fear," I tell him. "I came to tell you things I've wanted to say for years."
My father's eyes widen slightly but he doesn't interrupt.
"You broke me," I continue, my voice steady despite the emotion building in my chest. "Every time you locked me in that practice room. Every time you told me I was nothing without my music. Every time you made me feel that my worth was measured only by perfection."
"I made you great," he counters but the conviction in his voice falters.
"You made me vulnerable," I correct him. "You taught me that my value came from pleasing others, from being what they wanted me to be. That's why Ivan could manipulate me so easily. That's why I signed that contract without questioning it."
Jessica squeezes my hand, encouraging me to continue.
"I'm not your puppet anymore," I say. "I'm not your prodigy or your investment or your legacy. I'm a person—a person who deserved a father, not a manager."
My father stares at me, speechless. For once in his life Alexander Anderson has no ready response, no counterargument.
"I don't hate you," I tell him, surprised to find it's true. "But I don't need your approval anymore. I don't need you to be proud of me. I'm proud of myself—for surviving, for finding my voice, for standing up to you right now."