Chapter 35
CHAPTER 35
I stare at the wall of my apartment, still processing the fact that Evelyn confronted her father. The image of her walking away, shoulders squared and chin high, replays in my mind. Matteo's words echo in my head.
"You're in love with her."
I'd never admit it to him but fuck if he isn't right.
My phone buzzes on the counter. Evelyn's name flashes on the screen. My heart rate kicks up—something that never happened before her.
"Evelyn." I keep my voice even, controlled.
"Noah." Her voice sounds different—lighter somehow. "I'm in my room, packing some things."
"Everything okay with your father?" I grip the phone tighter, ready to drive over there if that bastard hurt her.
"Actually... he apologized." The surprise in her voice matches my own. "I never would have imagined it. Not in a million years."
I walk to the window, looking out over the city. "An apology? From the man who locked you in a room until you played perfectly?"
"I know. It's... strange." I hear rustling in the background—clothes being folded, drawers opening. "He seemed genuinely shocked by what happened with Ivan. Said he never meant for things to go this far."
"People say a lot of things when they're scared."
"There's more." Her voice drops. "He told me something about Ivan. Apparently, Ivan has family connections back in Moscow—powerful ones. He said they might come looking for whoever killed him."
My blood turns cold. "What exactly did he say about these connections?"
"That Ivan's uncle is high up in the Russian government. That his cousins run half the criminal enterprises in Eastern Europe."
I close my eyes, my jaw clenching. "Did your father have any direct contact with these people?"
"He mentioned meetings. Business arrangements." Evelyn pauses. "Noah, what are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking your father might have painted a target on his back." I grab my keys from the counter. "And possibly on yours too."
"You think they'd come after him? After me?"
"Russians don't forget, Evelyn. They don't forgive." I'm already moving toward the door. "Do you need me to come over? Help you pack?"
"No, I'm almost done here. Jessica's with me."
I stop at the door. "I don't like this. Your father knowing these people... it changes things."
"Noah—"
"Stay where you are. Don't leave until I arrive."
"You're overreacting."
"No, I'm not." My voice hardens. "Ivan was just the beginning. If what your father says is true, we need to be ready."
I hang up with Evelyn and immediately dial Franco's number. He's one of the men I assigned to watch her—ex-military, deadly accurate with a pistol, and smart enough to stay invisible.
"Boss." Franco answers on the first ring.
"Listen carefully." I pace across the living room, adrenaline already pumping through my veins. "There's new information. Ivan's family connections in Russia might be looking for payback."
"Understood." His voice is calm, professional. "We've maintained distance as instructed. No one's approached the residence."
"That could change any minute." I grab my gun from the safe, checking the magazine. "I need you and Vito to be extra vigilant. Anyone suspicious—anyone at all—I want to know immediately."
"Yes, sir."
"If something feels off, don't wait. Call me, then act. Understood?"
"Crystal clear."
"Their safety is priority one. If there's even a hint of danger, get them out of there. Don't wait for my orders."
"And the destination if extraction is necessary?"
"The safe house in Queens. I've already alerted Matteo to prepare it." I slide the gun into my holster. "If you can't reach me contact Matteo directly."
"Got it. Anything else?"
I pause, considering how much to say. "Yeah. The girl—Evelyn—she's... important. If it comes down to a choice, she's the priority."
There's a brief silence on the line. Franco's been with me long enough to know I've never given that kind of instruction before.
"Understood, boss. We won't let you down."
I end the call and grab my jacket. The thought of Russian operatives coming after Evelyn makes my chest tighten—right where the bullet wound is still healing. I need to move fast, get to her before anything happens.
I grab my leather jacket and gun, checking the magazine one more time before holstering it against my side. My chest aches badly, but I ignore it. Pain is just weakness leaving the body—that's what my father taught me before I put a bullet in his head.
In the garage, I find my Ducati waiting. The sleek black machine has gotten me out of more dangerous situations than I can count.
I swing my leg over the seat, feeling the familiar vibration as the engine roars to life. The sound echoes through the concrete parking structure, drowning out the voice in my head telling me I'm overreacting.
Maybe I am. Maybe Ivan's family connections won't come looking. Maybe Evelyn's father is just trying to make himself seem important.
But I can't take that chance. Not with her.
I pull out of the garage, the cool night air hitting my face as I accelerate onto the street. Traffic is light, which means I can weave between cars, cutting my travel time in half.
My mind races faster than the bike. If Ivan's uncle really is connected to the Russian government, we're looking at more than mere street thugs. We're talking about trained operatives, men who kill without hesitation or remorse.
Men like me.
I push the Ducati harder, the engine screaming as I fly down the streets of New York. Every minute I'm not with Evelyn feels like a minute something could go wrong.
Matteo would laugh if he could see me now, racing across the city for a woman. He'd never let me hear the end of it. But Matteo isn't here and even if he was, I wouldn't give a fuck what he thinks.
A car cuts in front of me, forcing me to swerve. The sudden movement pulls at my stitches, sending a sharp pain through my chest. I grit my teeth and keep going.
I've never felt this way before—this constant need to protect someone. To be near them. Even when I know she's safe with Franco and Vito watching, it's not enough. I need to be there myself.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. At the next red light, I pull it out.
A text from Franco: All clear. No movement.
I should feel relieved, but I don't. I need to see her with my own eyes. Need to touch her, make sure she's real and safe and still mine.
The light turns green and I'm moving again, the bike responding instantly to my every command. The streets blur past me as I head out of town toward the Anderson house, toward Evelyn.
I'm standing in my old bedroom with Jessica, still processing the confrontation with our father. The walls are the same pale blue they've always been, the twin bed with its pristine white comforter unmoved since I left. This room never felt like mine—just another stage set for the perfect daughter performance.
A soft knock interrupts my thoughts.
The door opens slowly and Mom stands framed there. Her fingers tremble and she looks smaller somehow, her shoulders curved inward as if carrying an invisible weight. The perfect chignon she always wears has loose strands escaping around her face.
"Can I come in?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
Jessica and I exchange glances. I nod.
Mom steps inside, closing the door behind her. She doesn't sit, doesn't move toward us, just stands there looking lost in a room she's entered thousands of times.
"I don't..." she starts, then stops. Her eyes dart between us, then fix on the floor. "I don't know where to begin."
The silence stretches between us. I've never seen her this uncertain—this human.
"I love you both," she says, her voice breaking. "I love you so much."
Tears spring to her eyes, and I feel something crack inside me. In twenty-four years I've never heard those words from her without some qualifier attached.
"I know I've been a terrible mother." Her hands twist together. "I let him... I let your father control everything. Your lives. Your futures." A tear slides down her cheek. "I thought I was protecting you by staying silent, by not fighting him. But I was wrong."
Jessica moves first, crossing the room to take Mom's hand. I stay rooted in place, decades of disappointment holding me back.
"When I heard about what happened with Ivan..." Mom continues, looking directly at me now. "I realized I might have lost you both without ever telling you the truth. Without you knowing that behind all this—" she gestures vaguely around the pristine room "—I've always loved you. Not your achievements or your performances. Just you."
"Then why?" The words escape before I can stop them. "Why did you let him lock me in practice rooms? Why did you watch him break me down over and over?"
"Because I was a coward," she says simply. "I was afraid of losing everything—him, this life, you girls. So I convinced myself his way was right. That the success was worth the pain." She shakes her head. "It wasn't. It never was."
I don't know what to do with this confession, this too-late truth. Part of me wants to embrace her; another part wants to scream that love without action isn't love at all.
"I don't expect forgiveness," Mom says, reading my expression. "I just needed you to know."
I feel my chest twist as I look at my mother—really look at her—for perhaps the first time. The perfect mask she's worn my entire life has finally cracked, revealing the frightened woman beneath. My anger still burns but something else rises alongside it—understanding.
"All my life," I say, my voice unsteady, "all I wanted was for you to stand by my side. Just once." The words catch in my throat. "When he locked me in that practice room for missing a note in Paganini, when he told me I was worthless without the violin, when he pushed and pushed until I broke—I just needed you to say something. Anything."
Mom's shoulders shake as she begins to cry in earnest.
"I used to watch other mothers at my recitals," I continue, the memories flooding back. "The way they hugged their children afterward, win or lose. The pride in their eyes that had nothing to do with perfection."
Jessica squeezes Mom's hand, her own eyes wet with tears.
"I practiced until my fingers bled, won competitions, played in concert halls across the world—not for him, not even for myself. For you." My voice breaks. "Because I thought if I was perfect enough you'd finally protect me."
Mom reaches for me, hesitant. "Evelyn?—"
"But the thing is," I say, stepping forward, "I can't hate you. I've tried. God knows I've tried." I take a shuddering breath. "Because underneath all this pain and disappointment, I love you. I always have."
The admission feels like releasing a weight I've carried for decades. I'm not sure where these words are coming from—perhaps from the woman I'm becoming, the one who survived Ivan, who found her voice with Noah.
"I love you too," Mom says, her hand shaking as she reaches for mine.
I take it, feeling the softness of her skin against my callused fingertips. We stand there, connected by this fragile touch, the first honest moment between us in years.
"I don't know if we can fix this," I tell her truthfully. "I don't know if some things can be undone."
"I don't deserve a second chance," she says.
"Maybe not," I agree. "But I think I deserve the mother I always needed. It's not too late to try."
I step forward, closing the distance between us. Mom opens her arms and suddenly Jessica is there too, the three of us collapsing into each other. Mom's perfume—the same Chanel she's worn my entire life—fills my senses as I press my face against her shoulder. Her arms tighten around us and I feel her body shudder with silent sobs.
"I'm so sorry," she says against my hair. "I'm so sorry."
For a moment we're just three women holding each other up, years of silence and pain flowing between us like an electric current. It's not forgiveness—not yet—but it's a beginning.
A sound from downstairs breaks the moment.
We pull apart, suddenly alert. Heavy footsteps move across the marble foyer, followed by muffled voices.
"Did Dad call someone?" Jessica asks.
Mom's face goes pale. "He's at the club until seven."
My heart pounds as I recognize the cadence of those footsteps—too deliberate, too searching. Not the casual stride of someone who belongs here.
"The security system?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"Your father changed the code last week," Mom says, her voice tight with fear. "I don't know the new one."
The footsteps grow louder, moving up the grand staircase now. Multiple pairs. At least three people.
I reach for my phone, fingers trembling as I pull up Noah's number. My mind races—Franco and his partner should be outside. Did they miss something? Were they compromised?
"We need to get out," I say, pressing the call button. "Now."
The phone rings once, twice. Noah's voicemail picks up.
"Noah, someone's in the house," I whisper urgently. "I think it's?—"
The bedroom door crashes open.
A man stands in the doorway, his face hidden beneath a black ski mask. But I don't need to see his face to know who sent him. The gun in his hand points directly at my chest, unwavering.
"Evelyn Anderson," he says, his accent thick with Russian vowels. "Ivan Volkov sends his regards from hell."
The phone slips from my fingers, Noah's name still illuminated on the screen.