Chapter 37
CHAPTER 37
I grip the steering wheel tight as we speed toward the Metropolitan Club.
"How much longer?" Evelyn asks from beside me, her voice tight with worry.
"Five minutes."
Jessica sits in the back with her mother, both of them pale and quiet. Mrs. Anderson clutches her phone, waiting for her husband to answer. She’s called him multiple times. He hasn't picked up any of her calls.
"He always answers," she says, more to herself than to us. "Always."
I catch Evelyn's gaze. We're thinking the same thing—if the Russians found their house, they could have found Alexander too.
As we turn onto the street where the Metropolitan Club sits I immediately spot the flashing lights. Flashes of red and blue bounce off the buildings, illuminating the night. Police cruisers block the entrance and yellow tape cordons off the area.
"No," Mrs. Anderson gasps.
Before I can stop her she's fumbling with her seatbelt, throwing open the door.
"Mom, wait!" Evelyn shouts, but it's too late.
Mrs. Anderson bolts from the car, running towards the police barricade. I slam the SUV into park, cursing under my breath.
"Stay here," I tell Jessica but Evelyn's already out the door, chasing after her mother.
I follow, my hand instinctively reaching for my gun. The crowd of onlookers parts as I push through, keeping my eyes on Evelyn's back.
Ahead, paramedics wheel a stretcher toward an ambulance. A white sheet covers the body, but I can see dark stains seeping through. Mrs. Anderson tries to break past an officer, screaming her husband's name.
"That's my husband! Alexander! Let me see him!"
I reach Evelyn, gripping her arm. "Stay back."
"I need to help my mother," she says, trying to pull away.
Jessica appears beside us, ignoring my order to stay in the car. Her face is blank with shock as she watches her mother collapse against a police officer.
"I heard someone say he was shot," a woman next to us whispers to her companion. "Right in the chest. Poor man didn't stand a chance."
Another voice, louder: "The bartender said it was some Russian-looking guy. Walked right up to him at his table and—" The man makes a gun with his fingers.
"They're saying it's Alexander Anderson," someone else adds. "The investment banker."
Evelyn's body goes rigid against mine. I wrap my arm around her waist, holding her steady as the paramedics load the stretcher into the ambulance.
A detective approaches Mrs. Anderson, speaking in low tones. Her wail cuts through the night air like a knife.
"He's dead," Jessica says. "Dad's dead."
I watch Evelyn's face transform into something I've never seen before. Her eyes go distant, staring at the ambulance as it pulls away with her father's body. No tears. No screams. Just emptiness.
"Evelyn," I say, keeping my voice low. "We need to leave. Now."
She doesn't respond. Doesn't even blink.
"Evelyn," I try again, gripping her shoulders gently. "Look at me."
Nothing. It's like she's turned to stone in my hands.
I glance around, scanning the crowd. If the Russians hit Alexander, they might still be watching. Waiting for the rest of the family to show up. We're exposed here, standing in the open with police and witnesses everywhere.
"We need to go," I say more urgently. "It's not safe."
Her eyes remain fixed on the spot where the ambulance was. Her body is here but her mind is somewhere else entirely.
"Fuck," I mutter.
Jessica approaches us, tears streaming down her face. "Mom's going with the police to identify... to identify him."
I nod. "Get back to the car. I'll bring Evelyn."
Jessica hesitates, looking at her sister's frozen expression. "Is she okay?"
"No," I say honestly. "But I'll take care of her. Go."
As Jessica walks away I turn back to Evelyn. Her skin is ice-cold under my hands. I've seen this before—shock so deep it paralyzes. In my world, those who freeze like this don't survive long.
"Evelyn," I say, more firmly this time. "I'm going to pick you up now."
I don't wait for permission. I slide one arm under her knees and the other around her torso, lifting her against my chest. The wound near my heart protests but I ignore it. She's light in my arms, her body rigid.
I carry her through the crowd, her head resting against my shoulder, but there's no give in her muscles. She's locked herself away somewhere I can't reach.
I place her gently in the passenger seat of the SUV, buckling her in when she makes no move to do it herself. Her eyes stare straight ahead, seeing nothing.
"What's wrong with her?" Jessica asks from the back seat, her voice small.
"Shock," I say, starting the engine. "She'll come back to us when she's ready."
But as I pull away from the Metropolitan Club I'm not sure if that's true. I've seen men break from less. I've seen what happens when grief and guilt collide inside someone's mind.
I reach over and take Evelyn's cold hand in mine. She doesn't grip back. Just lets her fingers lie limply in my palm, like a doll's.
"I'm here," I tell her, knowing she probably can't hear me. "I'm right here."
I stare out the window as the city blurs past but I don't really see anything. My body feels hollow, like someone scooped out everything inside me and left only enough to keep breathing. Dad is dead. My father is dead.
"Evelyn?" Noah's voice sounds far away, though his hand grips mine tightly. "Evelyn, can you hear me?"
I can hear him. I just can't form the words to respond. What do you say when your father is murdered because of the choices you made?
Jessica sobs quietly in the backseat. I should comfort her but I can't move. Can't turn around. Can't be the big sister she needs right now.
"It's my fault," I say, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. "He's dead because of me."
"No." Noah's grip tightens. "This isn't on you."
But it is. The Russians came for me, and when they couldn't get to me they went after him. Simple as that. A life for a life.
I remember the last words I said to him, just hours ago. How I told him I didn't need his approval anymore. How I stood tall and walked away, finally free of his control. Now he's gone forever and I'll never have the chance to...to what? Reconcile? Make peace? Did I even want that?
"I hated him," I say, tears finally spilling down my cheeks. "I hated how he controlled me. How he made me feel worthless unless I was perfect. But I never wanted him dead."
The worst part is the relief that mingles with my grief. Relief that I'll never again have to endure his disappointment, his criticism, his cold assessment of my worth based on how well I play. What kind of daughter feels relief when her father dies?
"He sold me to Ivan," I say, the realization hitting me anew. "My own father."
Noah's jaw tightens but he says nothing. There's nothing to say.
"But he was still my dad." My voice breaks. "And now he's gone and I can never tell him that despite everything, I loved him anyway. That's what hurts the most."
The tears come faster now and Noah pulls the car over. He unbuckles my seatbelt and pulls me against his chest, careful of his wound. I sob into his shirt, letting out years of complicated feelings—anger, grief, guilt, relief—all tangled together into something I can't name.
"I should have protected him," I say between sobs. "I should have warned him."
"You couldn't have known," Noah says against my hair. "None of us could."
My thoughts drift to my mother. Her face when she saw those paramedics. The way her body crumpled. She'll never be the same again. For all his faults, she loved him completely.
A memory surfaces—one I haven't had in years. I was sixteen, home early from practice because my instructor had fallen ill. The house was quiet and I slipped in through the side door, planning to squeeze in extra practice time.
I heard them in the kitchen. My mother laughing—a sound so rare it stopped me in my tracks. I peered around the corner and saw them dancing. No music was playing nevertheless they moved in perfect sync, my father humming something classical. Beethoven, I think.
"Alexander," my mother whispered, "we should check on Evelyn's progress with the Tchaikovsky."
But my father just pulled her closer. "Margaret, for once, let's just dance."
Her face—I'll never forget it. Pure adoration. Like he was her sun, her moon, her entire universe. He spun her around and she followed his lead without hesitation. Always following his lead.
I slipped away unnoticed, confused by what I'd seen. It didn't fit with the cold, demanding father I knew. It didn't match the quiet, submissive mother who never contradicted him.
But now I understand. She loved him with everything she had, even when he was impossible to love. Even when he pushed me too hard. Even when he turned our home into a training ground instead of a sanctuary.
Now he's gone and she'll have to find a way to exist in a world without her sun.
I stare at the window, tears streaming down my face. The pain is overwhelming, a physical ache that makes it hard to breathe.
"Evelyn, please talk to me," Noah says, his hand still gripping mine. "I need to know you're okay."
"I'm not okay," I say, pulling my hand away. "I'll never be okay again."
Noah’sdark eyes fill with concern.
"Evelyn—"
"Please," I cut him off, my voice cracking. "I just need some peace. Just... a moment of silence. Please."
He studies my face for a long moment, then nods. "Okay."
The silence in the car is broken only by Jessica's quiet sobs from the backseat.
Noah pulls out his phone and dials a number. I keep my eyes closed but I can feel him watching me as the call connects.
"Damiano," he says, his voice low and tense. "Alexander Anderson is dead. Russians got to him at the Metropolitan Club."
He listens for a moment.
"No, we weren't there. We arrived after it happened." Another pause. "Yes, I have Evelyn and Jessica with me. Margaret Anderson went with the police to identify the body."
I open my eyes, watching as Noah's jaw tightens.
"I understand. We'll be there in twenty." He ends the call and puts the phone away.
"What did he say?" Jessica asks, her voice small.
Noah glances at me before answering. "We're going to the Feretti house. Damiano says it's the safest place for you both right now."
"What about Mom?" I ask, finding my voice again.
"Alessio will pick her up from the police station when she's done." Noah starts the car again. "Damiano is putting the entire family on high alert. No one goes anywhere alone until we figure out who sent those men and how deep this goes."
I nod, too exhausted to argue. My father is dead. Nothing else seems to matter right now.
"I'm sorry," Noah says softly as he pulls back onto the road. "I know those words mean nothing, but I am."
I don't respond. I just turn back to the window, watching the streetlights blur through my tears as we head to the Feretti house—another place that isn't home, another situation I never asked for.
But maybe, right now, it's exactly where we need to be.