Chapter 38
CHAPTER 38
I pull into the Feretti mansion's circular driveway, my mind racing faster than my Ducati ever could. Evelyn sits beside me, her face pale and drawn. Jessica's quiet sobs from the backseat have finally subsided into silence.
"We're here," I say, reaching for Evelyn's hand. It's cold, almost lifeless.
Lucrezia meets us at the entrance, her eyes widening when she sees the state of the women. She doesn't ask questions—one of the things I've always appreciated about her.
"Come," she says, extending her arms toward Evelyn and Jessica. "Let me take care of them."
I nod, watching as she guides them inside. Evelyn turns back once, her eyes meeting mine. There's something in her gaze I can't quite place—grief, yes, but something else too. Something that makes my chest tear open in a way that has nothing to do with my healing bullet wound.
"I'll be back," I tell her.
The walk to Damiano's office feels longer than usual. Each step reminds me of the bullet hole in my chest but it's nothing compared to the weight of what just happened. Alexander Anderson is dead. Murdered. And somehow I feel responsible.
Damiano and Matteo are waiting for me, their faces grim.
"How are they?" Damiano asks as I shut the door behind me.
"Fucked up," I say honestly. "Their father was just murdered."
Matteo shifts in his seat. "About that... our contacts say the Russians have already left the city."
"Left?" I drop into a chair, wincing at the pull on my stitches. "That makes no fucking sense."
"It does if Anderson was their only target," Damiano says, leaning forward. "Matteo's been digging. Turns out Anderson owed Ivan money. A lot of it."
"So this was about cash?" I laugh with absolutely zero humor. "All this fucking bloodshed over money?"
"Ivan was using Evelyn's contract as leverage," Matteo explains. "But the real issue was the debt. When Ivan died his family came to collect."
I run a hand through my hair, processing this. "But how the fuck do they not know who killed Ivan? We weren't exactly subtle about storming his house."
Damiano exchanges a look with Matteo.
"That's the interesting part," Matteo says. "Ivan kept his operation compartmentalized. His men knew he was meeting with you but not why. And his family in Russia only knows he's dead—not who pulled the trigger."
"So they think Anderson had something to do with it?" I ask.
"They think Anderson owed money to a dead man," Damiano clarifies. "And dead men can't collect. So they made an example of him."
I shake my head, struggling to process what Damiano and Matteo are telling me. This shit doesn't add up.
"No, that's too fucking convenient," I say, standing despite the pain shooting through my chest. "You're telling me Ivan Volkov—the Butcher of Moscow—gets killed, and his family just... what? Doesn't bother to investigate who pulled the trigger?"
Matteo shifts uncomfortably. "The Russians operate differently?—"
"Bullshit," I cut him off. "I've dealt with these people. They don't just let shit go. Especially not the death of someone as connected as Ivan."
I pace the room, my mind racing. "Someone's feeding us a line. Ivan's operation might have been compartmentalized but his family would tear apart this entire fucking city to find who killed him."
Damiano watches me carefully. "What are you suggesting, Noah?"
"I'm suggesting we're missing something." I press my fingers against my temples. "Anderson's death isn't the end of this. It's a message."
"A message to whom?" Matteo asks.
"To us. To me." I turn to face them both. "They're letting us know they can get to anyone."
Damiano leans back in his chair. "If they knew it was you who killed Ivan?—"
"I didn't kill him. Matteo did." I glance at Matteo, whose face has gone pale. "But they don't know that. They just know someone stormed Ivan's house and he ended up dead."
"So why not come directly for us?" Matteo asks.
"Because they're playing a longer game." I feel the realization settling in my gut like lead. "They're watching us. Seeing how we react. Anderson was just the first move."
Damiano nods slowly. "That would be consistent with how the Volkovs operate. They're patient."
"And they're not done," I add. "Not by a long shot."
I move toward the door, suddenly needing to be near Evelyn. To make sure she's safe.
"Where are you going?" Damiano calls after me.
"To protect what's mine," I answer without turning around. "And to figure out what the fuck we're really dealing with here."
I storm out, feeling the pieces click into place. All this time I thought I was protecting Evelyn from some grand power play. But it was just about money. Fucking money.
I make my way through the Feretti mansion, the familiar hallways now feeling endless. My mind's racing with everything I've just learned—Anderson's debts, the Russians' strategy, the danger that's still lurking. But all I can think about is finding Evelyn.
Lucrezia catches me in the main corridor.
"Second floor, east wing," she says before I can ask. "The blue room."
I take the stairs two at a time, ignoring the protest from my chest wound. When I reach the door I pause, taking a deep breath before knocking.
"Come in," Evelyn's voice calls out, small and fragile.
She's sitting on the edge of the bed, still wearing the same clothes from earlier. Her eyes are red-rimmed but dry, like she's cried all the tears her body could produce.
"Hey," I say, closing the door behind me.
"Did you talk to Damiano?" She looks up at me, her face a mask of exhaustion and grief. "Do they know anything?"
I hesitate, weighing how much to tell her. Part of me wants to shield her from this shit, let her grieve without the added weight of knowing the truth.
"Noah." Her voice sharpens. "I need to know why my father is dead."
"It's complicated," I start, sitting beside her on the bed. "Maybe we should talk about this later, when you've had some rest?—"
"No." She cuts me off, her eyes suddenly fierce. "I don't want to be protected from the truth. Not anymore. My father is dead because of something connected to me, to Ivan, to all of this. I deserve to know."
I study her face. She's different from the woman I kidnapped just days ago. Stronger. Harder. The grief hasn't broken her—it's forged her into something new.
"Your father owed Ivan money," I say. "A lot of it."
Her brow furrows. "Money? This was about money?"
"According to what Matteo found, yes. Ivan was using your contract as leverage but the real issue was the debt." I watch her carefully as I continue. "When Ivan died his family came to collect."
Evelyn stands abruptly, pacing the room. "That makes no sense. My father is wealthy but not... mafia wealthy. What kind of debt could he possibly have had with Ivan?"
"I don't know the details yet," I admit. "But there's more to this than we're seeing. The Russians are playing a longer game."
She stops pacing, turning to face me. "What do you mean?"
"I mean your father's death wasn't just about settling a debt. It was a message."
I pace the floor of the guest bedroom, my mind racing with the knowledge that my father's death wasn't random payback. The Russians didn't just kill him over a debt. There's something Noah isn't telling me.
Noah rises from the bed, moving toward me with that predator grace that somehow no longer frightens me. "Evelyn, look at me."
I can't. I stare at the floor, feeling tears build behind my eyes.
"Look at me," he repeats, his voice gentler now.
When I finally meet his gaze I see something I never expected—sensitivity beneath the hardness.
"You need to stop blaming yourself," he says. "Ivan started this. Not you."
"But—"
"No." He reaches for me, his hands cupping my face. "This isn't on you. And you don't need to be afraid."
"How can I not be?" I say. "They killed my father. They'll come for my mother, for Jessica?—"
"They won't get near either of them." His thumbs brush away tears I didn't realize had fallen. "The Ferettis are protecting your family now. And I'm protecting you."
I shake my head. "You can't promise that. You don't know what they'll do next."
"You're right. I don't." His honesty surprises me. "But I know we'll handle whatever comes. Everything will be settled, sooner or later."
"You can't know that."
"I do." He steps closer, the heat of his body somehow calming the storm inside me. "There's no need for you to fret over things that aren't certain yet."
His lips brush my forehead, so gently it makes my heart ache.
"What is certain?" I ask, my voice barely audible.
"This." Noah's mouth finds mine, soft at first, then deeper. "Us."
I shouldn't believe him. I shouldn't trust the comfort he offers. But when his arms wrap around me I lean into him anyway, letting his kisses chase away the fear, if only for a moment.
"I won't let them hurt you," he says against my lips. "That's the only certainty that matters."
I feel something shift inside me as Noah's lips touch mine. All the grief, fear and confusion suddenly transforms into a desperate hunger. I need to escape the thoughts spinning in my head—my father's murder, the Russians, the constant danger. I need to feel something else. Anything else.
I press my body against Noah's, kissing him harder, more desperately. My fingers dig into his shoulders, pulling him closer. I need this. I need him.
"Evelyn," he says against my mouth, his voice rough. "Are you sure about this? After everything that's happened today?—"
I don't let him finish. I push him backward until his legs hit the edge of the bed and he sits down hard. His eyes widen slightly, surprised by my forcefulness.
"I don't want to think anymore," I tell him, my voice steady despite the trembling in my hands. "I just want to feel something that isn't pain or fear."
Noah gazes at me, his dark eyes intense. "I don't want you to regret this tomorrow."
"The only thing I'll regret is wasting time talking." I reach for the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head in one fluid motion. The cool air hits my skin, raising goosebumps across my chest and arms.
Noah's breath catches. His gaze travels slowly over me, heating my skin wherever it touches.
I step between his legs, reaching behind to unhook my bra. It falls away and Noah's hands immediately move to my waist, steadying me.
"You're sure?" he asks one more time, his thumbs tracing circles on my bare skin.
In answer I push him back onto the mattress. His body yields to mine and I climb on top of him, straddling his hips. The friction makes me gasp.
Noah's hands slide up my sides, his touch both gentle and possessive. I lean down to kiss him again, my hair falling around us like a curtain, shutting out the world.
He sits up suddenly, keeping me in his lap as he pulls his shirt off. The bandage on his chest is a stark reminder of how close I came to losing him but I push the thought away. No more thinking. Just feeling.
His skin is hot against mine and I run my hands over the planes of his chest, careful to avoid his wound. Noah's fingers tangle in my hair, pulling my head back to expose my neck to his mouth.
Noah's lips trail down my neck, his stubble grazing my sensitive skin. I arch against him, desperate for more contact. His hands slide down to unbutton my jeans and I lift my hips to help him pull them off.
"I need you," I say against his ear, not recognizing my own voice—raw and demanding.
He flips us over in one smooth motion, careful of his wound but still powerful. I'm beneath him now, his weight a comforting pressure. He strips away the last of my clothing, then his own.
When he enters me, I gasp. The sensation is overwhelming—not just physically but emotionally too. It's as if he's touching parts of me no one has ever reached before.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice husky.
I open my eyes to find him watching me with an intensity that makes me tremble. He moves deliberately, each thrust slow and deep, building a pressure inside me that threatens to shatter me completely.
"Noah," I moan, digging my nails into his back.
"That's it," he growls. "Say my name again."
"Noah," I repeat, louder this time as he increases his pace.
The tension builds and builds until I can't bear it anymore. When I finally break it's like nothing I've ever experienced—waves of pleasure crashing and pulling back only to crash harder, making me cry out in exquisite agony. My entire body pulses around him as stars explode behind my eyelids.
Noah follows me over the edge, his body tensing as he groans my name against my neck. I feel him throbbing inside me, his release triggering aftershocks of pleasure through my body.
We stay connected, our breathing gradually slowing. Noah shifts to my side, pulling me against him, my back to his chest. His arm wraps around my waist, holding me close.
"I am so fucking in love with you," he says against my hair.
The words hit me like an even more powerful wave. No one has ever said that to me—not like this, raw and unguarded. I feel tears well up in my eyes, spilling over before I can stop them.
"Evelyn?" Noah's voice is concerned as he feels my tears on his arm.
I can't speak. The emotions are too much—grief for my father, fear of what's coming, and this overwhelming feeling for Noah that I can't bear to name yet. So I just shake my head and hold his arm tighter around me.
He seems to understand, pressing a kiss to my shoulder and pulling me closer. "It's okay," he says. "I've got you."
I cry silently until exhaustion takes over, Noah's steady heartbeat against my back lulling me toward sleep. The last thing I feel before darkness claims me are his lips against my temple coupled with the strange certainty that whatever comes next, I won't face it alone.