Chapter 39
CHAPTER 39
I wrap my arms tighter around Noah's waist as he accelerates his Ducati through the streets of Manhattan. Four months have passed since my father's murder and somehow life has found a new rhythm.
The wind whips through my hair despite the helmet. I've grown to love these motorcycle rides—the speed, the closeness to Noah, the feeling of freedom. Before Noah I never would have imagined myself on the back of a motorcycle, my thighs pressed against a man who kills for a living.
But here I am, holding onto him like he's my anchor in a storm.
We turn onto my mother's street. The new apartment is located on the parlor floor of a brownstone—less imposing, less like a prison. My mother has been decorating with new furnishings, slowly erasing my father's presence while preserving just enough to honor his memory.
Noah slows the bike, coming to a stop in front of the house. He helps me off first before dismounting himself, his movements still careful around his chest where the bullet scar remains a permanent reminder of how close I came to losing him.
"You okay?" he asks, removing his helmet and running a hand through his dark hair.
I nod, taking off my own helmet. "Just thinking about how strange this all is."
"The Sunday dinners?" He raises an eyebrow.
"Everything." I gesture vaguely at the world around us. "Four months ago I was kidnapped by you. Now we're going to have dinner with my mother like a normal couple."
Noah's lips quirk up in that half-smile I've come to love. "Normal isn't a word I'd use for us, babe."
He takes my hand as we walk up the steps. This gesture still surprises me sometimes—how gentle he can be despite everything. The man who threatened to break my fingers the first day now traces them reverently when I play.
I ring the doorbell, hearing Jessica's quick footsteps approaching. She throws open the door, her face bright with a smile that's become more common these days.
"Finally! Mom's been pacing the kitchen for twenty minutes."
Jessica hugs me tight, then surprises Noah with a quick embrace. He's still getting used to my sister's affection but I notice he no longer stiffens when she touches him.
The smell of my mother's roast chicken fills the house—a recipe she's perfected over these Sunday dinners. It's become our tradition now. Every week we gather here, pretending we're just a regular family, ignoring the security detail Noah has stationed outside, pretending the Russians aren't still a threat lurking in the shadows.
But for a few hours each Sunday, we almost believe it.
We follow Jessica into the dining room where she's set the table with the best china—the set that used to only come out for my father's business associates. Now it's just for us. For family.
"Evelyn, could you help me bring out the vegetables?" Mom asks, already heading back to the kitchen.
I squeeze Noah's hand before letting go. "Be nice," I say.
He gives me that dangerous smile. "Always am."
In the kitchen my mother fusses over the roasted carrots, arranging them just so on a serving platter. She's different now—softer around the edges, less concerned with perfection. Grief changed her, but so did freedom.
We return to the dining room where Noah and Jessica are already deep in conversation. Noah has his phone out, showing her something that makes her laugh.
"No phones at the table," my mother chides gently as she sets down the platter.
Noah pockets his phone immediately. "Sorry, Mrs. Anderson."
"Margaret," she corrects him, as she does every Sunday.
We settle in around the table, passing dishes back and forth. The conversation flows easily now, unlike those first awkward dinners when no one knew what to say.
"Did you hear Zoe is pregnant again?" Jessica says, helping herself to potatoes. "Lucrezia mentioned it when I was at the mansion yesterday."
Noah nods. "Damiano told me last week. He's hoping for a boy this time."
"That's wonderful," my mother says, her eyes lighting up.
She glances between Noah and me with a smile that makes my stomach flip. "I do hope I get to be a grandmother someday. Nothing would make me happier than holding my grandchild."
I'm in the middle of taking a sip of water when she says this and I choke, coughing and sputtering. Noah immediately pats my back but I can feel him shaking with laughter beside me.
"Mom!" Jessica exclaims, though she's fighting a smile too.
"What?" My mother looks innocently between us. "Is it so wrong to want grandchildren?"
Noah's laughter breaks free now, deep and rich. "Your timing is impeccable, Margaret," he says, his hand still on my back.
I finally catch my breath, my face burning. "We haven't even discussed—I mean, we're not?—"
"Relax, Evelyn," my mother says, cutting a piece of chicken with precision. "I'm just saying, whenever you two decide the time is right."
I can't take my eyes off Evelyn as we step inside my apartment. The way she moves—always with a dancer's grace, even when she's just shrugging off her jacket—still gets to me. Four months together and I'm still not used to having her in my space, making it feel like somewhere worth coming back to.
"Your face when your mom mentioned grandchildren," I say, unable to hold back my laugh as I lock the door behind us. "I thought you were gonna pass out right there at the table."
Evelyn's cheeks flush that perfect shade of pink. "God, don't remind me." She kicks off her heels by the door—a habit she's developed since moving in. "I can't believe she just threw that out there like we were discussing the weather."
I follow her to the kitchen, watching as she fills a glass with water. The simple domesticity of it hits me in the chest sometimes. This woman who once fought me at every turn now moves through my home like she belongs here. Because she does.
"Your mom's got plans for us," I tease, leaning against the counter. "Better start practicing."
"Noah!" She nearly chokes again, which only makes me laugh harder.
I pull her against me, feeling her warmth through the thin fabric of her dress. "I'm just saying we could get some practice in. For your mom's sake, of course."
She rolls her eyes but doesn't pull away. "My mother has changed so much since Dad died. It's like... she's finally allowing herself to want things." Evelyn's voice softens. "She never would have talked about grandchildren when he was alive. She never really talked at all."
I brush a strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "You've changed too."
"Have I?" Her eyes meet mine, curious.
"You smile more." I trace my thumb across her bottom lip. "You don't flinch when I touch you unexpectedly. And you play differently now."
She raises an eyebrow. "How so?"
"Like you're playing for yourself, not for anyone else." It's true. I've watched her transform these past months. The woman who once played to please others now plays because the music lives inside her.
"I guess we've all changed." She leans into me, her head resting against my chest where the bullet scar still aches sometimes. "My mother's planning her first trip to Europe next month. Jessica's talking about applying to Columbia. And I..." She looks up at me with those blue eyes that still knock the wind out of me. "I'm living with a man who kills people for a living, and I've never felt safer."
I can't help but laugh at that. Only Evelyn could make that sound romantic.
"Your mom might have to wait on those grandkids, though," I say, kissing the top of her head.
"Oh? Why's that?"
"Because I'm not done having you all to myself yet."
I can't help but grin at the way she's looking at me—a mix of challenge and desire that's become so familiar. Without warning, I bend down and grab her by the waist, hoisting her over my shoulder in one smooth motion.
"Put me down, you caveman," she demands, but there's no real heat behind it.
"Not a chance, violinist." I tighten my grip as she playfully struggles.
Her hair cascades down my back as I walk us toward the bedroom. "I can't believe I'm in love with someone who thinks this is romantic," she says, still laughing.
I kick the bedroom door open and move toward the bed. "Who said anything about romance?" I toss her onto the mattress, watching as she bounces slightly, her hair fanning out around her.
She props herself up on her elbows, looking up at me with those blue eyes that still drive me crazy. "You're impossible."
"Get naked," I command, my voice dropping lower. "Now."
Her eyes darken at my tone, that familiar flush spreading across her cheeks. She holds my gaze as she slowly sits up, reaching behind to unzip her dress.
"Faster," I say, crossing my arms.
She bites her lip, fighting a smile as she speeds up, pulling the dress over her head and tossing it aside. Her bra and panties follow until she's completely bare before me.
"Turn over," I tell her. "Hands and knees."
She hesitates for just a second—that little moment of resistance that makes it so much sweeter when she gives in. Then she turns, positioning herself exactly as I commanded, looking back at me over her shoulder with a mix of defiance and anticipation that makes my blood run hot.
"Like this?" she asks, her voice a challenge.
I can't take my eyes off her—on all fours, her back arched just slightly, those blue eyes watching me over her shoulder. Her skin glows in the dim light of our bedroom, smooth and perfect except for that small scar on her hip from when she fell during a performance in Vienna. I know every inch of her body now, but the sight of her like this still hits me like a punch to the gut.
"Fucking perfect," I murmur, drinking her in.
Her hair cascades down her back, those deep brown waves I love to wrap around my fist when I'm inside her. The elegant curve of her spine leads down to the perfect swell of her ass. Even now she holds herself with that dancer's posture—the discipline of years of training evident in every line of her body.
I unbutton my shirt slowly, never taking my eyes off her. Her breath catches as I shrug it off and toss it aside. My pants follow, then my boxers, until I'm standing naked at the foot of the bed.
She tries to turn toward me but I stop her with a command.
"Don't move."
She freezes, her body tensing in anticipation. I see goosebumps rising on her skin, though the room is warm.
I step closer to the bed, close enough that she can feel my presence but not quite touching her. I lean down, my lips almost grazing her ear.
"I'm going to fuck you until you forget your own name," I say, my voice rough with promise. "And then I'm going to do it again."