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"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.