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Evelyn slides into the driver's seat, checking her mirrors. She pauses, scanning the darkness where I stand. For an instant I think she sees me, but then she starts the engine.
I shouldn't be doing this. Following her like some fucking obsessed psycho. I have business to handle, shipments to oversee, men to command. But here I am, drawn to her like she's gravity itself.
Something about her calls to the last human part of me—the part I thought my father had killed along with my mother. The part that still remembers what it was like to feel something besides power and control.
And that makes her dangerous. More dangerous than Ivan. More dangerous than any enemy I've faced.
I trail her car at a safe distance, keeping two vehicles between us at all times. My Ducati handles like it's part of me, responding to the slightest shift of my weight as I weave through traffic. The night air whips against my face but I barely feel it. All my focus is on that sleek black sedan ahead.
She drives carefully. Precisely. Just like she plays. Just like she moves through a room full of killers with that practiced smile.
The car turns onto Fifth Avenue, heading toward the more polished part of the city. Where old money lives in high towers and pretends its hands are clean. I gun the engine, cutting between a taxi and a delivery truck to keep her taillights in view.
Fifteen minutes later she pulls up to the Carlyle Hotel. Fancy place for a charity event. The kind where rich fucks drop thousands on auction items they'll never use, just so they can feel good about themselves.
I park my bike across the street, staying in the shadows as valets rush to open her door. She steps out, a vision in that simple black dress, violin case in hand. The doorman nods respectfully as she passes.
I watch her disappear inside, my fingers drumming against my thigh. Following her inside would be stupid. Our earlier encounter is enough for her to notice if she sees me again tonight. And Evelyn Anderson doesn't strike me as someone who misses details.
Besides, these charity events have guest lists, security. I could get in – I always find a way – but the risk isn't worth it. Not tonight.
I light a cigarette, inhaling deeply as I lean against my bike. Through the hotel's massive windows, I catch flashes of the event. Crystal chandeliers. Women dripping in diamonds. Men in tailored tuxedos congratulating themselves on their generosity.
And somewhere in there, Evelyn. Playing for them. Smiling that vacant smile.
The thought makes something dark twist inside me. She doesn't belong to them. She doesn't belong to Ivan either, despite whatever arrangement he thinks they have.
CHAPTER 3
The Carlyle Hotel's glittering chandeliers cast diamonds across the crowd as I slip through the side entrance. The charity organizer—Mrs. Wellington, with her ever-present clipboard and pearl earrings—spots me immediately.
"Evelyn! Thank goodness. We're running ten minutes behind." She fusses with my sleeve. "The Ashcrofts just donated another fifty thousand, so we added them to your dedication list."
I nod, barely listening as she rattles off names of wealthy patrons whose egos need stroking tonight. My fingers already ache from playing at the Feretti celebration. The weight of eyes watching me there—Ivan's cold stare, that intense consigliere, Damiano's expectant gaze—has left me drained.
"Just an hour," I remind myself, tightening my grip on my violin case.
The backstage area buzzes with waitstaff carrying trays of champagne. I find a quiet corner to prepare, opening my case and running my fingers over the polished wood of my instrument. This violin has been my voice when I had none, my escape when there was nowhere to run.
I close my eyes, letting the chaos around me fade. Tonight's selections are pieces I could play in my sleep—Vivaldi's ‘Winter’, a Bach partita, ending with Paganini to impress the donors. An hour of my life traded for their money, which will fund music education for underprivileged children. At least this performance serves a purpose beyond my father's ambitions or Ivan's manipulations.
"Five minutes, Miss Anderson." A stagehand appears with a glass of water.
I drink half, check my appearance in a small mirror. The woman who stares back looks composed, professional. Only I can see the exhaustion in her eyes, the slight tremble in her hands.
The announcer's voice booms through the speakers. "Ladies and gentlemen, we are honored to present one of the finest violinists of her generation..."
I step onto the small stage, blinking against the spotlight. Applause washes over me as I take my position. The faces before me blur into a sea of expectation—wealthy patrons in designer clothes, sipping champagne, waiting to be moved, impressed, entertained.
I lift my violin to my shoulder, feeling its familiar weight. For a moment, I imagine walking off stage, driving home to my apartment, crawling into bed and sleeping for days. The fantasy is so vivid I almost smile.
Instead, I draw my bow across the strings and the first notes of Vivaldi fill the room. The music takes over, muscle memory guiding my fingers while my mind drifts. Just one hour and then I can escape. One hour of being the perfect performer they expect. One hour until I can be alone.
What I wouldn't give for my bed, a cup of tea, and silence. Complete, blessed silence.
The final notes of Paganini's Caprice No. 24 hang in the air as I lower my bow. For a moment, there's silence—a perfect pause before the applause when I can breathe. Then the room erupts, people rising to their feet. I offer a practiced smile and bow, my back aching from standing so long.
Mrs. Wellington bustles onto the stage with a bouquet. "Absolutely magnificent, my dear!"