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I nod. "Not who he was. Just that someone was there. I sensed eyes watching without seeing them."
Matteo rubs his jaw. "Interesting."
"What happened to his mother?"
"That's definitely not my story to tell." He stands up. "But if you want my advice? Don't mention her unless you want to see a side of Noah that scares even me."
I stare at the TV screen without really seeing it after Matteo walks away. His words about Noah's mother linger in my mind, pulling me toward memories I usually keep locked away.
My own mother.
Margaret Anderson. Concert pianist turned trophy wife. I remember her hands—elegant, with long fingers that could stretch across octaves effortlessly. Those same hands that would smooth my hair before recitals, straighten my dress collar, and occasionally, very occasionally, offer comfort.
But never protection.
I close my eyes, letting the memory surface. I was eleven, standing in our living room, violin clutched in my hands. My father's voice booming through the house.
"Four hours of practice isn't enough! You think this is a game, Evelyn? You think Carnegie Hall is for children who practice when they feel like it?"
My mother sat at her piano, shoulders stiff, eyes down. Silent.
"Mom," I whispered. "Please."
She never looked up. Just placed her fingers on the keys and began to play, drowning out my father's tirade with Chopin.
That was her answer to everything. When my father pushed too hard, when I cried from exhaustion, when Jessica begged to quit ballet—my mother played. As if the music could wash away the reality of what was happening.
I pull my knees to my chest, hugging them tight. What would she think of me now? Trapped in an apartment by a man who killed without hesitation, entangled with the mafia, a pawn between powerful men.
She'd probably just sit at her piano and play louder.
The last time I saw her was three years ago. My father had organized a special performance—me on violin, her on piano. A duet for his business associates. We played beautifully together, our instruments weaving a tapestry of sound that made the audience rise to their feet.
Backstage, I told her I was thinking of breaking my contract with my father's management company. Of playing what I wanted, where I wanted.
She just kissed my cheek and said, "Don't rock the boat, darling. It's easier to float with the current."
I grip the remote tighter, fighting back tears. I won't be like her. I won't just accept this situation, play along, and pretend everything is fine.
Unlike my mother, I will find a way out.
I'm still lost in my thoughts when the front door clicks open. Noah strides in, his arms loaded with shopping bags. His eyes find me immediately, his expression unreadable as always.
He sets the bags down with careful precision. Something about his movements seems tense, controlled even more rigidly than before.
"I got what you asked for," he says, not looking at me. His voice is flat, emotionless. "Clothes. Books. Toiletries."
I stand up, curious despite myself about what he's bought. "Thank you."
He ignores my gratitude, turning to Matteo who's leaning against the wall watching our interaction with obvious interest.
"Need to talk to you," Noah says to him. Then he glances at me. "Alone."
I cross my arms. "This is about me, isn't it? I should be part of any conversation?—"
"Not now, Evelyn." There's a hard edge to his voice I haven't heard before. "Go to the bedroom. I'll bring your things in when we're done."
"I'm not a child you can send to my room."