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"Noah," he says, spotting me immediately. "What's happened now?"
"We need to talk. About Ivan."
Damiano sighs, gesturing me into his office. "Come in."
I follow him inside, barely waiting for the door to close. "We need to move on Ivan now. Not tomorrow, not after some fucking strategy meeting. Now."
"You know that's not how this works," Damiano says, settling behind his desk. "Ivan has connections throughout the East Coast. We move too quickly, we risk?—"
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I glance at the screen. Matteo.
"Give me a second," I tell Damiano, answering the call. "What is it?"
"She's gone." Matteo's voice is strained.
Everything in me goes cold. "What the fuck did you just say?"
"Evelyn. She locked me in your bedroom. She's gone."
"What the fuck, Matteo? How could you let this happen?" I'm shouting now, my free hand slamming against the wall. "I trusted you with one fucking job!"
"She tricked me, man. She?—"
"I don't give a shit what she did! You were supposed to watch her!" My voice echoes off the walls of Damiano's office.
"Noah," Damiano says sharply, standing up. "What's happening?"
I ignore him, still yelling into the phone. "How long has she been gone?"
"Maybe twenty minutes. I had to break down your fucking bedroom door."
"Fuck! FUCK!" I kick the nearest chair, sending it crashing into the wall. "She's going to Ivan."
"Noah!" Damiano's voice cuts through my rage. "Get it together and tell me what's happening."
I lower the phone, my chest heaving. "Evelyn's gone. She slipped past Matteo. She's going to turn herself over to Ivan to save her sister."
"Shit," Damiano mutters.
"I'm going after her." I'm already moving toward the door.
"Noah, wait?—"
I whirl around, pointing a finger at him. "Don't you dare try to stop me. She's mine. I'm not letting Ivan touch her."
CHAPTER 23
The moment I step inside Ivan's house, cold air hits my skin. Not the refreshing kind of cold that brings relief on a hot day, but the kind that makes your bones ache. The vampiric kind that warns you to turn around and run.
I don't run.
Dmitri leads me through a marble foyer where my heels click against the floor, each sound a countdown. The house is a study in opulence—not the warm luxury of old money, but the contrived display of wealth of somebody with something to prove.
Everything is pristine white and metallic. The walls display abstract art in harsh reds and blacks that look like blood spatterand empty voids. No family photos. No personal touches. Just expensive emptiness.
"This way," Dmitri says, his accent thick as he gestures toward a hallway.
I follow him past rooms filled with furniture that looks as if it's never been sat on. The kind of furniture meant to impress, not comfort. Steel chandeliers hang from high ceilings, catching light and fracturing it into cold, sharp patterns on the walls.