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My favorite spot, though, was always Lincoln Ristorante before performances at Lincoln Center. I'd sit alone at the window watching people stream toward the Metropolitan Opera House while I savored tagliatelle with black truffle. Something about that ritual—the anticipation of music, the richness of the pasta, the solitude—centered me before I stepped on stage.
The hunger pangs sharpen, pulling me back to this concrete and steel reality.
CHAPTER 25
Icheck my watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. Ten hours. Ten fucking hours since Matteo told me she escaped. Ten hours of planning, preparing, making calls, and barely keeping my shit together.
The SUV cuts through the night, headlights off as we approach Ivan's neighborhood. My knuckles are white on the handle of my gun. I haven't spoken more than was essential since we left. What is there to say? She walked right into his hands.
"We're three minutes out," Alessio says from the driver's seat, his voice low and steady. Nothing rattles him—not even this suicide mission.
Matteo shifts beside me. "You still think she's alive?"
I turn to him, my jaw clenched so tight it hurts. "Don't."
"Just asking what we're walking into."
"We stick to the plan," I say, checking my weapon again. "Nothing changes."
The weight of my tactical vest feels like nothing compared to the weight inside my chest.
"Damiano's team is in position," Alessio reports, touching his earpiece. "Enzo's ready on the east side."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The image of Evelyn playing her violin keeps flashing through my mind—the way her body swayed, how her eyes closed when she hit those notes that seemed to cut right through me. Then I see her face when she learned about Jessica. The hatred in her eyes when she looked at me.
"She didn't understand what she was walking into," I say, more to myself than to them.
Matteo gives me a sideways glance. "You really think she believed Ivan would just trade?"
"She was desperate." I run my hand over my face. "And I fucking let it happen."
Alessio makes a final turn, killing the engine as we approach Ivan's townhouse. The street is quiet—too quiet. No pedestrians, no cars moving. Ivan's men have cleared the area.
"You know," Matteo says as we prepare to exit, "I've never seen you like this over anyone."
I ignore him, checking my earpiece and the extra magazines in my pockets.
"If we get her out—" Alessio starts.
"When," I correct him, my voice leaving no room for doubt. "Whenwe get her out."
The three of us share a look in the darkness of the SUV. These men have been with me through countless operations, through blood and bullets and close calls. But this is different. This isn't business.
I signal to Matteo and Alessio, and we slip out of the SUV like shadows. The night air is cold against my face, the only part of me not covered by tactical gear.
"Remember the layout," I whisper, tapping my temple. "Three minutes to get in position. No earlier, no later."
Ten fucking hours we waited for this moment. Ten hours since I called in that favor from Senator Williams—the man whose wife I pulled from a burning car last year when his enemies wanted to send a message. His connections got us the complete architectural plans for Ivan's townhouse. Every entrance, every wall thickness, every goddamn air duct.
"I still think this is suicide," Matteo mutters, checking his weapon one last time. "Ivan's expecting you."
"That's the point," I say, my voice low and hard. "He wants me to come through the front door. That's why I'm going in alone first."
"Like hell you are," Alessio cuts in. "Damiano would skin us alive."
"I didn't ask for your fucking permission." I check my watch. "Two minutes."
Matteo grabs my arm. "We argued this already. You go in alone, you die. Evelyn dies. Everyone dies. Stick to the plan."