Page 3 of Ruined

"I don't have anything." My voice drops to something dangerous. "Drop it."

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Whatever you say, Ghost." He pushes off from the railing. "I'm going to find something to eat before these rich fucks devour everything."

I don't acknowledge him as he leaves. Don't need to. That's always been our way—appearing and disappearing without ceremony.

Alone again, I finish my cigarette and crush it under my shoe. The party continues inside, but Evelyn's nowhere to be seen. Something cold settles in my chest at the thought of her with Ivan. His hands anywhere near her.

I straighten my jacket and head back inside. Just to check. Just to make sure.

Not because I care. Not because I want.

Just because some things, once seen, can't be unseen. And Evelyn Anderson, with her storm-blue eyes and disciplined grace, is something I can't look away from.

No matter how much I should.

I weave through the crowd, keeping my distance but never losing sight of her. She's moved to the center of the room where Damiano stands with his wife. Perfect Zoe with her bright smile, holding court beside him like she was born for this life instead of dragged into it.

But it's Evelyn who draws my eye. She looks small next to them, yet somehow just as commanding. Her violin case rests against her leg as she speaks, one hand gesturing gracefully.

I position myself behind a cluster of guests, close enough to hear without being noticed. Years of moving undetected serve me well tonight.

"The performance was beautiful, Ms. Anderson," Damiano says, his Italian accent thickening when he's trying to be charming. "My daughter may be too young to appreciate it now, but one day she'll understand the honor."

Evelyn smiles, a practiced thing that doesn't reach her eyes. "Thank you for having me, Mr. Feretti. It was my pleasure."

"You must stay for dinner," Zoe insists, touching Evelyn's arm lightly.

Evelyn shifts her weight, uncomfortable with the contact. Interesting.

"I'm afraid I can't," she says, reaching for her violin case. "I have another engagement tonight. A charity concert downtown."

My jaw tightens. Another engagement. Another performance for another group of rich fucks who think they own a piece of her talent. Of her.

"Such dedication," Damiano says, raising his glass slightly. "We won't keep you then."

"Thank you again for the opportunity," Evelyn says, that polite mask never slipping. "And congratulations on your beautiful daughter."

She turns to leave and something inside me lurches. I step back deeper into shadow as she moves past, close enough that I catch the scent of her perfume. Something subtle. Expensive.

My fingers twitch at my side. One movement and I could touch her arm, stop her, make her look at me. Again.

I do nothing. Just watch as she weaves through the crowd toward the exit, her back straight, head high.

Ivan appears in my peripheral vision, also tracking her movement. My hand instinctively moves to where my gun rests against my ribs.

I follow at a distance as Evelyn collects her coat from the attendant. She checks her phone, frowning slightly at whatever she sees there.

I slip out the side door before she reaches the main entrance. The night air hits me like a slap, clearing my head. I've memorized her routine.

I've been watching her for months now. Since Damiano's wedding, when she played a haunting melody that made something crack inside me. Something I thought had died with my mother.

I position myself behind a tall hedge, waiting. Her heels click against the stone pathway as she approaches, violin case swinging slightly with each step. She's alone. No security. Fucking careless, what with Ivan's eyes on her.

This isn't the first time I've followed her. I know where she lives—that fancy high-rise in Manhattan with the doorman who takes a smoke break at 11:45 every night. She practices at 5 a.m. before the world wakes. She takes her coffee black and sometimes sits by her window, staring at nothing.

She reaches her car, fumbling with her keys. The overhead light catches her face when she opens the door, illuminating those storm-blue eyes.

My mother played violin too. Not professionally, not like Evelyn. But in our small apartment, when my father was away, she'd play these soft, melancholy pieces that made the world feel less sharp. Less dangerous.

---