Page 5 of Ruined

I accept the flowers, nodding at the appropriate moments as she thanks me profusely. My cheeks hurt from smiling. The violinist's mask is slipping and I need to leave before it falls completely.

"Thank you for the opportunity," I say, the words automatic. "I'm honored to support such a worthy cause."

Wealthy patrons crowd forward, eager to shake my hand, to tell me how moved they were. I shake hands, smile, nod. My responses are on autopilot—"Thank you." "How kind." "I'm so pleased you enjoyed it."

After what feels like an eternity I manage to step away. "If you'll excuse me, I need to pack up my instrument."

Mrs. Wellington touches my arm. "The Vandermeres were hoping you might join them for a nightcap in the lounge."

I suppress a sigh. "Please extend my apologies. I have an early rehearsal tomorrow."

The lie comes easily. What I have is bone-deep exhaustion and a desperate need for solitude.

Back in the small dressing room I carefully place my violin in its case, after wiping it down with a soft cloth. My fingers feel stiff, and I flex them, wincing. Two performances in one day was too much but turning down either would have elicited consequences I can't afford.

I gather my belongings quickly, slipping out the side door before anyone else can request ‘just a moment’ of my time. The night air feels cool against my flushed skin. I inhale deeply, tasting freedom.

The parking garage is quiet and my heels click against concrete as I walk to my car. The day replays in my mind—the Feretti celebration, Ivan's cold eyes following me, that strange intensity from Damiano's man, and now hours of performing for New York's elite.

I reach my car, fumbling with my keys. My shoulders drop as I slide into the driver's seat, setting my violin carefully on the passenger side. The silence inside the car is blissful. I rest my forehead against the steering wheel for a moment, allowing myself this small vulnerability now that no one is watching.

"Just get home," I whisper to myself. "Just get home and you can fall apart there."

I pull away from the Carlyle, exhaustion weighing on me like a physical thing. The city lights blur as I drive through Manhattan's late-night streets, my violin case a silent companion beside me.

That feeling crawls up my spine again—the sensation of being watched. I check my rearview mirror for the third time. Nothing unusual, just the normal flow of traffic. Still, the feeling persists.

It's been happening more frequently since that night at Ivan's Moscow estate two months ago. The night everything changed. The night I realized what kind of man I'd signed my career to.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles whitening. Ivan's face flashes in my mind—those ice-blue eyes watching me at the Feretti celebration today, calculating something I couldn't decipher. He'd been different since Moscow. More unpredictable.

"Just paranoia," I mutter to myself, but I take an unnecessary turn anyway, circling a block before continuing toward my apartment. An old trick my father's security guard taught me years ago.

Ivan had seemed almost normal when we first met—charming even, in that cold, powerful way that makes you feel special when their attention lands on you. He'd promised to elevate my career, introduce me to the right people, open doors my father couldn't. I was naive enough to believe him.

I didn't understand I was signing more than a management contract until it was too late.

A car follows my turn. My heart rate spikes but then it continues past when I slow down. Just coincidence. But with Ivan, I can never be sure anymore. Not since he showed me what happens to people who displease him.

I tail Evelyn's car at a distance, keeping three vehicles between us. Not that she'd notice—most civilians don't havethe situational awareness to spot a tail. But Evelyn isn't most civilians.

Interesting.

She pulls into the parking garage beneath her building and I circle the block twice before finding a spot with a clear view of the entrance. I kill the engine of my Ducati and wait. This has become my routine—watching her come and go, learning her patterns.

The night air has a bite to it. I light a cigarette and inhale deeply, eyes never leaving the building's entrance. Upper East Side. Fancy doorman. Security cameras. She's comfortable but not flashy.

Something doesn't feel right tonight. I scan the lobby through the glass doors, and that's when I notice it—the doorman isn't at his post. He is a heavyset guy with a mustache, always sits at that desk from eight to midnight. Never leaves except for his smoke break.

It's 11:30. He should be there.

"Fuck," I mutter, crushing my cigarette under my boot.

I'm already moving when I see her enter the lobby. Evelyn's still in her performance dress, violin case clutched in one hand. She stops abruptly, her body going rigid.

A scream tears from her throat—sharp, primal. That's when I see the doorman sprawled across the marble floor.

I break into a sprint across the street, hand already reaching for the gun holstered at my back. Three men materialize from the shadows of the lobby, surrounding her in a tight circle. Black suits. Crew cuts. They move with military precision.

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