Page 1 of Ruined

CHAPTER 1

The bow glides across my violin strings as I play a delicate lullaby, one I composed especially for this occasion. My fingers know exactly where to press, muscle memory taking over while my eyes scan the opulent Feretti estate garden.

Damiano Feretti stands tall beside his wife Zoe, his hand protectively resting on her lower back as they accept congratulations for their newborn daughter. Even from here I notice how his eyes constantly sweep the perimeter—a predator assessing threats.

I've played for these people before. Their wedding last year was my first real introduction to this world. I remember how my hands trembled then, knowing exactly what kind of men filled the room. Today they shake for different reasons.

A server passes with champagne and I catch Ivan's eye across the garden. He raises his glass slightly, a private toast that sends ice through my veins despite the summer heat. His presence here is a reminder of my own precarious position—the allegedly beautiful violinist with connections to both Italian and Russian crime families.

I transition into another piece, something sweeter. The baby, wrapped in what must be custom-made silk, sleeps peacefully in Zoe's arms. It's strange how normal they look in this moment—just proud parents showing off their firstborn. Not a mafia boss and his wife who likely has blood on her hands, too.

"Beautiful playing," a voice says as I finish the piece.

I lower my violin and look up to find Damiano's consigliere standing nearby. His name escapes me but he's watching me with an intensity that makes me nervous.

"Thank you," I reply, keeping my voice professional. "I hope it's appropriate for the celebration."

"More than appropriate. Damiano specifically requested you." He leans closer. "Said you played at their wedding. They trust familiar faces."

Trust. Such a dangerous word in this world.

I nod and prepare to continue, but my eyes drift back to Ivan. He's now speaking with one of Damiano's captains, all smiles and charm. Only I can see the coldness behind his eyes—the calculation alongside every handshake, every introduction.

The baby starts to cry, so I quickly shift into a gentle, rocking melody. Zoe bounces her daughter gently and Damiano leans down to whisper something that makes her smile. For a second I envy their connection—something genuine in a room full of facades.

My fingers press harder against the strings. I shouldn't be here, caught between these worlds. Ivan made it clear thatperforming for the Ferettis would be ‘beneficial to our mutual interests’—words that carried a weight I couldn't refuse.

So I play, the music floating over armed men who wear designer suits, women dripping in diamonds that were likely purchased with blood money, and a tiny baby who has no idea what world she's been born into.

Just like I had no idea what world I was stepping into when I signed that contract with Ivan.

I notice Damiano's man watching me for the third time in as many minutes.

He stands apart from the other guests, leaning against a marble column with casual elegance that somehow makes him more noticeable, not less. Unlike the other men who mingle and network, he remains still, observant. His eyes—dark and intense—follow my movements with unsettling focus.

I pretend not to notice, keeping my gaze on my sheet music as I transition into another piece. But I'm hyper aware of him now. He's tall, maybe 6'3", with a lean, powerful build that his tailored black suit can't quite disguise. His skin is light olive, his hair dark and slightly tousled in a way that seems deliberate rather than careless.

When I glance up again his eyes catch mine. He doesn't look away—doesn't even have the decency to appear embarrassed at being caught staring. Instead, his mouth curves into the slightest hint of a smile, predatory and confident.

Heat rises to my cheeks. I focus on my violin, annoyed at my body's reaction.

God, he's handsome though. In that dangerous way that makes smart women do stupid things. The kind of man my mother would have warned me about if she'd ever bothered with such conversations.

I wonder what his hands would feel like against my skin. Would they be gentle, or would they grip with the same intensityas his gaze? My bow slips slightly, creating a discordant note that makes me wince.

When I look up again, he's speaking to someone—one of Damiano's men I guess—but his attention remains fixed on me. I've performed for enough powerful men to recognize that look. It's possession before ownership. Desire without permission.

I shouldn't find it arousing. I should be offended, even frightened. Yet something about him pulls at me, makes me wonder what it would be like to have those full lips pressed against mine, to feel the weight of him...

I cut off that thought, focusing on the final notes of my piece. I'm here to play, to fulfill my obligation to Ivan, not to fantasize about mysterious men at a mafia christening.

As I finish playing, polite applause ripples through the garden. I bow my head slightly in acknowledgment and when I look up again he's gone from his spot by the column.

CHAPTER 2

Islip away from the crowd, needing space free from all the fake smiles and calculated conversations. The balcony offers the perfect escape—cool night air and silence. Almost silence. Her music still floats through the open doors behind me, wrapping around my thoughts like a vise.

Evelyn Anderson. The violinist.

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