Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55750 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55750 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
As the investigation continues, the community wonders if there’s more to the story than meets the eye. The police have urged anyone with information to come forward, but there have been few leads so far.
I don’t reply to the text. Elio shouldn’t even be sending me stuff like this. We did what was necessary to the Gallo bar, and I’d do it again. Those scumbags were going to turn our city into a cesspit of drugs and filth.
The report doesn’t mention bullet casings or bodies, which means our police contacts did their job correctly when hiding the evidence.
As I keep working, I find it far more difficult to focus than I usually do. My mind strays to the moment I heard Bella begin to play the violin. The music instantly changed, becoming angelic. I had to see her. When I did, I almost wished my baby sister hadn’t been there.
Bella looked so damn beautiful as she played, like she was in love with her instrument, handling it with care, skill, and patience. Maybe that’s why I take out my phone, go to her number, and click Compose text. I know I’m just looking for an excuse to speak with her. Is that a bad thing? At least with texting, I can control myself, unlike when I let a savage heat grip me, and I ended up masturbating over her.
Do you have any slots free tomorrow, Bella? It’s Matteo DeLuca, by the way.
She must be near her phone because she begins typing a reply straightaway.
Yes! I can do any time from 2 p.m.
Great. Book Sofia in for 3, please.
Will do!
I study the message, feeling weirdly hollow. I can’t remember ever feeling curious about a woman like this. It’s new and exciting and, ultimately, dangerous. She’s a civilian, after all. Their world and ours aren’t supposed to mix.
Yet I can’t help myself. I type, What do you think of Vivaldi’s “Summer” from The Four Seasons?
Maybe I can hide behind music. If she’s shocked by the question—by me taking this into the nonbusiness realm—she doesn’t show it.
It’s intense, almost too chaotic for me, but I love the passion behind it. What about you?
It’s like I can hear the strings in my mind. When Sofia began taking an interest in violin, I made a point of doing the same. I find it thrilling, like a storm brewing. It has that raw, untamed energy.
Interesting. I guess I prefer something more soothing, like Massenet’s “Meditation.”
That’s beautiful. It’s very serene, like a gentle conversation. It’s like the violin is whispering secrets.
After sending the message, part of me wishes I could take it back. I rarely speak like this, but Bella doesn’t know that. She doesn’t have any preconceived ideas about me. I’m realizing why Sofia doesn’t want her to know about the Mafiosi side of our lives.
Exactly, she replies. It’s like a tender reminder of something … gentle and sweet.
Do you ever listen to anything more modern? I ask, keen to keep the conversation going. I came across Lindsey Stirling’s “Crystallize” recently.
Oh, I love her style! She’s the reason I decided to start my own channel.
I’m sure you’ll be as popular as her one day.
Yeah, right.
You will, I type, finding myself leaning forward, foot tapping, unable to stay still. I heard you play yesterday, but it’s more than that. I SAW you play. There was so much gorgeous passion on your face. There was so much sincere affection. For the music. For the craft.
I delete every single word. I’m getting a little too heavy—deluded. Instead, I text, Have you heard David Garrett’s version of “Nothing Else Matters?”
He brings such deep emotion to that piece. It’s like the violin is singing a love song.
It’s fascinating how the same instrument can evoke such different feelings, I reply, feeling like this is a copout somehow.
Yes, it’s like each piece tells a different story, a different emotion.
The music in me is sending all kinds of weird signals. I wonder if she finds this strange, the fact I’m going out of my way to message her. Or maybe she just sees me as a friendly older guy. Perhaps she would freak out if she knew how my manhood burns and throbs when I stare at her perfect picture.
Music truly is a language of its own, isn’t it? she goes on. It speaks even when words fail.
It’s like a way to connect deeper beyond just the notes. I click send, wondering what she’d think if she knew I was holding that image of her stubbornly in my mind, remembering her pursed lips, furrowed brow, and tempting and attractive concentration.
It’s like finding a part of yourself in the music or maybe a part of someone else.
I swallow, leaning back in my chair, staring at the “someone else” line. I want to ask if she has a boyfriend. Perhaps she and her long-term boyfriend bonded over music. Maybe I need to kill this whatever-it-is before it gets started. It’s not like we even know each other. Hell, I could even send a couple of the men with Sofia instead of going myself tomorrow.