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)
“He won’t … not if you ask him.”
“What difference would that make?”
Sofia tilts her head at me. Lately, everybody seems to be looking at me the same way, as though they know something I don’t, or maybe they’re acknowledging something I refuse to recognize. “He’ll listen to you. Please. At least let me show you what pieces I’ve picked out. I’ve tried to go for ones where you can show off your skill, and I won’t mess it up.”
“Hey, don’t say that.” I gently touch her arm. “You’re making incredible progress. You’re not going to mess up anything.”
“Progress, yeah,” she says, nodding, “but that doesn’t mean I will learn to play like you overnight. Can we at least discuss it?”
I sigh, then nod. There’s no way I can say no to her when she’s this eager, and this isn’t just about the Mafia stuff. This is about my swelling pride at seeing a budding violinist so enthusiastic about pursuing her craft.
“Okay, yes. Of course!” Her smile is all the reward I need. “Let me grab my violin, and we’ll …”
“Oh, about that,” she cuts in. “I was wondering if you’d accept one of my mine? As a thank-you gift? I’ve got like ten, way more than one girl needs!”
“They’re still yours, Sofia,” I say. “I don’t want to take them from you, but I will practice with you.”
“And ask Matt if I can play the duet? I have to be useful, Bella. Meeting you made me realize how crazy it is that I’m twenty-four years old, and I’ve never had a real job. I’ve never had a real boyfriend. I’ve never had an anything. I know my brothers have always wanted the best for me. That’s why they do their best to keep me safe. But what if, by keeping me safe, they’ve stopped me from living?”
Her words slam into me with impact. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to tell her no. She’s pleaded her case with so much passion and conviction. I’d feel like the world’s biggest asshat if I didn’t try.
“You’re putting yourself at risk,” she murmurs, maybe thinking I’m debating telling her no.
“That’s for my mom,” I say, but the words even sound weak to me.
“So you can do it for your family, but I can’t?”
Well, crap. “Touché! Let’s look at your selections first.”
We move into the living room, which we have to ourselves for now. She takes a piece of paper from her pocket and unfolds it dignifiedly. She’s taken great care by making these choices. I can’t fault a single one. From “Pachelbel’s Canon in D” by Johann Pachelbel to “Waltz” from “The Sleeping Beauty” by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, her selections allow for a more experienced player to take on the complex parts. In contrast, the less experienced person focuses elsewhere.
“Well?” she says, seeing me looking up and down the list.
“Every one of these could work,” I tell her, sliding the paper across the coffee table. “You choose.”
She beams, looking so happy and proud I think I might cry. That’s happened a few times when teaching students. Seeing their progress and their pride makes me so proud.
As we review the pieces, Sofia talks about the pros and cons of each. I know I will ask Matt for her. The tutor in me wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I didn’t otherwise.
While discussing each piece’s nuances, I can almost forget what this is all for. I can almost forget that we’ll be in grave danger while playing. Amidst all the romance and the excitement, somehow, it’s far too easy to forget all that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
MATTEO
In my office at the estate, I talk directly with the manager of a large function hall on the very outskirts of the city. I’m purposefully choosing a place as far from civilians as possible without it being suspicious to the Gallos. I also want somewhere I can call in reinforcements quickly. And finally, the location has to have a stage that won’t offer an easy vantage point to the performers.
“But sir,” says Katrina, a woman we’ve used before, “if the audience can’t see the performers, what use is that?”
I bite down, drumming my fingers on the desk. This isn’t a bad point, but it triggers a lot of anger. It just forces ugly ideas into my head or a specific ugly idea. I can’t even think about it in explicit terms. It would be the end of my woman. I can’t tolerate that. I can’t imagine it—the end of everything.
Hell, when did I start thinking of her as my woman?
“Let me get back to you,” I say, “but you’ve got tomorrow evening free.”
“For you, yes, sir.”
“What are we bumping?” I say, knowing they’ve been booked long in advance.
I just hope it’s not a Girl Scout’s award ceremony, an event for veterans, or something like that. When she tells me it’s a palm-greasing political fundraiser, I hang up primarily satisfied, but there’s still the issue of the vantage points. Even if she wears a bulletproof vest, Bella will still be at risk.