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)
His eyes snap open widely as I drive the barrel of the gun against his throat.
“My name is Matteo Sebastiano DeLuca, and if you’ve got any sense in that empty head of yours, you’ll shut off that crap and never even think about playing it again.” I drive the gun even harder into the soft tissue of his throat. “Do you understand me?”
“Yuh-yuh …”
I apply even more pressure, doing my best to ignore the instincts roaring at me to tear him to pieces. This shouldn’t be making me this angry, but my sister is trying to learn, and Bella is trying to teach. Obviously, she’s dedicated to it. She undervalues her skills, but she’s trying, which is more than I can say for this lowlife.
“Speak,” I snap, as the smell of piss rises around us.
“I understand,” he finally says, his voice a hollow gasp. “Shit, man. I get it. I get it!”
“Do I seem like I’m joking?” I ask, not removing the gun.
He shakes his head slowly.
“I’m going to be coming by here often. I don’t want to blow your head off. It’d be inconvenient, but I will.”
“Over music?” he squeaks.
“No.” I lean close, letting him see how serious I am. “For respect.”
Pocketing my gun, I turn my back on him, whistling as I leave the apartment. This shows him how little of a threat he is. It’s just a shred of the disrespect he shows to everybody in this building every time he blasts that crap.
The old man is waiting for me when I return downstairs, an appraising look on his face. “That’s a first. I might be able to listen to my radio now!”
“What’s your name, sir?” I ask.
“Jerry Hudson.”
“Okay, Mr. Hudson. Let’s do this. If that asshole gets too big for his boots again, you call me, all right? I’ll give you my cell.”
“Why would you do that?”
That’s a complicated question. Maybe it has something to do with the guilt often niggling me about the dark parts of my life. Perhaps it’s the sheer fact that he pissed me off, or it was that soul-achingly defeated look on Bella’s face.
“Somebody has to.”
CHAPTER SIX
BELLA
Sofia has a basic understanding of the core mechanics of playing. Her chin-shoulder connection is decent, her posture is fantastic, she handles the bow well, and her finger placement is more or less correct. After around twenty minutes, I realize she has issues reading music and keeping time. After falling out of tempo again, she groans, letting the bow drop.
“You’re doing well,” I tell her.
At least I can tell she’s doing well now that the upstairs asshat has stopped blaring that cruddy music. When the music abruptly cut off, Sofia winced, almost like she wanted it to keep going so I wouldn’t hear her as clearly.
“I didn’t even know I was making these mistakes.”
“Hey, that’s why I’m here …” I’m tempted to touch her shoulder in a gesture of support—she looks so disheartened—but I don’t want to overstep. “Do you want to keep going?”
She stiffens her lip. “Yeah. Definitely.”
As we work, I push down the jealous flares that writhe in me every time I look at her instrument. She has a Stradivarius, which is insane, as in truly mind-bogglingly insane. Only somebody familiar with the instrument would understand. A piece like that, crafted over two hundred years ago, must’ve cost at least two million dollars. Sometimes, I used to scroll antique websites, dreaming of using one. As far as I know, only around six hundred exist.
Suddenly, the five hundred per hour makes much more sense, but it leaves me with another question. How are these people so rich?
In my head, I hear Emily warning me about gift horses again.
All too soon, the hour has passed. Sofia glances at the clock. “I’m taking up too much of your time …”
“Not at all,” I tell her. “I’m happy to keep going. No extra charge.”
“Are you sure?”
“One thousand percent.”
So, for the next twenty minutes, we continue, but when her bow slips and a loud scratch noise squeaks through the room, she huffs and lays down her violin, almost throwing it down on the bed. For the first time since meeting her, I find I resent her wealth.
“Careful with the poor girl,” I say, gesturing at the Stradivarius and trying to make it lighthearted.
“Oh yeah,” she murmurs, then reaches over and playfully pats the violin. “Sorry.” Maybe she sees how I’m looking at it because a moment later, she says, “Would you like to play it?”
Giddiness grips me at the idea of playing an instrument like this, but I do my best to hide the excitement pumping through me. I don’t want them to realize how much poorer I am than they are, though they must already know.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” she says, handing the instrument to me. Then she hands me the bow.