Page 110 of Crescendo

“N-no,” she croaks, wrenching her eyes open to stare me down. “No one else.” She drags herself upright, raising her freshly bloody palm as if she’s not quite sure why. “No one else...”

I don’t move. That’s a promise that I won’t make—not to a bitch with another man’s name on her chest. Not to her.

Her fingers flutter, dripping blood onto the bedspread, but she can’t seem to pull the hand back. Maybe she can’t bear to be used, even to piss off Stacatto. Deep down, maybe the little bitch doesn’t want to die, either. It’s a grim realization she can’t forceherself to face, and I’m not sure what course of action she’ll take when a knock rattles the front door.

My eyes cut to her. Cut through her. “Stay here.”

She stiffens when I enter the hall again. I move slowly. Cautiously. My fingers flex, and I almost wish I’d taken her knife. My hands have taken enough of a beating over the past few days.

“Who is it?”

The only response is another quiet knock. I shift my stance as I pull the door open, prepared to shove anyone right down the fucking staircase before they can make a move. I see a shadow. A hulking figure. Blue eyes.

“Shit.” I pull back at the last second and brace my open palm against the nearest wall. “Espi?”

The kid doesn’t acknowledge me with more than a flick of his eyes and a grunt. “She here?”

She?Something tugs at the back of my mind. Her. She’s spoken to him, and who knows what the fuck she really told him.

“She isn’t—”

“Is she here or not?” Espi pushes his way past me, muscling through the door, dragging something behind him. It’s a case, oddly shaped.

My mind is slow to place it as he pulls it into the living room and scans the corners for Stacatto’s woman.

“Danny? Danny, are you here?”

When there’s no answer right away, Espi glares at me and seems about ready to hit me with whatever the fuck he has when she finally creeps to the doorway.

“H-hey.” She smiles, but her bruised lips undermine the expression. She does her best to move without wincing as she enters the hallway, and I know why. She’s suppressing every ounce of pain, humiliation, and abuse...for him.

I can’t tell if Espi can see through the bullshit or if he chooses to believe the illusion instead.

“I brought you something,” he grunts, manipulating the case so that she can see it.

When she does, she stops moving. Her eyes widen. They fill—flood. Whatever has been done to her, Espi’s magic case is enough to erase it long enough for her to stagger forward and brush the length of it with a trembling finger. Without a word, he sets the case onto the floor and undoes the latches before flicking it open.

I don’t know what I expect to find inside it. Gold? Money? Dope? Besides pussy, those are the things that seem to matter wherever you look. Most men—let alone most people—wouldn’t be brought to tears by the sight of a wooden instrument, and her own words haunt me.Cello.

She glances up at Espi, shaking her head. “How...how? Why—”

“I got it from a friend,” he says, gently cutting over her.

Speechless, she caresses the body of the instrument like it’s glass. Like it’s the motherfucking holy grail. For a second, I know she’s forgotten all about Vincent Stacatto, Arno, Mack...Dante Vialle. We’re just dust on her periphery, swept away by her one true passion. Right now, I understand why her precious Vinny was willing to kill her family as punishment for pursuing her dreams. Why he made her play while he killed. Why he held her captive for five years and forced her to bear his ring.

He knew what I know now: Nothing in the world will ever matter to her as much as this.

She will never look at another man the way she looks at a fucking piece of wood.

It’s the kind of knowledge that would drive some jealous fuck stupid enough to fall in love with her insane.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Daniela

The first timeI ever saw a cello being played, I froze in my tracks and stared. What an ugly instrument. It wasn’t beautiful and elegant like a harp or shiny like a flute. It was huge and ungainly, manipulated with a stick held at an awkward angle. When the cellist began to saw at the strings, I’d expected some harsh sound, like the kind made when you tug on a taut rubber band.

Instead...music poured out, more beautiful than anything I had ever heard.Bachread the title of the booklet the player read from. I knew then that I would do whatever it took to master that big, hulking piece of wood. I would make it sing for me.