Page 127 of Lethal Torture

And just like that, I forget about Alexei Petrovsky.

Because, along with everyone else in the concert hall, I’m lost to anything but the spellbinding performance onstage.

According to the program, Ofelia is playing a piece by Liszt, Petrarch Sonnet 104 No. 5.

I have no idea what any of that means, and I haven’t read the description below it, but none of that matters, because the moment she begins to play, I know exactly what she’s trying to say.

Emotion bleeds from every keystroke. From the opening crash of chords to a delicate cascade of notes that trill through the room like birdsong, Ofelia’s heart permeates the room like an invisible spirit. The piece winds around the audience like silk, binding us all in a collective trance, held spellbound from one note to the next.

But it isn’t us Ofelia is playing to.

Her eyes may be focused on the piano, her body swaying with every note as if she is part of the music rather than simply playing it, but every movement, every gesture, is performed for one person only.

Ofelia is playing for Alexei Petrovsky as if he’s the only person in the hall. Every shift of her body, every glance from beneath slitted lids, is angled toward him. Every emotional punctuation is directed to him. And if he can’t read the longing hanging between every keystroke, then he’s a far stupider man than I know him to be.

Her hands drift up from the final note, and as it lingers on the air, the room is utterly silent.

Then suddenly it erupts in rapturous applause, the audience rising from the seats as one, whistling and stamping their feet,turning to their neighbors with tearstained faces and awed smiles.

“She’s astonishing . . .”

“Never seen a debut so masterful . . .”

“She’s the next Yuja Wang . . .”

“My God,” Zinaida breathes as Ofelia stands and shyly acknowledges the applause. “She’s extraordinary.”

I glance sideways, but Alexei Petrovsky is already gone.

30

ZINAIDA

“Areyou sure you don’t want to come out with Luke and me?” I ask Ofelia half an hour later as we have champagne in the foyer. Aside from brief congratulations, we’ve barely had a moment to speak to her. After a performance I already know will be the talk of London’s classical scene for weeks, Ofelia has been the star of the after-party, besieged by new fans and reviewers alike, as well as some of London’s top musicians stopping to offer their congratulations.

“No, that’s fine.” Her face is flushed, her eyes feverish, and she shifts from one foot to the other, searching the foyer just as she did when we arrived, despite the fact that her brother is standing quietly at her side. “Mickey and Lars are taking me out to celebrate.” She turns to Luke. “Luis will be with us,” she says quietly. “You don’t need to worry.”

“I’ve got security too, Luke,” says Mickey calmly, smiling at us. “We’ve got it from here, I give you my word.”

Luke nods unsmilingly. “Will Alexei be joining you?” I don’t miss the grim edge to his voice.

Mickey’s eyes narrow. “No,” he answers coldly. “He won’t.”

For a moment Luke and Mickey lock eyes. Whatever passes between them, it’s clearly enough to reassure Luke, because when he turns back to me his expression is resigned.

“Ofelia.” Smiling at the music critic gushing over her performance, I steer her away from the crowd. “I don’t want to interfere...” I begin.

Ofelia turns on me, her eyes flashing. “Then don’t,” she says sharply. “I’m nearly twenty years old, Zinaida, and I’ve got more keepers than a rare specimen in the zoo. I don’t need another one, no matter how well-meaning you are.” She takes a deep breath, clearly battling herself for control. “I’m truly grateful you and Luke came tonight,” she goes on in a calmer tone. “It means a lot to me, honestly. I just... I need some space.”

I smile at her. “I understand that,” I say quietly. “If you ever need more of it, you have a standing invitation at my Mayfair club, you know that, don’t you?”

She nods. I don’t miss the sheen of tears over her eyes. After years of being onstage myself, then managing dancers, I know the signs of overstimulation and post-performance emotion all too well. “Just take it easy tonight,” I say gently, smiling at her. “Try not to drink too much too fast, or at least, not until you’ve put something in your stomach. If you find yourself suddenly exhausted, ask your brother to take you home. And if all else fails”—I wave my phone at her—“you have my number, as well as Luke’s. There’s always a bed for you, and an ear, if you need either.”

“Thank you.” Ofelia smiles rather shakily. “Really. But I’ll be fine.”

Somehow, I rather doubt that,I think resignedly, remembering Alexei Petrovsky’s grim face and iron tension beside me throughout Ofelia’s performance.

But though I might be close to her parents, I know there are boundaries I can’t cross, and right now, those lines are too close for comfort.