Page 4 of Trust

I’m not in the mood though, so I pretend I didn’t spot him and his… friend.

His husband. They’d invited me to the wedding, and I’d gone out of sheer curiosity. Two men getting married, legally. Openly.

I would never have imagined something like that even five years ago. Last year, even. But I’d blinked, and suddenly Silvano Cresci was the leader of the Cresci family, and it was an open secret that he had a male lover.

New Bristol is very different from St. Petersburg.

There is no reason to pretend to enjoy women, here in New Bristol.

I order another beer and clap politely along with everybody else when the man with his poetry finally finishes.

The next person on stage catches my eye, partially because the cello seems to be about twice the size of his lean body and partially because his own blond hair makes him look almost angelic. There’s a profound sadness to him that I only recognize because it resonates so strongly with my current mood.

Some of his shaggy hair falls into his face, and he doesn’t bother to brush it away. He doesn’t introduce himself, either, instead opening with the lines of a song I don’t know.

The first few notes are soft, hesitant, and at first, I think it will be another mediocre attempt at playing a song beyond hisskill level. But as he picks up confidence — or whatever it is that’s driven him to this stage this evening — the song becomes more ethereal, more haunting, until I think I’ll hear the music in my dreams.

He lifts his head, and my breath catches in my throat.

Looking at his beautiful features, though, my first thought is:I want him.

I scoff at myself. It’s a stupid reaction. I’m upset about having killed Artyom. I’m on my third beer. The man is beautiful and plays well, but it doesn’t mean anything.

I must not have aman.

When I look away from him, my eyes fall onto Silvano Cresci and Kyran Winters again. They’re sitting closer than before, and Kyran’s arm is slung across Silvano’s shoulders.

Men fucking men isn’t taboo, here in this city.

The music crescendos, and my attention is drawn back toward the man on stage. The fingers of one hand nimbly fly across the strings at the top, while the other wields the bow like a man possessed. He’s breathing more heavily, and he bows his head forward to hide his expression once more.

When he brings the song to a close, the entire audience is completely silent.

The first clap is jarring, but soon the entire room bursts into applause. I clap too, unable to look away from the man.

He reaches up to wipe at his eyes before standing.

His expression takes my breath away.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice shaky. His hands are trembling, too, I realize, as he tucks the bow away before carefully lifting the heavy instrument to carry it offstage.

I find myself on my feet and heading toward him before I can stop myself, drawn to him. I get to the stage and lift part of the cello.

“Let me help you,” I say. “Where do you want to take it?”

He looks up at me, freezing for a few seconds before he says, “It’s okay. I have it.” He offers a tentative smile, for all that it doesn’t reach his deep green eyes — eyes that are glassy with tears.

I glance at his arms, which are maybe half as thick as my own. Sweat is already trickling down his brow.

“You look exhausted,” I say gently. “Let me do this for you. As payment for wonderful performance.”

My own voice is foreign to me now. I don’t speak with nice words. The only things I know how to say are dark and violent.

Clean up this mess.

I add a small smile, hoping to put the man at ease.

Color fills his cheeks, and he hesitates. I think he’s going to refuse, but he finally nods. “Just be gentle with him,” he mumbles.