He’s behind me. I taste his cologne on my tongue, and my throat jerks to swallow it down. I’m choking on the flavor of him, even as he turns me around to face him. Despite a spot of dirt on his lapel, he looks none too worse for wear.
“It’s okay,” he grunts, pulling me in so that my face is pressed against his chest. “You’re safe.”
Safe.That word taunts me.
I hear groaning, and I pull away from Vinny and glance over my shoulder to find a man writhing in agony. He’s the culprit of that puddle of blood. At first, I assume he’s been shot—until I see the knife sticking out of the palm of his right hand, pinning it flat against the floor. He tugs at it, but I know that the effort is in vain. When it comes out, it won’t be pretty. The blade has a serrated edge, formed of the finest craftsmanship. Vinny had it made especially with only one purpose in mind. Sometimes he liked to take it out and tell me all the things he’d do with it to the people who pissed him off.I’ll cut the bastard’s nuts offwith this,he’d muse.Slowly...fucking slow, Lynn.There’s no point in torture if it isn’t done carefully. Precisely.
“Take that fucker to the hotel,” he snaps, sending one of his men into action. “Put him in my office. I want to know who sent him.”
I shiver when he turns to me. He grabs my wrist fiercely and pulls me in close again. For once, I don’t smother the pain I feel. I don’t suppress the grimace that crosses my face or hide the way Ibite my lower lip to trap the gasp threatening to break loose. I feel... God, this fear is the only thing I have left. I let it wash over me, and I pray that it’s enough to battle the numbness that encases my limbs when Vinny reaches for my hand and shoves something onto my finger.
“It’s fate, Lynn,” he growls near my ear, as if seeking to dominate the thoughts he isn’t a part of. “Nothing or no one can stop what’s meant to be.Mi Bella.”
He kisses me on the cheek and draws back, frowning at the taste of salt. And only now do I realize that I haven’t stopped crying.
CHAPTER FOUR
Daniela
My cello isthe most beautiful thing I’ve ever owned—though I’m not stupid enough to believe I truly possess it. Vinny commands everything. What’s his is his, and what’s mine is ours. He claims he’s done it all for me—built this world, fought these imaginary battles with men no better than he is.
It’s why he wants me to be a part of it. It’s why he made me drag my cello from my room and set it up in a distant, forgotten corner of his office where even the light doesn’t reach. I’m a part of this. His violence is my entire world, and he’ll never let me forget it.
“Play something nice,” he commands, his words grunted and clipped. His shadow is a stain on the floor, but I don’t look up to see the rest of him.
Three men are occupying this room with me. My fiancé, one of his hired slabs of muscle, and the other...
He’s a stranger I’ve only seen once before: while he aimed a gun at my head. He missed. My eyes squeeze shut to trap the tears welling up, but I obediently settle my bow into positionblind.“Play something nice.”I take his loose definition of the word and run with it.
I play somethingloud.My bow saws, spilling out a melody that washes the harshness of the room away. It’s Bach, I think. “Cello Suite No. 1.” Prelude. The composition doesn’t matter either way. I simply perform, hugging the wooden instrument between my legs, and it’salmostenough to drown out the tortured sounds of the man’s moans.
My upper teeth descend into my bottom lip when a gasp mingles with the notes I’m weaving, but I don’t stop playing. I am nothing in this moment. I’m just sound. I’m endless. I’m...
“You motherfucker!”
The shouting jars with the melody.
“Who the fuck do you work for?”
I play even harder. Sweat beads on my brow. My arm begins to hurt. Something heavy is weighing my left hand down, affecting the precise movements.
“Who?”
There’s asmattering of words in return.
“Fuck you.”
My arm slips, and a false note cuts the air. I pant, hesitating, but an admonishment doesn’t come. Vinny is too busy interrogating to notice. When I continue, the sound isn’t enough to erase what he says next.
“That’s enough of this shit. Get his fucking pants off.”
Off.My arm takes off. I throw myself into the composition, holding nothing back. Every tone. Every subtle note holds a piece of my soul.
And it still isn’t enough to silence the horror taking place in the room.
“Who do you work for?”
“Go to hell.”
