Not only did I recently confirm I have a stalker, he also broke into my home and now expects me to visit him regularly like it’s some sick joke.
“I’m sorry,” I say, smoothing the front of my skirt with my hands. “It won’t happen again.”
I’m sitting at the piano in her living room in San Maleno’s historic downtown, just like I do every week, going over my recent performance. We’re supposed to be identifying what I did well, what mistakes I made, and how to get better for the next one.Ifthere’s a next one.
“I don’t need you to be sorry,” Ms. Donatello says. “I need you to be present. You did well at the recital, and I’m getting calls from people asking for you to perform at their events.”
That gets me to look up.
“No, they’re not.” I beam, twisting toward her in my chair. A flicker of a smile blooms on her face at my reaction—a rare sight that seems to be erasing her earlier displeasure. “Who? Who called you?”
“The Lombardis. Their eldest son is getting married in New York this winter, and they need a pianist for the wedding. The Morettis too. Oh, and Giada Vitale.” All prestigious families on the West Coast who know my father.
My chest grows with hope, and just as quickly, it plummets, the wordweddingreminding me I might not even be here by next month, let alone this winter. My father has managed to take the only good thing in my life—my music—and turn it into something that brings me pain.
“Now, now, don’t get too excited. I told them you still need more practice. But the fact that they called is already a great sign, don’t you think?”
I nod, my smile slowly fading. I’ve been practicing forever, and yet, I know she’s right. The mistakes I still make when playing, the ones I made onstagethat night…no one noticed them, of course, but I caught my fingers slipping in a few places. I blamed it on the stalker being there—on Mikhail. In the end, though, it was probably just another excuse.
“Not the reaction I was expecting,” my mentor says.
“There’s been a lot going on lately.” I look down and then back up at her. “I found out Father wants me to marry…”
“What?”
I run a hand through my hair. “He’s made up his mind, and I don’t understand why. Why let me go to that recital if he had no intention of letting me continue? I can’t be a bride. Not now, and not to someone who will lock me in their house, disregarding everything I’ve worked for my entire life.”
Perhaps my father wanted me to taste a little freedom before snatching it away—a twisted way to feel better about my upbringing, to tell himself he isn’t all bad. It’s the only thing that makes sense in my head.
“Tell me exactly what he said.”
“Nothing,” I say. “Cesare found a list of bachelors in his office. That’s all we know. And he asked me not to tell anyone, so?—”
Already standing, she turns to look out the balcony of her apartment, shaking her head. I get up from the piano bench, following her.
“He won’t do it,” she says, her hands wrapped tight around the railing to support her bad leg. “He can’t. I made a deal with him when he asked me to take care of you after your mother—” She sighs. My mother’s death has rattled her almost as much as it has me. They were best friends, knew each other since high school.
“Listen. I want you to take this off your mind completely and focus on your craft. When your father gets back, I’ll talk to him. I willnotlet him ruin things for you,” she adds.
Her determination doesn’t surprise me. It’s not just my dream to perform all over the country—it’s hers too.
Ms. Donatello used to work for The Hive—a prestigious gentlemen’s club in New York City that isn’t really a gentlemen’s club, but more of a place where you can hire honeypots toseduce and ruin powerful people. Everyone in the mafia uses their services for all sorts of reasons. Before the car accident that ripped her job away and crushed her leg, even my father used to employ her regularly. After that, she had no choice but to begin teaching piano.
I know she loved her job, though, as insane as it was. It meant power, and money, and timeless elegance, which, granted, she hasn’t let go of. She was damn good at bringing men to their knees, she always tells me. Now, the piano lessons are all she has.
Sucking in a breath, I nod, albeit hesitantly. If there’s anyone who can persuade my father about anything, it’s definitely her.
“So what else?” she asks, turning to face me with her arms crossed.
“What do you mean?”
“You said there’s been a lot going on lately. Other than your father’s bullshit, what else?”
I freeze.
“What is it, girl? What aren’t you telling me?”
Maybe it would be good to confide in her about everything else. After all, there’s no one in this world I trust more than her. She’d know what to do. But something squeezes my chest, making the truth impossible to let out. Why can’t I tell her about Mikhail?
