Emilia (Part 1)(54)

He lifted and dropped one shoulder like he didn’t care. “I don’t have anything more important to do than spend time with you. That’s why I’m here. When we’re back in Chicago, I’ll be working late most nights, so we might as well make good use of our time together now.”

I gritted my teeth, biting back a boatload of rejoinders that would only make this visit more awkward. “You want to watch a movie?”

“I had something else in mind.”

“You did?”

He stood and held his hand out to me. “I was hoping I could hear you play the piano again.”

Eyeing his outreached palm like a snake ready to bite, I swallowed back my nervous energy. I hadn’t stepped foot in the music room since my father had unilaterally canceled my lessons. I attributed my lack of interest to being busy with my escape plan. In truth, I had a hard time accepting how drastically my life had changed in the past year. My father crushed my dream of reaching my mom’s level of success as a concert pianist without a second thought.

When my mom died, I poured all my energy into becoming the type of musician who would make her proud. For years I questioned whether I truly loved to play the piano. Sadly, it took my father taking away the option to realize how much I wanted it.

Even if I succeeded in getting away from here, I’d never be able to play anywhere that would bring attention to me. For the rest of my life, I had to accept I’d only be able to play in private settings with close friends. I’d never walk in my mom’s footsteps or become her legacy.

Reluctantly, I took his hand and stood. A little zing of electricity shot up my arm and I blinked, heaving in a deep breath and forcing my wayward reaction to him into submission. “I’m rusty. I haven’t played in months. Is there anything I can do to convince you to take a raincheck?”

“Don’t be rude to your fiancé, Emilia.” My father pushed back his chair, the wooden legs scraping loudly over the hardwood floor. “You started playing before your feet could reach the pedals, and if he wants to hear you, then you might as well put all the money spent on your ridiculous hobby to use. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Without so much as a wave or a backward glance, he headed toward the garage. Stunned, I stood unmoving, listening to the slam of the door, the telltale hum of the garage door opener, and the rumble of his car engine. I couldn’t believe he called playing the piano a silly hobby. Every word of encouragement he’d uttered about my one and only talent was a lie. He never gave a shit. I shouldn’t be surprised, but it still hurt.

“I’d love for you to play “Moonlight” by Beethoven again, even a little of it,” Marcello said, interrupting my self-pitying inner monologue.

I smiled, grateful he didn’t bring up my father’s comment. “You remember what I played that night?”

“Among other things.”

He flashed a tiny but coaxing smile and my belly thawed like I’d swallowed a mouthful of rich, warm coffee. I didn’t understand how this man could simultaneously unnerve and comfort me.

“All right, but you have to promise not to laugh if I make a fool of myself. I hate someone to listening to me when I’m not at my best.”

“You’ll do fine. Either way, it’d be a pleasure to hear you play again.”





CHAPTER





THIRTY-ONE





Marcello followed me into the spare bedroom my father had converted into a music room after my mom died. I perched on the gleaming cherry wood bench and opened the lid. My eyes closed, I trailed my fingers over the ivory keys, drew in a breath, and played for the first time in months.

At first my fingers stumbled, fat-fingering the keys, and I sighed in frustration, shocked how quickly my playing had gone downhill. When I moved to close the lid, Marcello put his hands on top of mine.

“Relax, little Emilia. It’s only me here. No judgment, no expectations. Just two people spending time together.”

I swallowed back my reservations and replaced my fingers. “Okay, but don’t blame me if your ears are bleeding by the end.”

“I’ll live.”

After his gentle words, everything fell into place like it had been days since I last touched a piano. Time flew by, my body swaying to the melody. After I completed the piece, I was surprised I had made it through without any major missteps. I glanced at Marcello to gauge his reaction. The way he looked at me with his heavy-lidded speculative eyes buried in the rugged angles of his face made my stomach knot.

“Beautiful,” he said in his smoky voice as he stepped out of the shadows.

Mesmerized by the odd light in Marcello’s eyes, I made no effort to break the silence in the room. A chill inched up my back at the thought of all of the dark secrets hidden beneath his veil of civility. Something must have made him that way. My gut told me he was a man who’d done all kinds of things that would rock me to the core. Even knowing that, I couldn’t deny that Marcello intrigued me. He was a firestorm of beauty, violence, and power.