Sonata (Butcher and Violinist 2)

Shalimar walked around me, still naked. Still exotic and beautiful. But this was the first time I allowed myself to see the truth.

I didn’t care for Shalimar. I loved the idea of loving her.

“You’re mad.” She spat the words at me. “You’ve been wanting to fuck me for all these years. To touch my pussy one more time, and I haven’t given you that option. So, now what? You go tell Jean-Pierre on me? Listen. I’m supposed to meet Celina tomorrow. Come with me. Talk to her.”

“You won’t make that meeting with Celina, but I can pass on the message.”

“I will make that meeting, because it’s in all of your best interests to not touch one inch of my skin.”

“Because?”

“I’m the only one that knows what’s going on.”

“Besides Celina and Misha.”

She blinked.

“If we don’t get answers from you, we’ll get the answers from them. Jean-Pierre is pretty motivated today. And he has a subtle way of persuading people to talk. At times, it’s music to my ears, but most would disagree.”

“Fuck. You.”

“No.” I shook my head. “Not even if you paid me. Not that you could afford me.”

She slapped my face.

I rubbed my jaw.

She hit me again.

“Are you done?”

“I loved you, but you fucked it all away with all those women—”

“I’ve heard that song. I want a new tune. The one that talks about trackers and Yakuza.” I walked off.

“Wait.” She grabbed at me.

I pulled her off me.

“Don’t get Jean-Pierre. Please. I’ll talk.”

She wouldn’t.

“I’ll do anything.”

She would try, but it would never be enough.

Shalimar was no longer the woman I had fallen for with. She’d brought death to my doorstep. I’d almost lost Giorgio this evening. And, as much as he annoyed the shit out of me, I fucking loved him.

Eden was gone. I liked her. I relished in the way she made Jean-Pierre feel. The days when she was around, everyone laughed more. We did more than carry guns and kill. We had fun. We went to carnivals, on trips and played games, and shit.

What did Shalimar ever bring to the family?

In this dark world, flooded with blood and violence, the people who made me laugh were more important than the people who made me cry. I held the fun ones close. I protected them.

Shalimar grabbed at me again.

I opened the door and called out to the guards, “Make sure she has clothes on by the time Jean-Pierre arrives.”

“No!” Shalimar screamed as my men grabbed and dragged her to the bed.

I headed back to the car. The whole time, my mind reeled in a million different directions. I climbed in, took a deep breath, and ran my hands through my hair. My stomach felt like someone had slammed a metal pole against it.

But my heart had returned. It was in my chest. Perhaps it had been there all along. But I did notice the new cracks at the core. The darkness. Deep in my mind, I knew what would happen when Jean-Pierre went to Shalimar.

That might kill me. Whether I loved her or not.

I hadn’t made the call to Jean-Pierre about Shalimar.

I had to talk to him in person.

And then my chest felt empty again. And I knew my heart had never returned. That damn woman still had it.

Maybe there is another way to get the answers. Maybe. . .

There was nothing I could do.

Love or not. Broken-hearted or back in action. There was pain in the corner parts of me.

Nothing will ever be the same.

I drove forward, taking the long way back to Jean-Pierre’s penthouse.

The sky remained black.

No blood moon in sight.

Just never-ending darkness.

Chapter 15

The Voice in the Darkness

Eden

Hours Earlier

Giorgio had been shot.

I’d been dragged into Jean-Pierre’s penthouse, by masked men.

And then the lights went out.

Darkness swallowed my view. I screamed. One of them, probably the Devil, grabbed and dragged me off. I fought to get out of his tight grip, but it was useless. I punched. I kicked. I bit at his arm. I scratched at the mask.

I couldn’t see anything, but I heard a door open. He dragged me through it, while I kicked and screamed, “No! Help!”

Hyped up on adrenaline and the need to live, I fought him. My limbs burned. My lungs tightened. And the Devil was relentless. It was like fighting a wall. The more I hit him, it hurt me. The more I shoved forward, I went nowhere.

But I continued to fight, because I didn’t want die, and I didn’t want to go, and I didn’t want to never see Jean-Pierre, my dad, or Aunt Celina again.

“Help!”

But no hope came, and neither did success. Banging noises and gun shots sounded off in the distance. The men spoke in hushed whispers to each other, talking about others that were in their crew. They had some sort of communication system in their ears.

The one that had grabbed me, slung me onto the floor.