You Don't Own Me 2 (The Russian Don 2)

She looks perplexed. ‘Why?’

‘I want to show him a few pages from a musical composition I found. Just to know what he thinks of it. What sort of quality it is.’

She frowns. ‘Musical composition? Whose?’

‘Zane wrote it.’

Her eyebrows rise. ‘Zane? Zane? That big scary Russian mafia boss who kidnapped your sis so he could do you writes music? Next you’ll be telling me he plays with dolls.’

‘Very funny.’

‘No, I’m serious. Are you really telling me Zane writes music?’

‘I knew he played because I’ve heard him play and he’s really, really, really good, but I didn’t know he composed until today. I need a professional opinion of his ability.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. I just think he has more talent than he realizes. I think he could be something great in the music world.’

‘Sure, I’ll ask Eliot and if he doesn’t mind, you’re welcome to tag along. And if he doesn’t want to do it we’ll try Katherine, the cellist. She’s very friendly.’

‘Great,’ I say, and take a big bite of my pizza.

Stella sighs. ‘I guess I better get something green into me. Pass me that bloody salad, will you?’

Twenty-five

Dahlia Fury

I’m so glad I put the music sheets into a clear plastic file. My hands are so clammy they would have been soaked right through by now.

‘Stop fidgeting, you’re making me all jittery,’ Stella gripes, glaring at me.

‘I can’t help it,’ I tell her.

We are in the lift going up to Eliot’s flat. She turns to me and adjusts the scarf around my neck. ‘Will you please relax? I’m supposed to be the drama queen, remember. It’s all going to be just fine. You’ll see.’

‘I just so want for Zane to have a choice. To know that he doesn’t have to be a criminal when he’s so talented. I wish you could hear him play.’

‘I’m not into classical music. Puts me to sleep.’

‘I wasn’t into it either … until I heard him play. He is truly brilliant with an intuitive feel for every note.’

She smiles placatingly. ‘OK, OK, don’t get you knickers in a twist, I believe you. Anybody who can make classical music sound brilliant to a person who never used to listen to it must be eye-wateringly good at it.’

I smile back. ‘He is, Stel. He really is.’

The lift doors open and we walk along the short corridor. Stella turns to me in front of a door. ‘You ready?’

My stomach churns and I feel as nervous as I used to feel before an exam that I was unprepared for. I take a deep breath and straighten my spine. ‘Yes.’

She places her finger on the bell and looks at me, her face serious. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’

I grin. ‘You’re an idiot, you know?’

She laughs and presses the bell. ‘At least I’m not a moron.’

‘There’s no difference,’ I tell her as the door opens.

Eliot is exactly how I imagined he would be. Glasses, nondescript clothes, wispy brown hair, and grave eyes that regard me with unconcealed curiosity.

Stella makes the introductions and he takes my hand in an unexpected death grip. His hands are soft as a baby’s, though.

‘Come into the living room,’ he says, and leads the way into a dark blue corridor. His living room is minimalist and neat to the point of being clinical, with brand new cream leather sofas and a gleaming stereo system. The blue walls display a collection of framed photos of him receiving various awards.

‘Have a seat,’ he invites.

‘Thank you,’ I say, and perch at the end of the nearest sofa. Stella comes to sit next to me.

‘Would you like something to drink?’ he asks.

I look at Stella. I’m not sure whether to say yes or no. Perhaps the offer was extended out of politeness and accepting it would serve only to make this encounter longer and become more awkward, but refusing might make it seem as if I’m only interested in one thing.

‘Thanks but I don’t drink before a session,’ Stella says with a smile.

‘I’m fine too,’ I add quickly.

‘Right,’ Eliot says stepping forward. ‘Let me see this little composition of yours before you completely destroy it,’ he says with a smile.

I realize that I am holding my file so tightly it’s almost crumpled into a ball.

‘Oh,’ I say with an embarrassed laugh and, smoothing it ineffectively, hold it out to him.

He takes the file, pulls the photocopied sheets out, and looks at me warily. ‘Why are these a photocopy?’

My fingers twist painfully in my lap. ‘Oh, well. They’re … they’re … not my music,’ I stutter, suddenly feeling guilty for no reason. I clear my throat. ‘I’ve not stolen them, or anything like that. They’re actually my boyfriend’s and I didn’t tell him that I’m bringing them to you. I wanted to surprise him if … if you have good news to give me, that is.’