Rhapsody: Interracial French Mafia Romance (The Butcher and the Violinist Book 1) by Kenya Wright

Author:Kenya Wright [Wright, Kenya]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: K Wright Press
Published: 2019-03-10T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

Death and the Maiden

Three years ago

Jean-Pierre

A month had passed.

Our men remained in Belladonna.

Rafael and I had arrived in Nice to Russians at our doorstep. No one could kill me in my hometown. Too many eyes and ears gave their loyalty to me. The Russians didn’t survive more than twenty-four hours after entering France.

A second group of Russians appeared. With my bladed-bows, I played Schubert’s Death and the Maiden on their backs.

Schubert had called Death and the Maiden, one of the pillars of the chamber music repertoire. Composed in 1824, it wasn’t published until three years after his death in 1831. And there I performed it in my basement lined in plastic.

That was the long-lived magic of music.

Hundreds of years later, Schubert’s theme of death continued to ring. Terror and pain lathered the melody. Blood sprayed musical notes along the plastic coated walls. The Russians’ screams rode the rhythm of my bow’s strokes. And it was a sweet symphony of blood.

They died in D-minor chord.

I delivered their heads to Moscow, knowing the message would get to the right person. The box showed my returned address. A clear sign that said, “Come and get me.”

This obsession with Eden had somehow spawned a game with another person. Someone hidden within the shadows. I didn’t know who controlled the puppet’s strings, but soon the strings would be cut and the doll dead on the ground.

I’d gone to Paris to rethink the fates of Eden and Belladonna.

Winter had brought a bleak, chilly fog to the city. Children walked next to their parents in bundles of scarves.

I had my first drink for the month outside my favorite café, Les Deux Magots. Jean-Paul Sartre and Simon de Beauvoir used to debate here. During that time it had been a shitty bar for struggling artists. Now it catered to upscale tourists and the Paris elite. Every famous person had visited the cafe. Hemingway, Camus, and Picasso rubbed elbows at the bar.

Usually, something inspiring came to mind as I sat here.

Not this evening.

My mind rattled. Chess plays scattered in my head. But how could I play a game, when I didn’t know the opponent?

Is this madness? Have I gone too far? Or have I not gone far enough? What is my goal in this? What are my limits? Do I even have limits anymore?

Out of nowhere, Rafael strolled up to my table and broke the argument I’d been having with my head.

I frowned at him. “More Russians?”

“No, but it does deal with your violinist.” He sat down next to me, took my drink, and sipped on it. “What type of sugary ass shit is this?”

“You don’t do hard liquor at a café.”

“Says who?”

“The civilized. What’s going on with my violinist?”

“Giorgio called and said she had a date tomorrow evening. Her aunt set her up with a medical student that plays the tuba at night.”

“A tuba player.” I scowled.

He finished the drink. “This is disgusting.”

I rose. “Tell Giorgio I’ll be there in the morning.”

He called out. “You mean we’ll be there?”

“It’s your choice to come.

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