The Silent Symphony Of The Mafia's Heir

Thump. Thump. Thump. It’s funny how blood sounds when it drips onto ivory. Most people think piano keys are just piece of polished wood and plastic, but when you hit them hard enough—when a body collapses over the grand piano in the middle of an empty auditorium—they produce a low, dissonant chord that echoes through the dark. Middle C. E-flat. G. A C-minor chord. Sad. Heavy. I sat on the velvet bench, my fingers frozen over the keys, watching the crimson puddle spread across the sheet music of Chopin’s Nocturne in C Minor. "Hush now, Sera," a low, gravelly voice whispered near my ear. A hand, heavy and clad in black leather, gently pressed down on my shoulder. "Don't scream. You never scream anyway, right?" I didn't move. I didn't breathe. My throat felt tight, locked behind the invisible iron cage that had been built inside me since I was seven years old. "Look at him," the voice commanded softly. I raised my eyes to the man standing across the grand piano. Alexander Mercer. He was holding a silenced pistol, white smoke still curling lazily from the barrel. His sharp, angular face was drenched in shadows, his dark suit tailored to perfection, untouched by the violence he had just executed. His eyes—a cold, stormy grey—met mine through the dim moonlight streaming through the skylight. He didn't look at the dead man sprawling across my instrument. He didn't look at the blood ruining a five-million-peso Steinway. He only looked at me. "You're late for our rehearsal, mio tesoro," Alec said, his voice smooth as silk, completely devoid of remorse. He stepped over the warm corpse, his polished leather shoes making soft clicking sounds against the hardwood floor. He stopped right beside my bench, reached out, and gently wiped a stray speck of blood off my cheek with his thumb. His skin was warm. Dangerous. I picked up the small leather-bound notebook lying beside my bench, flipped to a clean page, and scribbled rapidly with a silver pen. I turned it toward him. You ruined my piano. Alec stared at the neat, sharp handwriting, then broke into a slow, lethal smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I'll buy you ten more," he murmured, leaning down until his lips brushed the shell of my ear. "Now get up, Wife. We have an empire to burn."