The Villain Duet by Bella J.

Chapter 5

Elijah

If I were any other man, I’d at least feel some twinge of sympathy toward the girl currently crying on the other side of that door. But I was too busy calculating every possible outcome of the events that were about to follow, of all the fucking things that could go wrong.

It had been hours since I brought her here, and while I waited for her to wake up, I had more than enough time to catapult myself into a frenzy of fucking madness, which was why I needed her to play. After all these years, her music became my outlet, my meditation to find calm so I could think without having to fight the insanity that constantly raged through my thoughts.

But she had just proven to me that music could never be demanded—at least not the musical harmony that stemmed from the soul. That was the kind I needed. Craved.

It was the type of music that had the power to make you forget. It had the ability to take the darkest memory and turn it into a distant dream. Watching her emotions cling to her expression while she played, the serenity that draped over her was like witnessing someone transport to a world of melodies and ballades and perfection, a world she created. But now, she was scared, and I needed to get a fucking hold of myself—calm the fuck down and gain control if I wanted to see this through.

I had to see it through.

God, I just needed her to play so I could think and slow down my racing thoughts. Music was the only thing that soothed me, which was why I had hundreds of orchestral compositions on my iPad, constantly playing it in my apartment, my car, everywhere it was possible. But even those had lost their appeal, not coming close to her solo acts when compared.

For years, I had tried to outrun the monster in my nightmares, attempted to escape the memories. But there was only one way for me to find reprieve from past laments that shackled me still. Blood. Death. The cries of a man seconds away from meeting the devil.

The fear of others. Their terror, it appeased me in ways nothing else could. If some psych-doctor had to analyze me, they’d probably declare me certifiably insane, lock me up, and throw away the key. All I cared about was spilling blood, killing those who deserved it, and make their screams blend with the bold, heavy, and mighty sound of the orchestra reaching the crescendo of a marvelous piece.

But fate had me cross paths with the raven-haired cellist whose dance with the majestic instrument silenced and tamed every sliver of darkness that consumed me since the night I changed from boy to beast. I had known of Charlotte and her mother for many years, but it was after her mother’s death that her music started to reach out to me, as if it longed to touch my soul.

She was a job. A contract. Nothing more.

Those words became a fucking mantra to me the last few months—and I had to hold on to it now more than ever.

It was good to witness the fear in her eyes when she looked at me, reminding me of what I was and what I would always be. A sadist. A villain. A deviant. The terror burned as brightly as the sun in her blue-gray eyes, and to prove I was a bastard, it didn’t bother me. Men like me, we thrived on fear. Fear was good. Fear made people cooperate. Made them complacent. I was not the type of man who had his emotions manipulated with tears, desperate pleas, or sad doe eyes. If it were so easy to distract me from the task at hand, I wouldn’t have been in the business I was currently in.

Sympathy, empathy, mercy—those three things didn’t exist in my world.

After that last night at the Alto when she refused my gift, I took time to change my focus and realign my thoughts to do what needed to be done. To do what I came here to do—the reason she had taken up so much space in my life during the last few years. Studying someone, watching them live their lives, day after day, it would be natural to eventually get tangled up in this substantial motherfucking mindfuck where lines blurred, and realities shifted. So, I took the time to get my shit together—which brought us here. Both of us.

I locked the door and held the key in my palm. Such a small and insignificant object, yet it had the power to cause immense trauma, pain, fear. To sit behind a locked door while harboring the crippling fear of being forgotten, it broke something in a person—especially a child.

My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I pulled it out, the name on the screen confirming it was the call I had been waiting for.

I answered as I moved to stand in front of the window. “Julio Bernardi. I was waiting for your call.”

“Did you get my message last night?”

“I did.”

“You didn’t think it would be a good idea to respond?”

I straightened and stared out the window at the skyscraper rooftops. “You know I demand exclusivity, yet you approached two other contractors for this job.”

The silence on his side confirmed it. “Things escalated. The administration thought it was in the family’s best interest to make sure we have the incentive we need as soon as possible, and not put all our eggs into one basket.”

“What escalated?”

Julio went silent. “Omertà?”

“You very well know I don’t give a shit about your…Omertà.” The vow of silence, punishable by death if not upheld. There was nothing as important, nothing that showed loyalty as much as a man’s silence, protecting his own. “If you want me to handle this contract, I need full disclosure, and all those other dilettante contractors you hired pushed back. I work alone.”

“This is a—”

“It’s not negotiable, Julio.”

More silence, and I imagined him red in the face with simmering anger knowing very well that if he wanted The Musician—me—on this job, he had to meet my every demand. Nothing was negotiable.

“Fine,” he snapped. “You have two days.”

“Five.”

“The trial starts in less than two weeks.”

“Six, then.”

“Do not fuck with me, you son of a—”

“Julio,” I interrupted, “if you want to give this job to one of your novices, do it. Do not waste my fucking time. Phone me when you’re serious about getting this motherfucking job done.” I hung up, an amused grin settling on my lips. It wasn’t even two seconds before he phoned back. This time I let it ring for a while so the prick could stew a bit in the humble pie he was about to eat.

I slid my finger across the screen. “That didn’t take you long.”

“Fine. You have six days. But if you fuck up, so help me God, I will—”

“Payment will be split in four, each paid into four different bank accounts within the next hour. I’ll send you the details.”

“Yes, yes. I know. Listen,” he paused, and I could hear him take a long drag from his cigar, “need I remind you how serious this matter is?”

Annoyance trickled along the back of my neck. “I don’t need reminding of anything, Julio. I know exactly what’s at stake for you.”

“Do you? Do you really? Because I doubt a man who carries a reputation like yours knows anything about family.”

My top lip curled into a snarl. “He won’t talk.”

“He better not. Two hundred mil is a lot of fucking money, and you better be good for it.”

I placed my arm against the floor-to-ceiling window, leaning in. “Let’s get one thing straight. I am very fucking selective when it comes to contracts. Why? Because I don’t fucking need the money. Greed and money make you sloppy, reckless. It leaves too much room for error—which is why I am the best at what I do.”

“If not for the money, then why do this kind of work?”

“It’s simple. Because I can.”

I hung up, my fingers tightening around the cellphone. I didn’t like when clients assumed the pot of gold they paid me gave them the right to tell me how to do fucking anything. No one breathed down my fucking neck, including the motherfucking Bernadis. They thought because they owned half of New York fucking City they could piss on whoever the fuck they wanted. And the fucking nerve of this asshole hiring two other fuckers for the same job, trying to let us compete with each other? Fucker should have known The Musician did not compete. The Musician executed.

Nobody knew my true identity. I was a fucking ghost so many had attempted to find, yet failed time and time again. Even those old bastards who thought they ruled our society with an iron fist, who supposedly feared nothing and no one—they were the first to demand to know who this master was, the man who carved out the perfect treble clef on his victims’ chests before killing them with a single shot to the head.

The Musician.

Me.

I slipped my phone into my pocket and turned to stare out the window once more, my thoughts bursting through my brain like a motherfucking aneurysm. Then I heard it, the smooth sound of a cello gently cracking through my thoughts.

She was playing, and it instantly swept through my insides, calming the storm that constantly raged within me. Slowly, effortlessly, her music settled the violent thrum in my blood, the melody giving me the high I had craved for weeks. God, it was like holy water showering over my soul.

I breathed, closed my eyes, and relished the moment of peace which I knew wouldn’t linger for too long.

The song she played wasn’t one I was familiar with, but it was beautiful, nonetheless. Sad, but beautiful.

While I stood there, swept away by the sound that now filled the hall of my apartment, spreading a warmth, comfort, peace—I was once again reminded of the Moore girl locked up in the room I had put her in.

God, her music was like salve on an open wound. A welcome reprieve from a torture that never ceased.

But she was no longer the cellist I observed, the soloist I watched perform in front of an empty theatre.

Things changed, and now my Requiem had become the target.