Crescendo - B*M* Book #1 SAMPLE

Chapter 4 | Play

WARNING: THIS STORY WILL BE REMOVED ON WED MAY 10th! Why? I'm publishing the fully edited version of the novel on itunes and Amazon! Thank you all so much for your support. The book will be released next Saturday, May 13th and YOU can score your copy now for just .99 cents!

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Daniela

My cello is the most beautiful thing I've ever owned—though I'm not stupid enough to believe that I truly possess it. Vinny commands everything. What's his is his and what's mine is ours. He claims he's done it all for me: built this world, fought these imaginary battles with men no better than he is.

I've done it all for you, Lynn.

It's why he wants me to be a part of it. It's why he made me drag my cello from my room and set it up in a distant, forgotten corner of his office where even the light doesn't reach. I'm a part of this. His violence is my entire world—and he'll never let me forget it.

"Play something nice," he commands, his words grunted and clipped. His shadow is a stain across the floor, but I don't look up to see the rest of him. Three men occupy this room with me. My fiancé, one of his hired slabs of muscle, and the other...

He's a stranger I've only seen once before, while he aimed a gun at my head. He missed. My eyes squeeze shut to trap the tears that well up, but I obediently settle my bow into position blind. Play something nice. I take his loose definition of the word and I run with it.

I play something loud. My bow saws, spilling out a melody that washes away the harshness of the room. It's Bach, I think. Cello Suite No. 1. Prelude. The composition doesn't matter either way. I simply perform, hugging the wooden instrument between my legs and it's almost enough to drown out the tortured sounds of a man's moans.

My upper teeth descend into my bottom lip when a gasp mingles with the notes I weave, but I don't stop playing. I am nothing, in this moment. I'm just sound. I'm endless. I'm...

You motherfucker! The shouting jars with the melody. Who the fuck do you work for?

I play even harder. Sweat beads on my brow. My arm behind to hurt. Something heavy weighs down my left hand, affecting the precise movements.

Who?

There's a smattering of words in return. Fuck you.

My arm slips and a false note cuts the air. I pant, hesitating, but an admonishment doesn't come. Vinny is too busy interrogating to notice. When I continue, the sound isn't enough to erase what he says next.

"That's enough of this shit. Get his fucking pants off."

Off. My arm takes off. I throw myself into the composition, holding nothing back. Every tone. Every cadence. Every subtle note holds a piece of my soul.

And it still isn't enough to silence the horror taking place in the room.

Who do you work for?

Go to hell.

Get my fucking knife.

No! No!

My fingers are numb. I don't feel them anymore. I don't even register commanding my body which note to play next. Everything just moves, muscle and sinew in perfect sync.