| BOOK FIVE | THE LONDON CRIME KING | A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE NOVEL |
This book contains adult language and subject matter, including graphic violence, drugs and explicit sex that may be disturbing to some readers.
This series is NOT a typical romance...
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The opening movement of Beethoven's "Für Elise" is not my favourite. Even though the deeply melodic tone was classy and sophisticated, I preferred the disarming naturalness of large chords and arpeggios, the obstreperous chaos between A Minor and E Major. Somewhere throughout my artistic existence, I adopted the art of musical spontaneity, the exhilarating fusion of magisterial eloquence, and who could blame me? Life would be far too boring if I shared the same air as those who walked undeviating paths of mediocrity.
Delightful impishness kicked in. I broke acoustical laws and switched to Rondo Alla Turca, which startled the sedentary, elderly residents. The care assistants and support workers, who are dilettantes where the art of music is concerned, were taken aback by the sudden change of tuneful direction.
Excitement poured from my fingers as they swept across the keys in golden-toned virtuosity. Playing interpretations from memory—from the heart—I lowered my ear to the piano and let musical intuitiveness lead the pads of my fingers.
Music was like oxygen to my lungs. I needed it to breathe, to lose myself in momentary escapism. Freed in nostalgic reverie, I revisited The Royal College of Music's Britten Theatre, where an appreciative audience, mesmerised and captivated by the performance, applauded from their red velvet chairs. In due course, I bowed before a standing ovation, reaping the rewards of conscientiousness.
A ghost of a smile teased my lips as my eyelashes fluttered open.
The somnolent, inexpressive people in the room replaced the vestige of life before. Their overt disinterest brought me back to reality. I might be creative and passionate but, to my dismay, I am not an undergraduate or professional musician. I left The Royal College of Music early, without degrees and diplomas, and settled for changed circumstances instead.
The piano keys chimed beneath adept fingers. Perspiration dewed at the nape of my neck. With steady hands, I sustained the same level of avidity, but disillusionment and wretchedness had wormed into cogitation.
My biggest supporter sat in the upholstered armchair. I stared for a breath too long. He is old now, not the fresh-faced man I once knew. Receding grey hair curled beneath his ears, and deep wrinkles seemed to have worsened recently. He still wore last night's classic flannel pyjamas, the buttons clipped to his throat, and navy moccasin slippers warmed his feet.
I longed for his blue eyes to greet mine, but like every other visit, he stared out of the window, watching the world pass on by. He never blinked, yet there was a permanent frown on his face. He was lost, and it broke me. So much, I wanted to see his smile, hear his voice and reminisce about what used to be.
My fingers eased off the piano keys. "Should I continue?"
He said nothing.
"Perhaps I could sing for you." Adjusting the black and white paisley scarf around my neck, I removed my foot from the piano's sustain pedal. "We could even sing together."
