Page 10 of Texting Mr. Stranger

“No, my friend,” I tell him. “What you’re doing is trying to make up for the fact you’re a sad, pathetic …Don’tfucking interrupt me.”

He flinches, closing his mouth immediately. He’s clearly not used to being put in his place.

“You’re a loser,” I snap. “So instead of trying to improve your life, like several people in this building are, you try to drag them down with you. You try to instigate fights. You think it makes you impressive. That’s over now. No more music. Not today. Not ever.”

He can’t help it when the sneer spreads across his face. I can see how difficult it is for him to pretend to be a good person. Well, fuckingditto.

I dart forward and drive my hand against his chest, shoving him against the wall. With my other hand, I quickly grab my walk-around pistol, a small pocket piece that will still do what it needs to if it comes to that.

His eyes snap open widely as I drive the barrel of the gun against his throat.

“My name is Matteo Sebastiano DeLuca, and if you’ve got any sense in that empty head of yours, you’ll shut off that crap and never eventhinkabout playing it again.” I drive the gun even harder into the soft tissue of his throat. “Do you understand me?”

“Yuh-yuh …”

I apply even more pressure, doing my best to ignore the instincts roaring at me to tear him to pieces. This shouldn’t be making me this angry, but my sister is trying to learn, and Bella is trying to teach. Obviously, she’s dedicated to it. She undervalues her skills, but she’strying, which is more than I can say for this lowlife.

“Speak,” I snap, as the smell of piss rises around us.

“I understand,” he finally says, his voice a hollow gasp. “Shit, man. I get it. I get it!”

“Do I seem like I’m joking?” I ask, not removing the gun.

He shakes his head slowly.

“I’m going to be coming by here often. I don’t want to blow your head off. It’d be inconvenient, but I will.”

“Over music?” he squeaks.

“No.” I lean close, letting him see how serious I am. “Forrespect.”

Pocketing my gun, I turn my back on him, whistling as I leave the apartment. This shows him how little of a threat he is. It’s just a shred of the disrespect he shows to everybody in this building every time he blasts that crap.

The old man is waiting for me when I return downstairs, an appraising look on his face. “That’s a first. I might be able to listen to my radio now!”

“What’s your name, sir?” I ask.

“Jerry Hudson.”

“Okay, Mr. Hudson. Let’s do this. If that asshole gets too big for his boots again, you call me, all right? I’ll give you my cell.”

“Why would you do that?”

That’s a complicated question. Maybe it has something to do with the guilt often niggling me about the dark parts of my life. Perhaps it’s the sheer fact that he pissed me off, or it was that soul-achingly defeated look on Bella’s face.

“Somebody has to.”

CHAPTER SIX

BELLA

Sofia has a basic understanding of the core mechanics of playing. Her chin-shoulder connection is decent, her posture is fantastic, she handles the bow well, and her finger placement is more or less correct. After around twenty minutes, I realize she has issues reading music and keeping time. After falling out of tempo again, she groans, letting the bow drop.

“You’re doing well,” I tell her.

At least I cantellshe’s doing well now that the upstairs asshat has stopped blaring that cruddy music. When the music abruptly cut off, Sofia winced, almost like she wanted it to keep going so I wouldn’t hear her as clearly.

“I didn’t even know I was making these mistakes.”

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