Page 19 of Texting Mr. Stranger

“So you’ll amputate some low-level dealers.”

“I’d beat them to death with my bare hands if it meant keeping the Gallos gone. If you ever become Don, you’ll understand. Our old man didn’t work half his life and sacrifice so much for us to get soft and let this city fall into ruin.”

Elio sighs. “The threat could be enough, anyway. Our name means something.”

“No,” I say because he needs to understand how brutal this life really is. “Somebody will slip. We’ll catch them, and we’ll have to make good on our promise so that nobody else tries this ever again.” I stand up. “You’re welcome to resign as my consigliere if you’re uncomfortable with this.”

“Go fuck yourself,” he growls, turning away.

Wait, I’m sorry, I almost say, but I can’t make myself say the words. I should, though. Elio has done nothing except support me and the Family. He hates violence even more than I do, and yet he always does what he needs to. He’s the best man I know, and he deserves respect.

My head’s a mess between Bella playing on my mind and this slice of misery.

Soon, it’s time to return to legitimate work at DeLuca Investments. It’s our biggest legitimate business—a money-management firm allowing us to launder and earn legal funds simultaneously.

I spend the afternoon liaising with various teams, strategically planning a large transfer for one of our biggest clients. Sometimes, sitting at this desk, I can almost imagine I’m not the Don. I haven’t killed people. I can pretend that regular people like Bella wouldn’t go running if they knew who and what I actually was.

As the work drags on, I think of earlier, sitting in Bella’s apartment and listening to the song they were practicing. It took me a while to place it. It was clear, sitting outside the room, when Bella was playing and when it was Sofia.

Whenever Bella took her bow, I felt a strong urge to push the bedroom door open and watch her again. Taking out my phone, I clench my teeth, feeling like a stupid teenager. After everything I’ve done, my chest gets tight over atext.

I can’t get that Paganini piece out of my head.

Once I click send, I work for another ninety minutes before my phone vibrates. I snatch it up instantly.

Yes, it’s quite a piece,she replies.The technicality is impressive, but I’ve noticed something about how most violinists play it.

There’s something impressive about her confidence level and how she feels free to offer her opinion on such a well-respected piece of work.

What do you mean?I ask.

Many performers focus so much on the technical challenges that they sometimes miss the expressive potential. It can come across as cold, almost mechanical.

A smile spreads across my lips. At the same moment, a shaft of sunlight spears into the office. If I were superstitious, I’d almost think the two were connected.

Interesting. So, do you think they emphasize the virtuosity over the emotion?

Exactly!I imagine her bubbling with excitement, maybe causing those ample tits of hers to bounce.It’s like they prioritize the flashy parts over the nuances. There’s a depth to the music that’s often overlooked. The shifts in dynamics and phrasing can convey so much more.

That makes sense. Do you have an example of a performance that does it right?

There are a few,she replies.Some older recordings capture the feeling better, but it’s still rare. It’s tricky because the piece is technically demanding, but it also needs a kind of … lyrical touch?

My smile widens even more. When I took a serious interest in this, it was always for Sofia. I don’t hate the music, but I never loved it either. Yet with Bella, somehow, I care.

So it’s more about balancing the technical and emotional aspects?I ask.

Yes, that’s it!Again, I can see her glowing with enthusiasm and imagine her body shivering temptingly.There’s a sort of storytelling in the piece that gets lost when it’s played too precisely. It needs a bit of freedom, a bit of personality.

I get what you mean. It’s like they’re playing all the notes but missing its soul.

It’s like reciting poetry without feeling the words,she replies, and suddenly, I wish she was here. I wouldn’t overthink it. I wouldn’t care that she’s a stranger. I’d pull her into my lap, hold her, and savor her vivaciousness.

I’d love to hear an example of what you’re describing. Do you have a performance in mind you could share?

I delete the message, wondering if I should cross this line. So far, we’re still within the realms of music. Whatever happens, we have that as an excuse, a get-out-of-jail-free card if things get too … What?Romantic?I almost laugh at myself just thinking about it.

Instead, I write,It sounds like you’re the expert, Bella. You’ll have to send me a video of you playing it sometime.

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