Page 26 of Volatile Vice

Belinda rises, walks toward us, gives a short curtsy.

Grandfather nudges me. This means I’m supposed to say something to my future bride. This little girl before me.

Again I force a smile, although I’m not sure why I bother. She hasn’t looked at me once, and I can’t blame her.

“That was lovely, Belinda,” I say. “How long have you been playing the piano?”

“Since I was five,” she says.

I nod. “It’s pretty amazing. I don’t know much about music. But it sounds like you’re playing at a virtuoso level.”

“Oh, she is,” McAllister says. “Belinda is quite the prodigy. We don’t have any musical talent in our family either, so we were really surprised when her kindergarten tutor brought her talent to our attention.”

“Oh?” I say. “How did that happen, Belinda?”

Still standing in front of me but not looking at me, she says, “There’s a piano in all the classrooms at my private school. Or there used to be.” She looks at her feet. “I don’t go there anymore. One day, I just sat down at it and started to play something.”

“What did you play?”

“Just a tune I had heard on TV.”

“And you figured out which notes were the right ones? Without any training?”

She nods slowly. “It was like sounding out a word you don’t know.”

“That’s fascinating.”

“Indeed it is,” McAllister agrees. “We found out she has perfect pitch, and that she can play by ear. Simply hear something and then sit down and play it.”

“But how did you know which keys to use?” I ask her.

She shrugs. “I figured it out.”

Damn. This little girl has a talent. She’s a prodigy. And her father’s hope is for her to marry a man over twenty years her senior and be an obedient little Mafia wife.

So many things wrong with this picture.

“Mr. McAllister.” The housekeeper enters, interrupting us.

“Yes, Dena?”

“Lunch is served.

“Thank you.” McAllister rises and holds out his hand to Belinda, who curls her little fingers into it. “Come. Dena has prepared one of Belinda’s favorites. Shepherd’s pie.”

Shepherd’s pie? A hot meal during summer in Texas? Well, at least this house has perfect air-conditioning.

We follow McAllister and Belinda into the large dining room.

Four places are set. One at the head of the table, where I assume McAllister will sit. Then two on his left and one on his right.

Belinda scrambles into the seat next to her father on the right.

“Vinnie,” McAllister says. “You sit next to Belinda, and Mario, you’re here next to me.”

Awkward just got a million times worse.

But I keep my forced smile on my face. Am I supposed to hold up the chair for her?

---