Page 32 of Hateful Vows
I observe the room I’m in. I see that our fathers had similar taste for thenouveau-richestyle. Everything in here screams ‘I have money’. A golden chandelier hangs from the ceiling and a nest of three raw-wood coffee tables sit in front of the sofa. There was obviously no care for respecting one style, only money thrown to get the most expensive decor. It’s uncouth, like the man who inhabited it. Just like his heir.
The slick black grand piano in the corner catches my eyes though. It fits well with the display of wealth considering it must be worth at least a quarter of a million.
My fingers itch.
I look behind my shoulder. The door is closed.
I despise myself for entertaining the thought, but the temptation is too strong. I sit behind it and the leather creaks under my weight. Anticipation has my hands trembling slightly. It’s been such a long time. Before my father forbade it, before I became a soldier.
Not a speck of dust covers the black and white keys. I press them, muscle memory hitting all the notes of a concerto suite from the Nutcracker by Tchaikovsky. A childish glee fills my throat and it becomes hard to swallow.
I’m engrossed in the music but I don’t miss the steps behind me. A feminine figure appears by my side, but she’s too tall to be Irina. She sits in my periphery and her eyes close as she sways softly with each tune. I glimpse at Mariella, Dante’s mother, whosmiles softly like she hasn’t enjoyed anyone playing piano in a long time.
The crescendo builds until I slow down. And stop.
She claps her hands and I gulp, the foreign emotion feeling too close to pride for comfort.
“This was wonderful. It’s been such a long time since anyone played piano in this house. Are you a friend of Dante?”
I frown. She met me at the wedding not so long ago.
“No, ma’am. I’m Aleksei, his business partner.”
“Oh.” She sounds disappointed, but hides it behind a forced laugh. “It’s rare for any Made man to know how to play.”
Silence follows her declaration and I don’t know what to say. My mother died when I was young and the only women around me are Irina, Irina’s mother—who I’ve barely ever seen outside official events—and Magda.
“You like piano?” I ask, out of my depth.
Her smile is radiant. “Very much. Would you play something else?”
I nod solemnly and return to the keys. My father never allowed me to play anything but Russian composers. He would have beaten me bloody if I ever tried anything else. He did anyway. But the bastard has been buried for days, his blood almost fresh on my hands. So I start Gymnopedies by Erik Satie.
It’s a languorous melody, and it brings Dante’s mother to tears. I can’t remember the last time I cried, but something builds inside my chest and into my throat, making it hard to focus. I close my eyes and let the music transport me to a place where I’m not a killer, where I don’t hate with every fiber of my being, where I’m just a child who loves to play.
When I’m done, Mariella’s eyes are lost in thoughts as she looks outside. She’s unmoving and I’m afraid she might be having a stroke. I stand and tread towards her, landing a hand on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there,” she says and I frown. “I was listening to piano. Who are you?”
“Aleksei.”
Her face shows no recognition and I clench my teeth. I might not have had a mother but I can’t imagine the pain of having one who forgets the people around her. Will she forget Dante soon?
“It’s good that my son has a friend. One he can confide in. He needs one that doesn’t answer to him, like Tino.”
I don’t have an answer to that so I remain silent, observing the elegant older woman in front of me. Her eyes are the same as Dante’s and she has that softness to her I barely recognise. It’s so foreign to me.
“Aleksei.” Irina’s voice breaks our bubble.
It’s filled with annoyance, and something else I don’t care to look too close into. When I look up, my brows dip. My sister is never anything but perfect, yet strands of her hair are falling from the low ponytail she seems to have just wiped up seconds ago, and her blouse is wrinkled.
“You look like shit,” I tell her when she gets close.
She ignores me, which is unlike her.
“Mariella, what are you doing here?” she asks Dante’s mother with a softness I’ve never heard from her. It’s unsettling. I don’t like it.
“I was listening to piano. Dante’s friend is a skilled player.”
