Page 4 of The Kiss Of Death
“Hello?” My voice quivered as I ventured inside, tightening my grip on my violin.
The manor’s hallway bore the traces of the earlier funeral reception, with black programs strewn across the counter and untouched toasts and wine bottles left out as if nobody had come.
“Is anyone home?” My voice echoed back to me.
He’s not on the stairs anymore.
I tightened my fists and walked to Mrs. Delombre’s music studio. I had to hurry because Dad needed to be back in Paris for dinner.
Grandma had always referred to Lucie as my music mother, a second mother, and she was right. My heart squeezed as I remembered how she’d helped me take care of my violin’s bruises and hide them from Dad. When I’d started my period a month before, I came to her, too embarrassed to discuss it with my father or Grandma—afraid she’d conduct another class about clitorises and women’s pleasure.
I bit my trembling lips, my eyes adjusting to the darkness inside the room where I’d spent every Wednesday afternoon for the past few years. I couldn’t afford to break down. I stood before her music stand on top of the creaking floorboards and carefully lifted the Cigno Nero from its carrying case.
Lucie always felt very strongly about promises.
“Mrs. Delombre—I mean Lucie,” I murmured, cradling the violin so softly between my hands. “I’m here to return the Cigno Nero to you. I can’t keep it. It’s too valuable.”
She had given it to me during our last class. I was finally worthy of playing it for her. She missed hearing its melody, being unable to play it because of her musician’s dystonia. I’d promised that I would during our next class—but there never was one.
It probably happened here.Themournful thought crossed my mind, sending shivers down my back. Why had she done this? Why had she left me too?
But today wasn’t about me or my pain. It was about Lucie.
I dug my nails into my palm, squeezing the violin harder. “I’m honoring our promise. You’ll hear the Cigno Nero’s melody again.”
And maybe if I’d started playing, my wounded heart would’ve started to heal, just like the tale she used to tell meabout. But I didn’t even have the time to draw the bow across the strings before a low rumble echoed in the room. My heart leaped to my throat, my gaze shifting to the side as I carefully posed the Cigno Nero on the table.
In the darkness, he sat on the floor, menacing and deadly quiet in full black attire—dress pants and an open dress shirt, a bottle of wine dangling in his hand.
Lucie’s son.
“Please, don’t stop on my behalf, little thief,” he purred, his words dripping with dark amusement, a chilling, cruel smile curling at the corners of his lips.
It was the first time I’d ever seen him smile, and that was terrifying.
It was also the first time he’d ever talked to me after the day we met. His voice had changed. It was rougher and more condescending.
“I’m not stealing,” I blurted out.
The empty wine bottle rolled across the hardwood, and he rose, his steps resonating through the room. He towered over me, glaring at the high school uniform I had to wear for my all-girls Catholic school. He was much taller now, but maybe he’d always been that tall since he had never come so close to me before.
The older he’d gotten, the more his beauty had seemed to mold itself to him. Yet nothing was sweet or tender about him. He was simply, cruelly handsome, with hollow cheeks and a narrowed nose. Always had been.
He looks so much like Lucie.
“I was never even allowed to look at the Cigno Nero. It’s our most precious family heirloom, but she letYOUhave it. Why you?”
The pain in his voice sent a dart into my heart. “I’m sorry for your loss. I understand what it’s like—”
“You can save your pity talk. Thepartyis over,” he said. “Unlucky for you, that clown Patrice just left, leaving you alone with me. The question is, what will I do with you?”
He loomed over me, forcing me to stumble back, the desk pressing uncomfortably against my back. Trapped, I hitched my breath but refused to let my eyes waver from him. “I know you’re hurt… but you won’t hurt me.”
He tilted his head to the side. “You really think so? Nothing is stopping me anymore.”
Every Wednesday, he’d watched me, his gaze creeping under my skin and widening into my flesh. But the way he was doing it now—with reddened and smoldering eyes like he had been crying—felt different.
“This isn’t you,” I whispered.
