Page 11 of The Villain's Captive (The Villain's Duet 1)

5

If I wereany other man, I’d at least feel some twinge of sympathy toward the girl currently crying on the other side of that door. But I was too busy calculating every possible outcome of the events that were about to follow, of all the fucking things that could go wrong.

It had been hours since I brought her here, and while I waited for her to wake up, I had more than enough time to catapult myself into a frenzy of fucking madness, which was why I needed her to play. After all these years, her music became my outlet, my meditation to find calm so I could think without having to fight the insanity that constantly raged through my thoughts.

But she had just proven to me that music could never be demanded—at least not the musical harmony that stemmed from the soul. That was the kind I needed. Craved.

It was the type of music that had the power to make you forget. It had the ability to take the darkest memory and turn it into a distant dream. Watching her emotions cling to her expression while she played, the serenity that draped over her was like witnessing someone transport to a world of melodies and ballades and perfection, a world she created. But now, she was scared, and I needed to get a fucking hold of myself—calm the fuck down and gain control if I wanted to see this through.

I had to see it through.

God, I just needed her to play so I could think and slow down my racing thoughts. Music was the only thing that soothed me, which was why I had hundreds of orchestral compositions on my iPad, constantly playing it in my apartment, my car, everywhere it was possible. But even those had lost their appeal, not coming close to her solo acts when compared.

For years, I had tried to outrun the monster in my nightmares, attempted to escape the memories. But there was only one way for me to find reprieve from past laments that shackled me still. Blood. Death. The cries of a man seconds away from meeting the devil.

The fear of others. Their terror, it appeased me in ways nothing else could. If some psych-doctor had to analyze me, they’d probably declare me certifiably insane, lock me up, and throw away the key. All I cared about was spilling blood, killing those who deserved it, and make their screams blend with the bold, heavy, and mighty sound of the orchestra reaching the crescendo of a marvelous piece.

But fate had me cross paths with the raven-haired cellist whose dance with the majestic instrument silenced and tamed every sliver of darkness that consumed me since the night I changed from boy to beast. I had known of Charlotte and her mother for many years, but it was after her mother’s death that her music started to reach out to me, as if it longed to touch my soul.

She was a job. A contract. Nothing more.

Those words became a fucking mantra to me the last few months—and I had to hold on to it now more than ever.

It was good to witness the fear in her eyes when she looked at me, reminding me of what I was and what I would always be. A sadist. A villain. A deviant. The terror burned as brightly as the sun in her blue-gray eyes, and to prove I was a bastard, it didn’t bother me. Men like me, we thrived on fear. Fear was good. Fear made people cooperate. Made them complacent. I was not the type of man who had his emotions manipulated with tears, desperate pleas, or sad doe eyes. If it were so easy to distract me from the task at hand, I wouldn’t have been in the business I was currently in.

Sympathy, empathy, mercy—those three things didn’t exist in my world.

After that last night at the Alto when she refused my gift, I took time to change my focus and realign my thoughts to do what needed to be done. To do what I came here to do—the reason she had taken up so much space in my life during the last few years. Studying someone, watching them live their lives, day after day, it would be natural to eventually get tangled up in this substantial motherfucking mindfuck where lines blurred, and realities shifted. So, I took the time to get my shit together—which brought us here. Both of us.

I locked the door and held the key in my palm. Such a small and insignificant object, yet it had the power to cause immense trauma, pain, fear. To sit behind a locked door while harboring the crippling fear of being forgotten, it broke something in a person—especially a child.

My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I pulled it out, the name on the screen confirming it was the call I had been waiting for.

I answered as I moved to stand in front of the window. “Julio Bernardi. I was waiting for your call.”

“Did you get my message last night?”

“I did.”

“You didn’t think it would be a good idea to respond?”

I straightened and stared out the window at the skyscraper rooftops. “You know I demand exclusivity, yet you approached two other contractors for this job.”

The silence on his side confirmed it. “Things escalated. The administration thought it was in the family’s best interest to make sure we have the incentive we need as soon as possible, and not put all our eggs into one basket.”

“What escalated?”

Julio went silent. “Omertà?”

“You very well know I don’t give a shit about your…Omertà.” The vow of silence, punishable by death if not upheld. There was nothing as important, nothing that showed loyalty as much as a man’s silence, protecting his own. “If you want me to handle this contract, I need full disclosure, and all those other dilettante contractors you hired pushed back. I work alone.”

“This is a—”

“It’s not negotiable, Julio.”

More silence, and I imagined him red in the face with simmering anger knowing very well that if he wanted The Musician—me—on this job, he had to meet my every demand. Nothing was negotiable.

“Fine,” he snapped. “You have two days.”

---