Page 12 of The Villain's Captive (The Villain's Duet 1)

“Five.”

“The trial starts in less than two weeks.”

“Six, then.”

“Do not fuck with me, you son of a—”

“Julio,” I interrupted, “if you want to give this job to one of your novices, do it. Do not waste my fucking time. Phone me when you’re serious about getting this motherfucking job done.” I hung up, an amused grin settling on my lips. It wasn’t even two seconds before he phoned back. This time I let it ring for a while so the prick could stew a bit in the humble pie he was about to eat.

I slid my finger across the screen. “That didn’t take you long.”

“Fine. You have six days. But if you fuck up, so help me God, I will—”

“Payment will be split in four, each paid into four different bank accounts within the next hour. I’ll send you the details.”

“Yes, yes. I know. Listen,” he paused, and I could hear him take a long drag from his cigar, “need I remind you how serious this matter is?”

Annoyance trickled along the back of my neck. “I don’t need reminding of anything, Julio. I know exactly what’s at stake for you.”

“Do you? Do you really? Because I doubt a man who carries a reputation like yours knows anything about family.”

My top lip curled into a snarl. “He won’t talk.”

“He better not. Two hundred mil is a lot of fucking money, and you better be good for it.”

I placed my arm against the floor-to-ceiling window, leaning in. “Let’s get one thing straight. I am very fucking selective when it comes to contracts. Why? Because I don’t fucking need the money. Greed and money make you sloppy, reckless. It leaves too much room for error—which is why I am the best at what I do.”

“If not for the money, then why do this kind of work?”

“It’s simple. Because I can.”

I hung up, my fingers tightening around the cellphone. I didn’t like when clients assumed the pot of gold they paid me gave them the right to tell me how to do fucking anything. No one breathed down my fucking neck, including the motherfucking Bernadis. They thought because they owned half of New York fucking City they could piss on whoever the fuck they wanted. And the fucking nerve of this asshole hiring two other fuckers for the same job, trying to let us compete with each other? Fucker should have known The Musician did not compete. The Musician executed.

Nobody knew my true identity. I was a fucking ghost so many had attempted to find, yet failed time and time again. Even those old bastards who thought they ruled our society with an iron fist, who supposedly feared nothing and no one—they were the first to demand to know who this master was, the man who carved out the perfect treble clef on his victims’ chests before killing them with a single shot to the head.

The Musician.

Me.

I slipped my phone into my pocket and turned to stare out the window once more, my thoughts bursting through my brain like a motherfucking aneurysm. Then I heard it, the smooth sound of a cello gently cracking through my thoughts.

She was playing, and it instantly swept through my insides, calming the storm that constantly raged within me. Slowly, effortlessly, her music settled the violent thrum in my blood, the melody giving me the high I had craved for weeks. God, it was like holy water showering over my soul.

I breathed, closed my eyes, and relished the moment of peace which I knew wouldn’t linger for too long.

The song she played wasn’t one I was familiar with, but it was beautiful, nonetheless. Sad, but beautiful.

While I stood there, swept away by the sound that now filled the hall of my apartment, spreading a warmth, comfort, peace—I was once again reminded of the Moore girl locked up in the room I had put her in.

God, her music was like salve on an open wound. A welcome reprieve from a torture that never ceased.

But she was no longer the cellist I observed, the soloist I watched perform in front of an empty theatre.

Things changed, and now my Requiem had become the target.

---