Page 42 of Twisted Empire: King's Gambit

I can’t help but smile. “It would be my honor to play for you.”

With that, I made arrangements to come see the philharmonic as they did their practice sessions, and honestly, I could have kissed Natalya right there and then.

Throughout the luncheon, as I met various attendees and engaged in polite conversations, the melody of Amaranthe Baranova’s cello played in the back of my mind. I couldn’t get it out of my head, and wondered what kind of person she used to be.

Natalya seems deep in thought as we pass through a section where portraits of illustrious musicians hang, and I can’t help but notice a particularly beautiful one of Amaranthe. Her expressive hazel eyes seemed to tell a story far beyond her music.

Natalya pauses in front of the portrait. “She was truly a vision, wasn’t she?” she says with a sigh. “She’s proof of what happens when we end up in the hands of enemies.”

I looked at her questioningly, my eyebrows knitted in confusion. “What do you mean?”

She takes a deep breath, as if bracing herself for the memory. “My great grandfather was Pakhan—the head of our family in every sense. With power and influence come enemies, but in Amaranthe’s case, those enemies mistook her for someone else.”

I keep quiet as I wait for her to continue, intrigued by the mystery that is Amaranthe Baranova.

“She was on tour in Italy when they abducted her after mistaking her for one of her old friend’s lovers. That old friend ended up being a Cosa Nostra don. They believed they had captured someone vital to him, someone they could use to bend him to their will.”

The room seems to grow colder. The very idea that someone so pure, so entrenched in her art, could be a pawn in such a brutal game was unimaginable.

“They tortured her daily, her fingers crushed with hammers, her body subjected to the worst kind of pain imaginable,” she says, shaking her head. “Afterwards, she was known as The Tortured Queen in mafia circles, a term she wasn’t exactly fond of.”

“That’s barbaric,” I whisper, horrified, and she nods.

“They wanted to send a message, and it was delivered; only to the wrong person. By robbing her of her ability to play, they stole a piece of her soul. And in many ways, the same went for my great-grandfather,” she says. “After her ordeal, she never played again, but not for lack of trying. She couldn’t.”

My heart leaps into my throat at the thought. “To endure such cruelty and then be unable to find solace in the one thing that brought her joy...”

For someone as talented as Amaranthe, to not be able to play again is a tragedy. I don’t know what I would do if someone had to strip away my ability to play, and I don’t want to think about it.

“Okay, that’s enough sad stuff for today!” Natalya exclaims, taking my hands in hers. “Let’s mingle some more. I’m sure there’s many more people who would love to meet you.”

With that, she leads me around the room, all the while my mind is still on the mysterious Amaranthe Baranova.

GABRIETTE

The day seems to stretch on, with laughter, music, and conversation filling the grand hall. While I enjoyed every moment of it, Amaranthe’s haunting music and tragic story lingered in the back of my mind. It was hard to shake off the profound effect it had on me.

When the luncheon finally came to an end and goodbyes were said, I found myself yearning for the comfort of my cello. Natalya gave me a gentle hug, whispering, “Take care, Gabriette,” and with that, I made my way home.

The echoes of Amaranthe’s music and her tragic story still reverberate in my mind as I leave the hall. The drive home felt like a blur, the haunting notes of her cello acting as a backdrop to the flurry of emotions threatening to consume me.

By the time I make it back to the penthouse, it’s well after 9 pm. With the weight of the day’s revelations pressing heavily on my mind, I felt a strong pull towards my music room and the comfort of my instrument.

I need to play. I need to channel all this raw emotion into something tangible, something that would bridge the gap between the agony of Amaranthe’s past and the uncertainty of my present.

With trembling hands, I carefully remove one of my cellos from its stand, the weight familiar and comforting. The memory of Amaranthe’s music still lingers, but now there’s another song, one from the depths of my own heart that wants to be heard.

Closing my eyes, I place the bow on the strings and begin to play.

The notes pour out, a reflection of my own tormented past. The hurt of betrayal, the anguish of lost innocence, and the heartache of memories best forgotten. Each note, each pause, each crescendo was a cathartic release of emotions I had buried deep within.

Tears stream down my face as I play, memories flashing in rapid succession. The trust I once placed in someone who didn’t deserve it, the searing pain of betrayal, the feeling of helplessness, and the fight to find my voice again, everything came rushing back.

My fingers shake, and the notes falter, but I play on.

As the song’s tempo picked up, the memories became more intense. The harsh words thrown at me, the cold accusation of ‘you asked for it’, the utter hopelessness of dark days when even music couldn’t provide me comfort.

My bow moved with a frantic energy, pouring every ounce of pain and anger into the strings.

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