Rhapsody: Interracial French Mafia Romance (The Butcher and the Violinist Book 1)

by Kenya Wright

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Act One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Act Two

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Act Three

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Author Note

  By

  Kenya Wright

  Rhapsody © 2019

  Custom Photography and Cover Design © 2019 Designs by Taria Reed

  Interior design and formatting by J.N. Sheats

  Artwork by Warlocklord

  Production Team: Emily W., Anita B., V Vee., and Loette J.

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means such as electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the authors of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Any characters, names, places, brands, media and incidents are used solely in a fictitious nature based on the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to or mention of persons, places, organizations or other incidents is coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2019

  ISBN 0-9000000-0-0

  www.KenyaWrightBooks.com

  Dedicated to

  My new editor (and emotional crisis manager),

  Anita.

  I almost quit this book twice amid family drama. You told me to suck it up and keep going. I’m glad I did.

  Thanks for everything!

  “If music be the food of love, play on.”

  —Shakespeare

  Rhapsody:

  a one-movement musical work that is episodic yet integrated, free-flowing in structure, and featuring a range of highly contrasted moods, color, and tonality.

  Prologue

  Desperate Times

  Eden

  The New Year had arrived, and I was broke as fuck.

  And for me, no money triggered depression. Bills caused anxiety. Hope rotted. Empty pockets weighed down my ego.

  How the hell am I going to pay rent?

  Coughing, I put my joint out into the ashtray and returned to my job search.

  All morning I’d been on my laptop applying for positions, smoking my roommate’s weed, and sipping on coffee. Newspapers surrounded me.

  My cat, V, snuggled against my foot. Her nickname was short for Vibrato. Her purr sounded like the musical effect. It pulsed and changed in pitch, just like my violin.

  V purred against me as if demanding that I spend time with her.

  “I can’t mess with you now.” I moved my foot.

  Seconds later, she returned, rubbing her soft, furry head against my toes. Spoiled to the core, I’d found Vibrato on my doorstep as a kitten in a basket with a red bow loosely tied around her neck. There was no note, just her sad little eyes begging me to bring her inside.

  I moved my foot from the persistent cat and continued to type violinist jobs into my laptop. “Dude. I need to make some money, so we can both eat.”

  V didn’t care as she commenced with molesting my foot.

  Then, someone knocked at my door.

  My roommate Leo tattooed people at the house for extra money. He’d played in the Belladonna Symphony like me. He was a cellist, and I, a violinist. Since the symphony’s demise, we both were out of a job.

  I hope this is somebody for him. We need to make rent.

  I rose from the couch and walked over to the door. “Who is it?”

  “It’s your aunt. The one that’s been calling you five times a day for the past week.” She knocked again. “What’s up with you millennials and not answering the phone?”

  “Shit,” I muttered under my breath and opened a window to get some of the marijuana smell out. It wasn’t like she didn’t know I smoked, and I would turn twenty-six soon. Still, it was just weird to have weed around her.

  My aunt called through the door. “Eden?”

  “Coming.” I hurried over and opened it. “Hey, Auntie, I wasn’t expecting you—”

  “Eden, what’s wrong?” Aunt Celina stepped inside my small apartment. A disappointed expression covering her face. She tossed her hair back. Always looking fabulous, no one would even know we were related.

  She had long blond hair that hung to her waist and pale skin. She was my father’s twin. They were both blonde with blue eyes, long and slender. Aunt Celina and I shared curvy bodies with slim frames. That was where the resemblance ended. I looked more like my mom’s side, I had a caramel complexion with kinky curls falling past my shoulders.

  Dad had met my mom in college, during a legalize weed protest of all things. Mom had a huge afro, dark brown skin, and a smile so gorgeous, that Dad still talked about it years after her death. They fell in love immediately, had me after graduation, and married later.

  Five years ago, Mom passed away from cancer and Dad went to the mountains to find God. Currently, he was building a church based on some religion he’d come up with, and each day I found myself unable to keep it together.

  Aunt Celina placed her hands on her hips. “You haven’t answered my calls or come by the condo.”

  “Well. . .”

  “This was on your door.” She handed me an eviction notice. “You’re still having money troubles?”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry for not calling.” I shut the door and hurried to pick up the newspapers spread out on the floor. “I’ve been trying to get a new job and…stressing…I’ve been in a horrible mood. I didn’t feel like calling anyone up and depressing them to death.”

  At the sight of Aunt Celina, V raced away into my roommate Leo’s bedroom.

  My aunt waved the cat away. “Bye to you too, Vibrato.”

  “She smells the twins on you.”

  Aunt Celina had twin poodles called Yin and Yang. She brought them everywhere, except into my apartment due to them not getting along with V. I was sure the twins sat in her town car along with her driver.

  She strolled through the place. “You’ve gone silent.”

  “A little.”

  “I figured things hadn’t brightened for you." She sat down on the couch. “Eden, I’m sad that the Belladonna Symphony lost its funding.”

  “Me too.” I moved my laptop to the coffee table and then sat down next to her.

  The State indicted the symphony’s managing committee on money laundering and fraud charges. The scandal rocked the city of Belladonna’s wealthy. One day I was playing the violin in my city’s most popular orchestra, the next day, the theater locked out the musicians. Every
one on the committee went to jail. The State charged them with money laundering and fraud.

  Aunt Celina sighed. “I did my best to help that craziness.”

  “I know you did.” I hugged her. “Thanks so much for everything.”

  Aunt Celina had the ear of every politician, gangster, and billionaire in the city. She’d come close to saving our jobs. She’d held a secret fundraiser at her brothel, The Candy Shop, and invited her friends and clients. They’d raised fifty thousand dollars. It hadn’t been enough to save us.

  The idea of starting a new symphony fell through. There was no backing or interest in another orchestra. While residents and tourists liked classical music, the city was the prostitution capital of the U.S. No one had time for anything else but sex. Running a brothel was illegal, but the mayor and governor didn’t mind. They simply demanded VIP treatment at the establishments and a thick envelope at the end of the month.

  Aunt Celina gestured to the eviction letter. “You’re three months behind on rent. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You worked your butt off raising millions so I could keep my job. I wasn’t going to then try to beg you for money to pay my rent.”

  “Well, I don’t give away money, Eden. I've learned that lesson too many times. You would’ve earned it.”

  I stirred.

  She rolled her eyes. “Not as a prostitute.”

  “I know, but—”

  “You’re waiting until you’re desperate?”

  “No.” I widened my eyes. “I’ve just had my focus on finding a job. Any job at this point. I’ve applied everywhere. And then I’ve searched outside of music. Maybe cleaning—”

  “Cleaning?!” Aunt Celina grabbed imaginary pearls. “We don’t clean, Eden. What about applying to jobs in music?”

  “Of course. I’ve interviewed and sent my resume out for small gigs at museum events, music teacher positions, and even out-of-state symphonies.”

  “Out-of-state? No. You’re not leaving here. I love having you in Belladonna.” Aunt Celina placed her hands in her lap and held them tight as if she was restraining herself.

  “I’m waiting to hear back from any of these positions. Something will come up.”

  Aunt Celina scanned the table covered in newspapers and extra copies of my resumés scattered over music sheets. “You have no money at all?”

  “I have a negative account. My credit cards are maxed out, and Dad is as broke as me.”

  “I’m sure he is. Building a church on a mountain can be expensive, especially when no one knows what religion you are or—”

  “Auntie, he’s mourning, and... losing it a little.”

  “I’m sorry.” She blew out a long breath. “It’s a damn shame that you’re struggling, but you have options. You can always earn some money with Auntie.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Celina, but Dad doesn’t want me anywhere near your brothel, and he’s having a rough year.”

  She waved the comment off with her manicured nails. “He thinks you’ll get possessed by a demon.”

  “That’s exactly what he said.”

  “You’re working for me, and that’s it. I won’t give you the money. I’m not a bank. Your grandmother always said that one must work for everything they get. Handouts make you lazy.” She dug her hand into her pocketbook and pulled out two hundred-dollar bills. “You’ll work for me. This is your advance. Get something nice and come by.”

  “Work for you?” Laughing, I raised my eyebrows. “Doing what?”

  “Playing that sweet little violin over there.” She pointed to my wall and opened her mouth in shock. “Where are all your violins?”

  I had a huge collection of old ones—carved wood, glass, metal. There were thirty in total. No one could play them. They were handmade for décor.

  I didn’t glance at the wall. “I put the violins on eBay. A few people have bid for them. I’m hoping to have the first two months of rent by the end of the week.”

  “Jesus. Those were your babies.”

  “It is what it is.”

  Worry covered her face. “And Eros? Did you sell him too?”

  Eros was my favorite violin, named after the young and playful god of love. The only instrument I'd played for the past five years.

  The real Eros was the son of Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty. At the most basic level, Eros represented the source of attraction. The craving for sexual love. The force behind all creation. And that was what I yearned for my music to be—the source of creation, the very symbol of love, and even sexual craving.

  Aunt Celina gazed around the living room. “If you sold Eros, then I’m going to lose it.”

  “No way. He’s in the bedroom.” I leaned back on the couch. “I couldn’t sell him anyway. The violin isn’t mine. It’s a Stradivarius, worth close to a million. I had the violin loaned to me by one of the symphony's wealthy benefactors. I have to return him.”

  “When?”

  “Two weeks.” I twisted my shirt with my fingers to keep from losing it even more. “But I may be able to talk to the benefactor about extending the loan. He’s supposed to pick it up at the theater.”

  “Who is he?"

  “I don't know.”

  “And if this benefactor doesn’t let you borrow it?”

  “Then, I’ll figure it out from there and…get a new violin somehow.”

  Musicians—even successful ones—couldn’t afford nice violins. I made forty thousand a year and worked my butt off to get there. Meanwhile, most violins cost an exorbitant amount. Often, an investor with the love of music bought an instrument and would lend it to them. This triggered a symbiotic relationship. The investor benefited from a personal relationship with the musician.

  A well-trained ear could hear the difference between a cheap violin and an expensive one. Even the bow might influence the instrument’s sound.

  If I could somehow catch the interest of a musical investor, I’d be their violin-playing bitch, and happy about it. I’d do almost anything.

  “What would solve everything?” Aunt Celina asked.

  “A wealthy benefactor.”

  “I can help with that. You should’ve been playing at my brothel anyway. When I do have them, I pay quite a lot for live music. I could save several hundred a week having you there with Eros.”

  I had no idea she’d had live music there. Aunt Celina had forbidden me to visit or check the Candy Shop out.

  She sighed. “You can’t afford to say no.”

  “I’m…actually glad that you said this.”

  “Of course, you’ll have something on. Usually, my musicians are naked.”

  I parted my lips.

  “You’ll wear clothes.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Eden, do me a favor and look fabulous. Wear something breathtaking. The clients will love it."

  “Okay.”

  “We can keep your identity a secret. No need to get a reputation as the brothel violinist. Get a pretty mask that doesn’t hide your face too much. A lace number. And cover up the back tattoo.”

  Last year, Leo had tattooed my back, transforming me into a violin. My body served as the instrument's shape. Four strings ran down my spine. He placed the f-holes at my lower back. Every detail was perfectly placed so that when someone fucked me from behind, they saw their cock enter a female violin. My ex-boyfriends—all musicians—loved the ink.

  “Yes. It's settled,” Aunt Celina said. “You'll work at the Candy Shop.”

  What other choice do I have? At least I’ll still be playing music. And it won’t be a boring job.

  Desperate times called for desperate measures. And sometimes what daddy didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Although I was an adult and could do what I wanted, he’d lost my mother, and I didn’t want to push him further into depression.

  Dad and Aunt Celina hadn’t talked in ten years. This started the exact moment my aunt opened her brothel. Dedicated to public service all his life, he argued that prostitution promote
d the enslavement of women.

  Mom spent those years trying to get them back together. She’d visited Aunt Celina’s brothel and semi-supported the venture. Mom only worried about the illegal part and the dangerous clientele.

  That last year of her life, she asked me to help Dad and Aunt Celina work it out. I’d done a piss-poor job. They still hadn’t stood in the same room together. At the funeral Auntie had sneaked in the back of the church early, paid her respects, and hurried away.

  Sighing, I took the money from my aunt. “Thank you. It wouldn’t hurt to play the Candy Shop.”

  “It wouldn’t. Come tonight. We’ll talk about your schedule further, tomorrow. Call me in the morning.”

  I could play there, while I search for a job.

  Working at the brothel would be a long schedule for sure. The Candy Shop never closed. Not even for the holidays or snow storms. Sex remained a rising recession-proof commodity during any occurrence.

  Aunt Celina gave me a weak smile. “Everything will be fine. You’ll get some extra cash, and something will come up.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Auntie is always right.” She rose from the couch. “And don’t tell your father. I don’t have time to argue with him this month.”

  I stood with her. “I’m not telling him.”

  “Good. Because if my brother isn’t going to help you out, then he can keep his religion and advice to himself. You want to be a famous violinist? Come to my establishment. Big hitters are there.” She shrugged. “You never know, Eden. Someone may fall in love with your music so much they want to be a benefactor.”

  “True.”

  “It’ll bring an air of elegance and sophistication to the place.” She winked at me and strolled off. “Shalimar will see you tonight.”

  “Good. I like her a lot.”

  Knowing that Shalimar would be there, eased the tension gathering in my shoulders. She was Asian American and taller than me. Close to six feet. Her long black hair fell past her waist. She was the only one of my Aunt’s employees that I’d communicated with the most in these five years.

  Shalimar served as brothel manager and my aunt’s personal assistant. Anytime I couldn’t find Aunt Celina, I called Shalimar. When I needed help coming up with Christmas or birthday ideas for Aunt Celina, I went to her. In our small exchanges, we would comment about the weather or current state of politics, and then jump off the phone. Any dinner party or charity gathering Aunt Celina held, Shalimar and I hung around together and chatted amongst the city’s influencers. At times she could be a little crass, but she kept me laughing anytime she was around. During summers, Aunt Celina vacationed throughout Europe, leaving Candy Shop in her hands.