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

by Kenya Wright

  “I love your spirit,” Shalimar said. “Here’s another smart rule: stay quiet, and to yourself during those breaks. If you’re not about that life, then stay in the shadows.”

  “Got it.”

  The hallway opened to a massive ballroom complete with a small center stage. A woman took her time, stripping away a gown made of pearls. The carpet was plush white. Black cloth decorated the tables. Red velvet covered the chairs. It looked rich, like the sort of place billionaire men relaxed in. The atmosphere screamed money. Women were everywhere. They strolled in elegant lingerie. Bustiers and open cup bras. Lace body suits and silk thigh-highs. All wore six-inch heels, and even more were completely nude.

  Men laughed and sipped wine along with the women. Tons of them. Young and old. All ethnicities. Many had the business vibe—lawyers, accountants, and techies. Most of them had briefcases and were signing papers on the table as they talked to each other. A few groups of men appeared to be on a bachelor night. They stayed rowdy in the corner, smacking the waitresses’ behinds as they walked by.

  And at the table right in front of the stage, sat five men. Scary ones. Although four of them had scars on their faces, the fifth man at the center of the table appeared the most dangerous. He had styled, thick, brown hair, and no scars.

  Who’s this?

  I studied him through the lace mask.

  He had the face of an angel that had been kicked out of heaven. That was the first thing I thought of. Face of an angel, but a barbaric one. His heavenly features boasted strength over gorgeousness. Square jaw. Full lips. Long lashes. So sexy, it should’ve been illegal. And he wore a designer charcoal suit that looked expensive and soft to the touch. The breadth of his shoulders made me want to unbutton it and discover the shape of his body.

  Don’t even think about it. He looks dangerous as hell.

  It wasn’t the fact that his expression remained dark with no emotion. It was those cold eyes—unfeeling and full of anger.

  All the other men had been watching the woman on the stage, inch by inch taking away her gown of pearls. They even nodded in appreciation. But the one guy with the cold eyes, he glared my way. And he wasn’t even looking at me, instead he frowned at my violin case.

  What’s his problem? I don’t think he’s a classical music fan.

  I swallowed.

  Shalimar leaned my way. “Don’t be nervous.”

  I let out a long breath.

  Shalimar gave me a weak smile. “It takes a while to get used to this place.”

  I placed the case behind me. I was glad I still had my mask on. Although that didn’t help. He raised his view to my face, and his expression didn’t change.

  Hey dude, I’m here to play the violin. That's it.

  I didn’t think Shalimar noticed the exchange as she continued to give me tips. “And don’t shy away from any of these guys. If they think you’re weak, then they’ll exploit that. Look bold, but also keep to yourself.”

  O-kay. Boldly quiet?

  I looked in a different direction. The woman on the stage was completely naked. Her pearl gown lay one the floor. She twisted her hips and slipped her hands up and down her curvy body.

  I glanced at the gorgeous guy at the table.

  He was still watching at me.

  Blushing, I looked away.

  “If they think you’re weak, then they’ll exploit that. Look bold, but also stay to yourself.”

  Breathing in and out, I decided to stare him down. I didn’t know what his problem was with my violin, but he could focus on the naked women around him. I was here to get some quick cash, not rain on his parade.

  Be bold, Eden!

  I turned back to him.

  Our eyes met across the room. A jolt ran through my body that I couldn’t explain. His gaze captured mine and I couldn’t look away. Still, he stared, not breaking our eye contact. If we’d engaged in a power-staring contest, then he’d win. And his eyes were an intense blue, like fire so hot, it was past the fire burning-orange stage.

  Damn.

  I tore my gaze away, flushing. I had never experienced such an immediate attraction to someone. Heat gathered between my thighs. I hoped I didn’t look flustered, and I hoped that he didn’t know that he’d done it to me.

  I’m sure he does. With that face, he makes women blush all the time.

  “Okay.” Shalimar gestured at the dancer on the stage. “Pearl is almost done.”

  I cleared my throat and pushed the sexy guy out of my head. “Cool.”

  “After Pearl finishes, Mikey will clean up the stage. Your aunt is lowkey excited to show you off. She bought a special chair, and the chef will make you our signature dishes.”

  “That sounds exciting.” I glanced at the guy, and he’d returned his view to my case.

  Really, dude?

  Pearl left the stage. People clapped, except the mystery man. He'd kept his gaze on the violin case. My heartbeat increased.

  “Everything okay?” Shalimar asked.

  “Uh. . .who’s that guy at the table over there,” I whispered. “I don’t want to point, but he’s looking at me pissed. Does he hate live music or something?”

  “Oh, him.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s glaring at me. Ignore him.”

  “But who is he?”

  “That’s Jean-Pierre, and the only other thing you need to know is that he is the most dangerous man in this place. If your aunt knew that he was here, she would’ve had me turn you around.”

  I gulped in fear. “Should I turn around?”

  “Not if you want to make some cash.”

  “Fair point.”

  “Don’t worry. He’ll move on to glaring at someone else. Soon, he’ll pick a girl and then take them up to the fourth level.”

  “The one with no cameras?”

  “Or security.”

  “Do the girls come back?”

  Shalimar laughed so loud a few men looked our way. “I’m sorry, but the place isn’t that bad. Of course, the girls come back.”

  “Yeah. Sorry. I’m anxious.”

  “You'll be fine. Remember. Stay away from him and anybody else.” She glanced at her watch. “Okay. Your shift starts now. Break a leg.”

  That’s a theater phrase, but I’ll take it with the hopes of not breaking my leg on the way up to the stage.

  Chapter 2

  Fifty Shades of Classical

  Eden

  When it was time to play, I slipped into performance mode and ignored the audience.

  I stepped onto the stage in minutes. Mikey placed a huge chair at the center. Another guy carried a microphone up, placed it in front of the stage, and lowered it below my face level. Clearing my throat, I sat down and enjoyed the comfort. Right next to the chair was a black hat that I assumed was for tips.

  Cool.

  Most of the men and women continued to chatter around me. No one glanced my way, but I felt the heat of him.

  Don’t think about this Jean-Pierre. Focus on the music.

  I could sense him watching me the whole time as I opened the case and took the violin out. The chandelier’s light caressed the polished wood.

  I pulled out the bow first. Few knew that the white part of the bow was made from sheep intestines. The craftsman cleaned the guts, soaking them in water, and then took the fat off. From there, the intestines were saturated in an alkaline substance and then stretched.

  I placed the case on the ground and gave a quick glance to the audience. Jean-Pierre studied the case and then his gaze moved to my legs. My body hummed.

  Breathe. Focus on Eros.

  I calmed my nerves and lifted the violin out of the case on the floor.

  Do your thing, Eros.

  The violin was an odd contraption of magic. Hollowed wood and sheep intestines. Still, the sound came out lush and melodious. And Eros had harmonics like a flute—thin and sensual. The sort that incited visions of sex in my head as I played.

  Shakespeare’s character Benedick observed in M
uch Ado About Nothing: “Is it not strange that sheep’s guts should bale souls out of men’s bodies?”

  Never mind that. Shakespeare can’t pay your rent this month. Focus on Eros.

  I straightened my back and shifted into position, raising the violin to me like I would embrace a lover. I used my right hand to draw the bow, making sure my arm was in the right angle. I’d tuned Eros before leaving my apartment. There was no time to waste in a room packed with people who had not come to hear me play, but to fuck.

  Conversation and giggling continued. Clearing my throat, I placed the bow on the string. And although I shouldn’t have, I gazed off into the crowd. Everyone carried on doing what the brothel name suggested. Discovering the sweetness of pleasure. Talking. Eating. Drinking. No one focused on me, except…Jean-Pierre.

  He watched me with an intense gaze.

  Fuck.

  My body warmed and shivered from his attention. It had been a minute since a sexy man had studied me. How odd that lust swam inside my core. It craved to burst from me. But pleasure had to wait for another day.

  Ignore him.

  I slid the bow across one of the strings, right near the bridge. The string vibrated with sound.

  Everyone quieted around me.

  Before playing a song, I loved to do a display of the instrument’s power and grab the audience’s attention. I started with the G string. It came out dark and sonorous. As always, it was a rough note, but expressive and full of soul. Next was the D string. It bellowed with full sound like the deep pitch of a human voice. Then I went to A more mellow than the D string, but nonetheless haunting. Last, I slipped the bow along E. It was my favorite of them all—lustrous and metallic, bright and full sounding.

  The table of bachelors returned to their conversation, while the others gazed my way.

  “Come on!” One of the rowdy guys rose and lowered his thumbs. “Is this the opera or a palace of pussy?!”

  Aunt Celina had told me to play no matter what, so I ignored him.

  Don’t worry, Eros. We’ll win him over.

  Violins were the most well-known instrument. Musicians had been using the violin for thousands of years. I’d find some modern song to please the guy.

  For now, let’s get a feel of the audience.

  I went into Bizet’s, Gypsy Song. It was a tune that took the listener on a musical journey. We began in Spain where flirty flamenco dancers twirled and lured hungry men. It was fitting for a brothel. I’d found the song from a blog list called “Fifty Shades of Classical Music.” It broke down the sexiest violin songs to make love to.

  Here we go.

  The melody began fine. I knew it by heart like the others I’d planned to play, so I gazed around the audience searching for a reaction. My nerves flared, when I realized I had everyone’s attention. Especially, Jean-Pierre.

  He watched me.

  Warmth hit my body, delivering shivers along my skin.

  Damn. He’s gorgeous.

  I slipped the bow along Eros. The instrument moaned in harmony.

  “Really?!” The rowdy guy rose from his table. “What’s this? And why does she have clothes on?”

  A waitress hurried over and whispered something to him.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” he yelled back to her. “We’ve paid close to twenty thousand in this shit hole. I can’t pick the music in here?”

  I didn’t miss a note, even though the guy was blowing my concentration.

  The man’s voice rose higher.

  I tuned him out.

  Jean-Pierre leaned his head toward one of the men next to him and whispered something. I wondered what he said as I tried my best to concentrate on him, instead of the rowdy guy.

  A few seconds later, the man next to Jean-Pierre rose. And he was a giant with ugly scars on his neck and a gun in his hand.

  O-kay. What’s going on?

  “This is bullshit!” The rowdy guy yelled from the back at the waitress. “Fuck her! Fuck you! And fuck that violin!”

  Some of the guys at his table hurried to calm him down.

  “No! Fuck that! My money is good! I want my respect!”

  Dude, it’s not that serious. Have a beer and chill out.

  However, the man that had been with Jean-Pierre stomped over to the rowdy guy. Everyone’s attention turned that way. I still didn’t stop playing, but I was beyond interested in what would happen next.

  Please, don’t shoot him. Please, don’t shoot him.

  A second later, Jean-Pierre’s man didn’t waste words. He simply grabbed the guy, dragged him forward, and shoved him out of the ballroom. The rest of the bachelor party rose and stood in shock. They'd been drinking as much as Mr. Rowdy. For a minute, the guys turned to Jean-Pierre’s table as if they were going to have some heated words.

  I skipped a few notes but picked the melody back up.

  Mind your business.

  The waitress made wild gestures at the men as they glared at Jean-Pierre. She stepped between one of them that headed Jean-Pierre’s way as if to say, “don’t even think about going over there.”

  Meanwhile, Jean-Pierre hadn’t even turned around. He’d been focused on my left hand’s fingers as I placed them on each string to play specific notes. I studied his expression. No longer did he frown or glare, instead he looked to be subtly moving his lips.

  Is he reciting the notes that I’m playing? No Way.

  I tested this out, speeding up the rhythm, and watching him. As I played faster, so did those full lips. Jean-Pierre stayed with my pace.

  How is he following the song? Did he play before?

  He didn’t look like a guy that played violin. He looked more like a man who could kill someone with a violin. Gorgeous face or not, there was no denying the danger that radiated from him.

  At least he likes my playing. He had his men get rid of the loud guy.

  The rest of the bachelor party followed. I didn’t think they’d gotten their money’s worth this night.

  I switched to a new song, and again Jean-Pierre followed along. His lips were yummy. It was bad that I focused. It was wrong to enjoy their movement so much. It was like his mouth was its own instrument, and I wanted very much for my body to play it.

  Girl! What are you doing?

  I let out a long breath and paced myself, throwing my mind into the music. I had two hours of nonstop playing. It was crazy and strenuous, but at least I loved to do it. The joy of it made the time go by, the muscles in my arm strain less, and the feeling of accomplishing something rise.

  An hour went by, guests drank more and grew increasingly uninhibited. I shifted to modern songs, remembering a few hip-hop beats and pop tunes. A few people rose and danced along the stage. Others were even more daring. I caught several erotic moments that I’d hoped Eros had inspired. The sliding of fingers into pussies. The mouths of many opening in ecstasy and several hard cocks being drawn out of pants. Many disappeared into the other levels.

  Several bills filled my hat. Men and even some of the women had tossed money into it. I couldn’t wait to count the tips during my first break.

  I smiled, thinking Aunt Celina would be happy with this situation. If anything, people seemed to enjoy the violin.

  Or they’re scared Jean-Pierre will have his men drag them out.

  Toward the end of the second hour, the room emptied. Only a few tables remained full, but they appeared to be heading to a room soon.

  Even a few of Jean-Pierre’s men had gone off with women.

  But he remained.

  I thought back to the "Fifty Shades of Classical Music" and performed Strauss’s Dance of the Seven Veils. Strauss’s seductive heroine, Salome, strip teased at this point in the opera. She danced for King Herod so that he would grant her wishes. Some productions showed the singer removing each of her seven veils one by one. At the end of the song, she stood on the stage naked.

  With shock, Jean-Pierre reacted to the song. For the first time, he rocked his head side-to-side, leaning
forward in his chair and closing his eyes as he listened along.

  He knows this song. Wow.

  And as I played, I tried not to look at him. Still I caught flashes of that sexy face and the magic of his mouth moving with the notes in the songs.

  When the song ended, he opened his eyes and took my breath away.

  I blushed and ended the song with a few stumbled notes. I saved myself by moving into a new tune.

  Damn. It’s hard to play around him.

  In the middle of the song, Shalimar appeared at the edge of the stage and signaled for my first break.

  Thank God.

  I finished, giving the song the last bit of my energy.

  The moment it ended. One person clapped. I looked up.

  Jean-Pierre.

  I nodded. “Thank you.”

  Shalimar rolled her eyes and stepped onto the stage.

  The room emptied and a few men headed for the exit. Others slipped off with women dangling on their arms. I placed Eros in the case, closed it, and turned off the microphone in front of me.

  “You did great,” Shalimar said. “I took a video for your aunt. I think she cried.”

  I blushed. “What?”

  “She sent back a crying emoji, so who knows?”

  Shalimar leaned my way. “Chef Fournier will be bringing out your food soon. You’ll be seated at that table over there.”

  A dark voice with a sensual accent sounded from across the room. “No. She’ll be eating with me.”

  My heart boomed.

  The voice dripped with authority but was coated in a sensual tone. I hadn’t even turned in its direction because warmth had centered at my thighs.

  Please don’t let that voice belong to Jean-Pierre. If it does, then I don’t know how I will control myself.

  I had a weakness for accents. When a guy from another country spoke, my panties moistened, and I desperately wanted to throw them at him.

  Shalimar shook her head. “I’m sorry, Jean-Pierre. She’s not for sale.”

  “I didn’t ask to buy her.” He rose from the table. Tall and towering. He strolled over to me, oozing power. “I only want to talk to her.”

  Shalimar stepped in front of me and crossed her arms over her chest. “She’s not here to talk either.”