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

by Kenya Wright

  “Why think of the violin that way?”

  “Because music has brought good and bad. But sometimes I wonder if it was the music that brought the bad things, or was it love that ruined me?”

  I had no answer.

  Slowly, Jean-Pierre walked around me. “How fitting that Belladonna ended up in the city named after her? How fitting that I spotted her years ago in the lovely arms of a humble violinist who had no idea of her worth? And how crazy that both Belladonna and you ended up in a brothel years later, peddling for tips?”

  I swallowed.

  He stopped right in front of me. “I’ve been a fan for a while.”

  My heart pounded.

  “At first at the symphonies. . .I watched you play her with envy. Then I slowly pushed it away and saw the beauty in your songs. But now. . .”

  “I’m in a brothel.”

  He frowned. “Playing for fools.”

  “It was the Symphony’s fault. I was happy to play the violin on stage for years.”

  “Well, now if you want to play her, you’ll only play her for me. Do you understand why?”

  I looked away. “I think I do.”

  “Why?”

  “You own Eros.” I swallowed.

  It was the only thing that made sense. If he didn’t already own her, he’d planned to take her.

  Or, am I off altogether?

  “You’re right. I own her. I have a middle man serving as the benefactor. Last week, I returned to Belladonna for her.”

  Dread encased me. I wasn’t sure what I could do. I thought I had a chance to convince the benefactor to let me borrow it longer. Jean-Pierre had a real history to the violin. There would be no reason to let me keep it, especially if I was just sitting in a brothel playing it.

  I should have never gotten so close to the instrument, when it wasn’t mine.

  “There.” He crossed his big arms over his chest. “The stakes are higher.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Now we have more on the table to negotiate. I want to hear you play, naked, and only for me. And after, I want you on your knees. I want to be inside of you. How much to make love to you, Eden?”

  My body was a tornado moving back and forth between worry and lust. I hadn’t dealt with anything like this before. Excitement and panic. Desire and horror.

  “You. . .you want to have a sexual arrangement with me. . .where I play the violin also? Naked?”

  “Yes. Shalimar would call it the Girlfriend Experience. For a price, you’re mine. Your time is mine. Your playing is mine. Those beautiful hands and lips are all mine. And that body is mine too.”

  “And…for how long?”

  “Until I get bored.”

  A knock came at the door.

  He glanced up.

  One of his men entered and they exchanged several words in French. The whole time Jean-Pierre watched me. And in my head, I tried to gather the logic behind what I would do.

  He turned to me. “My guests have arrived. Come this way. We’ll have time to talk about this later.”

  Chapter 7

  Lady Envy

  Eden

  Jean-Pierre guided me into a large and dimly lit room.

  Five men sat in the far back. Each had their own love seat, complete with two attentive women. The females were dressed in diamonds and pearls. A few fed the men with fruit or poured them glasses of wine.

  Many of the men turned my way as Jean-Pierre showed me to my chair. A violet, velvet cushion covered the top. Its legs were gold.

  I sat down and took Eros out.

  Now knowing that Jean-Pierre had once played this instrument, it was hard to not feel a greater intimacy with him. He’d strummed the strings. Those lovely hands had gripped the bow and slid it back and forth. How he must’ve made the instrument sing.

  I squeezed my thighs at the thought.

  “Yes. Shalimar would call it the Girlfriend Experience. For a price, you’re mine. Your time is mine. Your playing is mine. Those beautiful hands and lips are all mine. And that body is mine too.”

  “And…for how long?”

  “Until I get bored.”

  He called this proposal the Girlfriend Experience, and it sounded perfect, except the part of him dropping me when he got bored. I couldn’t survive something like that. The rejection. The heartbreak. Because my heart would be open with Jean-Pierre. There would be no way I could turn my emotions off.

  Already, he had me yearning to moan his name, and it had nothing to do with money or fame.

  Jean-Pierre stood in the center of the room and faced the small group of men. “Ce soir nous avons une surprise spéciale.”

  I assumed he was introducing me to his guests. It didn’t matter what he said. His French did things to my body. Why did he have to be so sexy? Why did we have to have a strong connection to classical music, and violins at that? If I was going to fuck anybody for money, it would be him.

  Not that I should.

  “And…for how long?”

  “Until I get bored.”

  I would never want him to get bored. I knew myself that much. I would care too much. I’d throw my entire being into making him happy. Every part of my soul would be his.

  I stared at him, knowing the truth of it all.

  He would crush me, just like that.

  With him, it wouldn’t be about the money. I would want his heart.

  Jean-Pierre continued to speak in French and then he gestured to me. Everyone smiled and nodded.

  I did to.

  And then Jean-Pierre turned my way and hit me with an intense gaze. “Go ahead and play, Ma belle femme.”

  I raised my violin and got into position, forcing my head to focus on the music and not the sensual offer from Jean-Pierre.

  My mind was barely in the game, but still, Eros sang, taking up most of the slack.

  Jean-Pierre sat directly in front of me. One woman leaned against his side and touched his knee. Blond curls outlined a gorgeous face. She was a woman out of a magazine. A seductress. When she smiled, some of the other men stopped talking and looked her way.

  Yeah. She definitely practices her smiles. I need this superpower.

  And for a few seconds, she grabbed Jean-Pierre’s attention as she sat next to him. A ridiculous surge of jealousy ran through me. While he didn’t touch her back, I didn’t appreciate that she was so close. It was the first time I’d seen him with another woman. Usually, he watched me by himself or surrounded by men.

  That’s the other reason why I couldn’t give him the Girlfriend Experience. I would be thinking that I really was his girlfriend.

  How much money could soothe a heartbreak? Was there a dollar amount? Because I knew that if I made a deal with him, and it involved sex, I would fall in love, and he would break my heart. And how much money would pick me up from the floor?

  I slipped my bow slowly along the strings, loving how he ignored her and focused on my finger placements. When she leaned in and whispered something in his ear, I sped up and he waved her away, upset that he hadn’t predicted my movement.

  And deep inside, I felt a jolt of power as if I could control his attention.

  Could I? Could I keep him busy, and never bored? Wait. Stop thinking about this.

  I had no clue to what was wrong with me. I’d only just learned his name and heard about him. I’d only spoken to him a few times, even though it felt like a lifetime of conversations. It wasn’t like I had any sort of claim on him, even though I desperately wished I did have one.

  The blonde next to Jean-Pierre pouted, grabbed his chin, and turned his view to her.

  I hated it.

  She whispered something. My brain frazzled with envy. She leaned in and pressed her lips against his.

  I stumbled on several notes and paused.

  Everyone turned to me, including Jean-Pierre and the woman.

  Oh shit. What are you doing?!

  “Sorry.” I cleared my throat and returned to the song. />
  Oh my god. Oh my god. You never stop playing. No matter what. Idiot!

  Jean-Pierre studied me. No expression covered his face.

  What are you thinking?

  The blonde grabbed his chin again. He gestured at his men. Two appeared at the end of the couch and signaled for the woman to get up. I tried to look away, but I wondered what was going on.

  The blonde appeared pissed. Her voice rose. “But, what did I do?”

  The men gestured for her to leave, while Jean-Pierre watched me.

  The woman left, and I played my notes with precision.

  I didn’t understand the ugly jealousy I’d experienced. I did my best to swallow it down and ignore that moment.

  When I began my third song, a dancer entered the room.

  I continued to play, and the dancer moved along with the notes. The other men became even more intrigued. I watched her too, trying to work my notes with her tempo.

  She clearly understood that I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. Tall, she wore nothing but a G-string and heels. Her long auburn hair fell to her waist. I was slowly getting accustomed to seeing nude women all the time. Another entered with dark, black hair and a gold thong.

  Most of the men stirred.

  The dancers embraced and continued to maintain their tempo. Their bare breasts slipped against the other as they swayed to Eros’ melody. And then the dark haired dancer slid one arm around Auburn’s waist, holding her close.

  Rocking in my seat, I slipped my bow into the groove of the dancers’ hips. It was like they had become the conductor and I was under their spell.

  Auburn cupped the other’s exposed breasts. Dark hair let out a breathy moan and pressed closer against Auburn.

  For some reason, I turned to Jean-Pierre and his gaze remained on me.

  Could he tell how wet I’d become? How I’d begun grinding my hips into the seat, hoping to slip the cushion along my pussy? Did he notice the few moans that escaped as I played? Did he see the desire in my eyes?

  Damn you, Jean-Pierre. You did this.

  He licked his lips and slipped his hands down to his thighs. There, his hard length pushed up from his pants, and he gripped the tip.

  Damn you.

  I stumbled a little on the notes, but no one noticed. Well, no one noticed but Jean-Pierre, who held an evil grin as he stroked his hard length along with the movement of my bow.

  When the song ended, the dancers did too, and a long sigh came from the room.

  It was as if everyone had been hypnotized in the moment.

  A different woman entered and lay several fur coats onto the floor. The two dancers—Auburn and Dark Hair—lowered to the furs, and I went into another song. The dancers lay on the plush fur and kissed each other.

  The door opened beside me.

  I tore my gaze away from the scene. Six new men entered the room. They were all white men in expensive suits. They greeted Jean-Pierre and sat near him.

  I continued my playing as men began to drag their attention away from the dancers and talked amongst themselves. Tables appeared and were carried over to the couches. Papers came out that I assumed were contracts. Several men signed things as the Candy Shop staff poured wine and giggled next to them.

  Every now and then Jean-Pierre walked from table to table, owning the room, but never fully participating. Shalimar had said he was the accountant to the Corsican—the French mafia. How big were the men in this room? How dangerous?

  The door opened again, and five more men came in, holding briefcases.

  A tall guy stepped to Jean-Pierre’s side. If not for the large scar on his right cheek, his face would have been perfect. He had a similar muscular build to Jean-Pierre, and exuded authority. I could tell everyone feared Jean-Pierre and him.

  What’s going on?

  The newcomers greeted Jean-Pierre and the man with the scar. Words were exchanged. Many watched them like me as if they were the most powerful people in the space.

  They must be.

  Once Jean-Pierre took the briefcases the tension left the room. Laughter rose. I shifted my playing to an upbeat temp. Topless waitresses strolled in with trays of champagne. The scarred man made a toast in French.

  And then one of the girls yelled to me, “Play something sexy.”

  “Something about prostitutes,” another giggled.

  “Are there any violin songs about whores?” A man laughed.

  Jean-Pierre turned his view to me. Curiosity blazed in those lust-filled eyes.

  I slipped into playing Lady Marmalade. I used to perform it for my grandmother, before she passed. She loved Aretha Franklin’s rendition. The song’s lyrics were also the first French I’d ever learned.

  In the chorus, they yelled, “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir.”

  “Do you want to sleep with me tonight?”

  “Lady Marmalade” was about a New Orleans hooker who always asked her satisfied clients the same question. How fitting of a statement, especially one I would love to use on Jean-Pierre?

  Could it be that simple for me?

  As I played the notes, people rose and began to jam. I grinned, but in the back of my mind, I wondered if I could be like Lady Marmalade. How easy was it for her to have sex for money? Did she ever fall in love with her clients? Was it possible to enjoy the sex and money, but block away all the emotion?

  Could I do it?

  Jean-Pierre rocked his head as I played.

  I blushed and turned away, not wanting to mess up anymore notes.

  Damn it. I would love to have sex with him. If he wants to pay, then why not do it?

  It could be a one-time thing. A moment that I would count as a bucket list item. One time could guarantee that I didn’t fall into my feelings. I would enjoy the experience but be able to walk away before my heart opened too much.

  Maybe, I could do it.

  When the song finished, I rushed to another song that I hoped was popular enough for them to recognize. I played “Walk on the Wild Side” by Lou Reed. The song was about cross-dressers who came to New York City and become prostitutes.

  A few nodded. Others danced. And then one man screamed at the right note, “Hey, take a walk on the wild side!” Then, others clapped and jammed with him.

  Okay. This is going well.

  And that was how I continued to keep the party captivated. I played any popular song I could. I shifted to Garbage’s song “Sugar” where Shirley Manson sung about a sex worker. Although it was a dark and sensual over an electronic ballad, Eros and I did our best.

  I even went to a hip hop song by Rick Ross called “Keep Doing That.” I didn’t think anyone recognized it, but everyone danced. The rapper had talked about a well-paid prostitute who could afford an affluent lifestyle. Finally, I ended with “Carmen” by Lana Del Rey who sang about a doomed woman who sold her body on the streets of Coney Island.

  When I finished the song, I was about to play something else, but the scarred man rose.

  Jean-Pierre gestured for me not to stop. I sat still.

  The scary man nodded at me. “Merci.”

  And then he faced the audience and spoke in French. Others nodded.

  I got a closer look at him. A gruffness was in his accent. Several scars decorated his neck and the side of his face. He talked for several minutes. Everyone rose at the end of his speech.

  Unsure of what to do, I remained there.

  Jean-Pierre stood with them and winked at me.

  Okay. What’s going on? Is this the end of the party?

  Jean-Pierre shook hands with all of them, especially the scarred man, and then he walked them outside. The women followed. The waiters began to clear empty glasses and plates.

  It’s over?

  I sat there in silence, unsure of what to do next. Jean-Pierre had paid for three hours. Barely two hours had passed.

  I guess I’m done too. I can at least put Eros away, until further instruction.

  My arms and wrists needed the
break anyway.

  I stayed seated, leaned over, and placed Eros into the case.

  Jean-Pierre’s sexy voice filled the air. “You did very well tonight.”

  I closed the case. “Thank you.”

  “Look at me.”

  My pulse raced.

  “I’m sorry.” I gave him my attention. “How can I help you?”

  His gaze heated. “You know the answer to that question.”

  I wet my lips unconsciously, tongue flickering out of my mouth.

  Jean-Pierre’s gaze followed the motion. His eyes darted back up to meet mine. There was a deep, understated heat in them that I didn’t comprehend. “You didn’t like the woman next to me tonight?”

  I avoided his gaze.

  “Eden, look at me.”

  I couldn’t have resisted the command even if I’d wanted to—not when he spoke to me in that low, firm voice, dotted with that accent. I turned back to him and answered. “I wasn’t a fan of her.”

  What else could I say? I wanted him to look at me, to only think about me, and not anyone else. And we’d just met. Had he touched her, I would’ve exploded in jealousy.

  “Hmmm.” He looked me up and down, undressing me with his gaze.

  I blushed, feeling exposed. Stripped bare. I wanted to throw myself at his feet and beg for mercy. From what, I wasn’t sure. From the way he was looking at me. From the way he made me feel.

  Without speaking, he pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and held them out to me.

  I drew in a deep breath and rose to him, feeling unsteady in my shoes.

  I got right in front of him. He pressed the money into my hand. “It was another amazing performance.”

  With the other hand, he tucked a curl behind my ear.

  He slipped his fingers down the side of my neck. “Vous êtes impeccable.”

  “I’m flawless?”

  He slipped his fingers through my hair. “Oui, belle.”

  “Yes, beautiful.”

  “Eden, I want you to play for me some more.”

  I hadn’t expected that. I assumed he would return to the topic of the sexual arrangement. It had been on my mind the whole evening.

  “Are you interested?” he asked.

  I nodded, unable to speak. I was interested in a whole lot with Jean-Pierre. I was just trying to figure out how to not get hurt while tasting.