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

by Kenya Wright

  “I think you’re right.”

  We hung up.

  His staff left and I sat at a table covered in delicious food and roses. Usually I skipped breakfast, and when I cooked, even I didn’t enjoy eating it.

  Today, I woke up a princess.

  Maybe the days don’t have to rush by too fast.

  Chapter 15

  Siren

  Three years ago

  Jean-Pierre

  The Belladonna symphony was an exciting experience to behold. The magnitude. The whole dynamic of being in a place surrounded by others who enjoy good music too. Belladonna, as a city, was small, yet wealthy. French roots with a love for art, theater, and classical music. With all these things in one place, a symphony would thrive.

  And this one did.

  We sat in the front row as the symphony played its last song for the evening.

  They’d entertained.

  They’d captured every last person’s attention.

  All eyes remained on them.

  But for me, my view stayed on Belladonna and the breathtaking woman holding her.

  Why her?

  One look at the violinist and something happened. It was a subtle ping in my chest. An odd thought came to mind, as if I’d been waiting for her. Not in a fairytale way. It was a gut feeling that she was important. Somehow. In some way.

  Or maybe I was over-analyzing the fact that she’d made my cock hard.

  Why did she do that?

  Of course, she was gorgeous. Lush golden-honey skin. Wavy hair. She was definitely a mixture of something. A glow radiated around her. She shined bright on the stage. Although she sat as she played, I could make out her curvy frame.

  Still, I sat there confused at why she’d triggered an erection. I’d seen beautiful women before. I’d fucked many, if not hundreds.

  Why her?

  It wasn’t just her playing either, although my body hummed to her tempo. And it wasn’t only that she stood out from the crowd. Which she did, being the only black woman up there and playing better than them all.

  No.

  It was because she made me think of Homer’s sirens in the Odyssey. She lured like them. Performing with the rest of the symphony, but in the most irresistible way. She held the bow and violin like a lover. Her back arched on certain notes. Her lips parted during sensual melodies. Sometimes she closed her eyes as if she was drowning in pleasure and unable to focus on seeing. I could tell that she was not with us—the audience—she was in her mind, with my violin, and doing very nasty things to it.

  I bet her nipples are hard.

  It took one musical pervert to know another.

  Long ago, when I played certain songs, my cock would go stiff.

  She’s definitely getting off on this.

  The melody sped up.

  She bit her lip and performed an exquisite sautillé, bouncing the bow perfectly. Belladonna and her united, mentally orgasming together—her stroking the bow just right and the violin moaning back in utter passion—I yearned to grip my cock. It was like witnessing a lesbian act between two gorgeous women.

  Belladonna, you little cheat. Have you found another?

  It was clear that this gorgeous woman had dominated her. Envy mixed with desire. While I had no intention of making this violinist mine, I wouldn’t mind sampling her body for the evening.

  Siren. Yes. She could play a song that forced men to jump out of their boats.

  I imagined charmed sailors all around her, swimming to their deaths.

  What had Odysseus done to stop his demise?

  Odysseus had spent one night with Circe—a goddess of sorcery. She’d lived on a mythical island with her nymph companions. She’d warned Odysseus and described the obstacle he would face on his voyage home, especially the sirens. He set sail the next day with his men. When they approached the island of sirens, he plugged his men’s ears with beeswax and had them bind him to the mast of the ship.

  Only he heard the song. So seductive.

  Odysseus begged his men to release him, but his men remained faithful and kept the binds on.

  The orchestra quieted. The violinist took over a solo.

  I hissed in my chair.

  Rafael turned to me. “What’s wrong? It didn’t sound like she messed up.”

  “It’s perfect. She’s a siren.”

  He studied my face and then moved his view to my gripping the seat. “Sirène?”

  What else could she be? Already, I’d wondered how her mouth tasted. Already, I considered what her body looked like under those clothes.

  Men were visual animals after all. And I envisioned this violinist’s hands on my cock, instead of the bow, doing many erotic things.

  Rafael leaned next to me. “You must admit that this is a good home for your violin. The city is even named after her. That’s a damn good sign.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I hate killing women.”

  “Me too, and I’m not killing the violinist.”

  “You’re not?” He quirked his eyebrows. “You’ve killed everyone in connection to the deal. The seller. Buyer. Lawyer. The benefactor here in Belladonna who loaned the violin to the symphony—”

  “Would you like to say that louder? I don’t think the top rows heard you.”

  Being a man not used to someone being sarcastic with him, Rafael lowered his voice with a scowl. “You’re not killing her?”

  “No. She doesn’t own Belladonna.”

  He smirked. “I don’t know about that. Do you hear what I’m hearing?”

  I frowned. “She won’t get in my way.”

  “So, we take it from her house?” He smiled as he stared back at her. “I won’t send Giorgio or the others. I wouldn’t mind personally looking through her place.”

  “No. I’ll handle this.”

  He chuckled to himself as the orchestra ended the song and the audience rose to a standing ovation.

  I stood along with Rafael. “What’s so funny?”

  “She’s not a whore, Jean-Pierre. Do you even know how to talk to a regular woman anymore?”

  I hadn’t counted on any kink in my plan of getting Belladonna back. This mission was just supposed to be a fun break from running France. With both of our families dead through the war between Corsican’s top two gangs, we’d had no time to rest.

  But this past year, we’d showed our strength and continued to rise. And our enemies had pulled back and hid. So, we went off to find my violin. Rafael figured it would cheer me up as if he knew what the concept of cheering up meant.

  Chatter and laughter rose around us. Our men flanked us on both sides. Moving forward with the exiting crowd, I flipped the evening’s program looking for the name of the violinist that played Belladonna.

  Her name’s Eden. It makes sense. She looks like paradise.

  Rafael nudged me. “Come on, Jean-Pierre. What are the odds that Belladonna would end up in the only American city named the same thing?”

  I searched for her name in other places. “There are no odds in this life.”

  “You’re chipper as always.”

  “You just love the rainbows and unicorns dancing in my eyes.”

  Rafael smirked. “And did you see how happy Belladonna looked on the stage?”

  “Belladonna has no emotions.” I clenched my jaw and handed the program to Giorgio.

  We walked off with everyone else. Many people whispered as we passed them. A few gave us a wide berth.

  “Belladonna had emotions this evening.” Rafael kept my pace.

  “What are you saying?” I asked. “You think I should forget about the violin?”

  “In this case. I like the violinist. She’s cute.”

  “She’s more than cute, but that’s not my concern.”

  “I was talking to Giorgio’s grandma and—”

  I groaned, tired of hearing words of wisdom from Giorgio’s ninety-nine-year-old grandmother. Since she’d lived so long, everyone went to her for adv
ice. I didn’t go, because I never enjoyed what she had to say.

  “You have horrible taste in women.” Mémé pointed her wrinkled finger at me. “Stay away from them.”

  Rafael pulled me out of the memory. “Mémé told me that you had objectophilia. She called it something else, but it’s objectophilia nonetheless.”

  “Love of an object?”

  “Exactly.”

  I signaled for Louis. He came to my right. I tilted my head his way. “Follow the violinist home. Don’t let her out of your sight. Send me the address, when you get there.”

  Louis left in the opposite direction.

  Love of an object? She needs to stop psychoanalyzing me.

  Silence filled the rest of the conversation. I had no time to discuss things any further. I’d had one plan for the past weeks, and the violinist had ruined it. I could take Belladonna from her. The problem was, I didn’t want to separate them.

  I’ll have to get over it. This Eden can play something else.

  Rafael and I walked out the theater.

  Cool night air brushed against my skin. Stars shined in the sky, but there was only a sliver of moon.

  Rafael pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “People can get so obsessed and in love with an object that they lose themselves.”

  “Are you saying that because you’re worried about my obsession with Belladonna, or because you just want to leave America?”

  “Fine,” Rafael grumbled. “We’ve been in this god forsaken country for a week. The bread sucks. The whores are subpar, and the wine is a disgrace. I’m ready to go, and we have seen Belladonna. Either get the violin or kill the violinist and get the violin.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  Rafael snorted.

  “What?”

  “I’ve known you since diapers. You have that look.”

  “What look?” I asked.

  “The one that gets us all in trouble.” Rafael dropped the cigarette on the ground and stomped it out. “I’m tired of killing your women.”

  “I don’t remember giving you that job title.”

  “Yes, but somehow I was born into the job of saving your ass.”

  The limo arrived. Giorgio opened the door. I climbed in. Rafael followed. Giorgio jumped in and sat across from us.

  Rafael glared at me. “You had this look with. . .her.”

  I turned away. “And now she is dead.”

  “Because I killed her.”

  “In some ways, we both did.”

  “But the problem is. . .you don’t even know which her I’m talking about anymore.” Rafael scowled. “Will this violinist be a problem?”

  Mémé’s words flashed in my head.

  “You have horrible taste in women. Stay away from them.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “The violinist won’t be a problem.”

  Rafael looked at Giorgio. “Do you believe him?”

  Giorgio wasn’t much for words and he hated being the deciding vote. His voice came out rough in the limo. “What’s your plan, Jean-Pierre?”

  “I’ll go to her house by myself tonight. Once she is asleep, I’ll take Belladonna.”

  Rafael held a skeptical expression. “She’ll wake up without the violin.”

  “And file a claim that it’s stolen.”

  Giorgio spoke up, “Will this lead the police and everyone else to our trail of bodies?”

  “The trail will become visible regardless, but it doesn’t point directly to us,” I said.

  Giorgio nodded. “This needs to remain careful.”

  I ran my fingers through my hair. “This has always been about the violin.”

  Rafael shrugged. “Perhaps, but it was the way that you stared at her tonight that makes me want to grab my gun. Giorgio should go with you.”

  “I’m going alone.”

  “Okay,” Giorgio said. “Will you need the leather case?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Contact me if you need me.” Giorgio pulled out his phone. It was his signal that he was out of the argument.

  Rafael eyed me. “Why won’t you need your case?”

  “Because I couldn’t cut someone so beautiful.”

  Rafael groaned.

  “Relax. We’ll leave America soon.”

  He hissed, “You said that about Paris and we stayed there for years.”

  “Belladonna isn’t Paris.”

  “And this violinist isn’t—”

  “Enough!” I turned and gazed out the window.

  All knew not to speak her name, especially Rafael. While him and I shared a throne, there were few things that could bring us at odds.

  My ex-wife was one of them.

  His ego was the other.

  Rafael glared at me. “You had this look with. . .her.”

  “And now she is dead.”

  “Because I killed her.”

  “In some ways, we both did.”

  “But the problem is. . .you don’t even know which her I’m talking about anymore.”

  Silence filled the limo.

  Streetlights blurred in a long glowing line as we drove toward the Red Light District.

  There’s no need to be mad at Rafael. He’s just trying to keep me tied up to the ship, so I won’t jump out of the boat and swim over.

  “You worry too much, Rafael.” I looked at him. “I’m going to get the violin and leave. She’ll file the theft claim. There will be no fingerprints or tracks for them to find. We’ll have no problems from any country’s authorities.”

  “And if we do?”

  “Then, I’ll kill everybody.”

  “Do you know why I call you le boucher?”

  “Not this again.”

  “It’s not because of your knife skills. It’s due to your disastrous approach at life. You always butcher it up, leaving dead bodies all around us.”

  “Well. . .did you at least bring your gloves and shovel to America?”

  “I did.”

  I gave him a wicked smile. “One should always be prepared.”

  “Especially when traveling with you.”

  We arrived at the city’s famous Red Light District.

  “Which brothel will you try this evening?” I asked.

  “The Candy Shop again. High elegance and the best women in the city.”

  “But still subpar to your liking?”

  “You only focus on the violin. I’ll concentrate on the standards of this city’s pussy.”

  The limo parked in front of the Candy Shop. They left. I gave my driver the address that Louis texted me. Currently, he sat in a car in front of the violinist’s apartment.

  Twenty minutes later, the limo parked three blocks away from the address.

  I couldn’t deny there was a certain excitement to stepping into the violinist’s home. After jail and then two years of fighting a war, it was nice to break into someone’s place for another purpose besides killing them.

  I left the limo. Giorgio remained just in case I needed some sort of back up. I doubted it as I headed toward her townhouse.

  This Eden stayed in a working-class neighborhood. The typical place a musician would be.

  I scanned the space and remained within the shadows. It was after ten. No one walked the sidewalk. An alley sat between her building and another.

  Louis stepped out of darkness.

  I’d almost jumped. “Which room is hers?”

  “Her bedroom had two windows.” He pointed to the corner of the building. “One facing the front street and a side one showing the alley.”

  “Does she have a roommate?”

  “One. Black guy. He’s in the symphony too. There was another guy with the roommate when they all arrived home from the concert. The roommate and the guy left holding hands. I put Felix on them.”

  “Hmmm. And did our violinist have any admirers?”

  “Yes. He walked her to the door, kissed her, and said goodbye. He played the cello. It was in his car when he left.”

 
“Hmmm.” An odd feeling hit me. Not jealousy or intrigue, but a bit of annoyance. “Anyone following the celloist?”

  “No.”

  “Get someone on him.”

  Louis raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

  Why would she date a celloist? None of them were even up to her playing ability on the stage.

  I frowned. “Is there a back entrance?”

  “Yes. This way.” Louis guided me through the alley and kept his voice low. “The lock is simple.”

  “You’ve been inside?”

  “Yes.”

  I checked the knob. He hadn’t even locked it back probably expecting this to be a different type of job. “After tonight, don’t go inside her apartment again.”

  He nodded.

  We stayed moving forward. Silent. No sounds. No creak. Neither one of us had made it this far in our world from making noise at the wrong time.

  He pointed to the right. Nodding, I signaled for him to stay in the hallway.

  A celloist? You can do better than that.

  Several violins hung on the wall leading to her room. Part of me was so intrigued by the collection, I almost stayed there and studied them. But there was no time for that, not if I didn’t want to hurt her.

  Don’t wake up, Eden.

  If she did, then we would have to deal with her in a different way. There weren’t many people one could convince to calm down, after one has broken into their home. Screams always came. Then a chase. Many times the police were called.

  There won’t be any need for that. This will be simple.

  The whole apartment was less than two thousand square feet.

  Her bedroom door was open. I peeked in a little. She lay on her bed with her back facing me. The television was on low. The Belladonna symphony performance played across the screen.

  A bit obsessive, are we?

  I smiled.

  She must’ve gotten a quick copy from the director. I remembered those days. Those were moments when the only thing that set me on fire was touching the violin—so much that I studied and studied long past exhaustion.

  Her bed was on the other side of the room. Moonlight spilled in from the window. The violin case sat on the computer desk right next to her laptop.

  Belladonna.

  I walked over to the case and touched the black pebbled exterior.